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THE CHALLONERS
THIRD EDITION
_Selected Fiction_
OLIVE LATHAM
_By E. L. Voynich_
$1.50
THE ISSUE
_By George Morgan_
Illustrated. $1.50
AN ANGEL BY BREVET
_By Helen Pitkin_
Frontispiece. $1.50
THE NEVER-NEVER LAND
_By Wilson Barrett_
$1.50
POKETOWN PEOPLE
_By Ella Middleton Tybout_
Illustrated in colors. $1.50
HEART OF LYNN
_By Mary Stewart Cutting_
Illustrated. $1.25
PIGS IN CLOVER
_By Frank Danby_
$1.50
A SEQUENCE IN HEARTS
_By Mary Moss_
$1.50
KITTY OF THE ROSES
_By Ralph Henry Barbour_
Illustrated in colors. $2.00
NEW SAMARIA
_By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D._
Illustrated. $1.25
THE CHALLONERS
_by_
E. F. BENSON
AUTHOR OF “DODO,” ETC.
“O world, as God has made it! all is beauty;
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared?”
_The Guardian Angel._--R. BROWNING
[Illustration: colophon]
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1904
[Illustration: text decoration]
COPYRIGHT, 1904
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Published July, 1904
_Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A._
THE CHALLONERS
[Illustration: text decoration]
CHAPTER I
The hot stress of a real midsummer day towards the end of June had given
place to the exquisite tempered warmth of evening, and a little breeze
born of the hour before sunset, and made fragrant among the glowing
flower-beds of the vicarage garden just ruffled the hair of Helen
Challoner as she half sat, half lay in a long deck-chair at the edge of
the croquet-lawn, reading a red-covered book with the absorbed
intentness which she devoted to any occupation that interested her. To
the west a line of tall box-hedge, of that smooth and compacted growth
which many years alone can give, screened her from the level rays of the
sun, which was but an hour above the horizon, and performed the almost
more desirable function of screening her from the windows of the house,
for a cigarette was between her fingers, and the juxtaposition of women
and tobacco was a combination that had probably never occurred to her
father as possible. The cigarette, however, was as a matter of fact
wasting its sweetness uninhaled and burning down with a long peninsula
of charred paper on the leeward side of it, for her book absorbed her
quite completely. Indeed, this seat here under cover of the box-hedge
was a manœuvre of double strategy, for the book was no less anathema in
this house than the cigarette, being, in fact, “The Mill on the Floss,”
by an author who, however celebrated, yet remained in the opinion both
of Helen’s father and aunt a person of unchristian belief and heathenish
conduct.
Helen wore no hat, and the dusky, smouldering gold of her hair burned
low over her forehead. Her eyelids, smooth with the unwrinkled firmness
of flesh of twenty-two years, drooped low over her book, but between the
lids there showed a thin line of matchless violet. There were but a few
pages more to read, and her underlip, full and sensitive in outline,
quivered from time to time with the emotion that so filled her, and her
breath came quickly through her thin nostrils. As she read on, her
half-smoked cigarette dropped from between the fingers of her left hand
and sent up little whorls of blue smoke as it lay unheeded on the grass,
and her eyes grew suddenly dim. Then the last page was turned, and with
a sudden sobbing intake of her breath she closed the book.
She sat quite still for a moment, the book lying in her lap, looking
with misty, unseeing eyes over the great stretch of open land and sky in
front of her. In the immediate foreground lay the croquet-lawn, with
disjected mallets and aimless balls scattered about, while slowly across
it, like some silent tide, the shadows grew and lengthened. Beyond, at
the top of a grassy bank still in sunlight, ran a terraced walk bordered
deeply with tall herbacious plants; farther out of sight behind the
border were a few fields, water meadows of the chalk-stream, and beyond
again and above rose the splendid and austere line of Hampshire downs,
tanned with this month of English summer to a russet mellowness. A sky
of untarnished blue held a slip of pale and crescent moon, and the
splendour and the unutterable sadness of evening, of a day gone, brooded
a sweet, regretful presence over everything.
Suddenly the girl sat up.
“Martin!” she cried, “Martin!”
“Well?” asked a very lazy voice from a hammock between two trees at the
end of the lawn.
“Come here. Oh, do come. I can’t shout.”
The hammock-ropes wheezed and creaked, and a tall, loose-limbed boy,
looking not much more than twenty, strolled over to where she sat.
“I’ve won my bet,” he said; “so pay up, Helen. I said the end would make
you cry. You are crying, you know. I count that crying.”
“I know. I’ll pay all right,” she said. “I almost wish it had been
more.”
“So do I,” said Martin. “That’s easily arranged then.”
Helen paid no attention to this.
“Oh, Martin, those two coming together like that at the end. And that
beast, that beast----“
“Stephen?”
“Yes, among others. But Tom particularly. They none of them knew, they
none of them guessed what she, what Maggie was. Oh, oh! How horribly
sad, and how horribly beautiful--like, like this evening.”
Martin took out his cigarette-case.
“For you?” he asked.
“No; you gave me one which I haven’t--I don’t know where it is. Oh, it’s
smoking itself on the grass. Oh, my goodness! Anyhow, Maggie lived; that
is the point. Dreadful people, dreadful circumstances, all that one
would think would make living impossible, surrounded her. But she
managed it. And what am I to do, please?”
Martin laughed.
“I wonder if you know how like you that is,” he said.
“What is?”
“Your instant application of Maggie to yourself. Really it is very odd
that you and I are twins. If only I had half your eye for the practical
way of getting through things, I should pass my examinations. And if you
had only half my eye for the theoretical beauty of leaving distasteful
things alone----“
Helen sat up with a quick, decisive movement, letting the book drop on
the grass.
“Martin, if we didn’t happen to have been brother and sister we should
have fallen desperately in love with each other and been accepted at
once. At least I should have proposed to you, and you would certainly
have said ‘Yes.’ And I should have made home happy for you on twopence
farthing a year, and always had your slippers warm when you came home in
the evening, and the kettle boiling on the hob. And you could have spent
the rest of our joint incomes on grand pianos and music paper.”
“You are too overwhelmingly generous, Helen,” said he. “I don’t think I
can accept it from you.”
Helen got up.
“Oh, how I hate, how I hate----“ she began.
“That’s no use,” said Martin.
“Use? Of course not. Oh, it’s all very well for you. You are away half
the year at Cambridge, and have no end of a time. But I am here. I and
the Room!”
“What’s the ‘Room’?” asked her brother.
Helen pushed back her hair again and sat down on the lawn by Martin.
“The Room is the latest of my many trials,” she said. “It is quite new.
Outside it is corrugated iron, inside it is distemper, covered by a
dreadful sort of moisture, which is Essence of Village Children. On the
walls there are maps of the Holy Land and Hampshire. I know the road
from Dan even unto Beersheba as well as I know the road from here to
Winchester. There is a library there of soiled books of travel and
missionary enterprise, and a complete set of “Good Words.” There is also
a wellspring there, only I can’t find it and stop it up, which
continually pours up an odour of stuffiness. It is the sort of place
where nothing nice could ever happen. And there on Tuesday evening I
teach arithmetic to dreadful little boys. On Wednesday I read to
mothers,--I am getting to hate the word,--who knit shapeless articles
while I read. I read them abominable little stories about the respective
powers of faith, hope, and love, and the virtue of being good, and the
vice of being wicked. I don’t suppose any of them could be wicked if
they tried.”
Helen paused a moment.
“Oh, Martin, it is heavenly to have you at home, and be able to say all
these things straight out just once. It makes me feel so much better.
May I go on?”
“Yes; take your time,” said Martin.
“Well, where had I got to? Oh, yes, Wednesday. On Thursday Mr.
Wilkins,--he’s the new curate, whom you haven’t seen yet: spectacles,
bicycle, and proposes to me every now and then,--Mr. Wilkins on Thursday
has something for men only; I don’t know what, but I’m sure it’s
dreadful. Friday--girls’ class. And on Saturday a choir practice.
A--Choir--Practice. Now, you have been to church here----“
“Rather,” said Martin.
“And heard the singing. It is to produce that marvellous result that we
practice. Even I know how awful it is. There was a man called the
Reverend P. Henley. I sing the alto of his horrid chant. Would you like
to hear me sing? And on Sunday I have the Sunday-school. They use heaps
of pomatum, you know. And they learn by heart their duty towards their
neighbours, and when I am not looking pull each other’s hair. Then it is
Monday again, and we begin all over again. Oh, think of it! You see, I
am not by nature a ministering angel, and I have to spend my whole life
in ministering to these people. They have no intelligence, nothing that
I can lay hold of or join hands with. It is not their fault, and it is
not my fault that I am not a ministering angel. But what is the use of
battering at their intelligences when they haven’t got any? Also they
are personally distasteful to me.”
Martin laughed at this tirade, and thoughtfully executed a gnat that had
designed to dine off his brown fingers.
“Why, I thought you were such a success,” he said. “Father held you up
to me as an example and a shining light.”
“Of course I’m a success,” cried Helen. “I’ve got to do this sort of
thing; and if one has to do something, it is simple imbecility not to do
it well. You’re an imbecile, you know, darling.”
“Oh, I know that,” said he. “At least I’ve been told it often enough.”
Helen was silent a moment, looking very affectionately at her brother’s
long, slim figure as he lay stretched on the grass by her side. His
straw hat was tilted over his eyes, and of his face there appeared only
his chin and his mouth a little open, shewing a very white line of
teeth. And the current of her thoughts hardly changed when she went on
to speak of him, not herself.
“Martin, how is it you can’t get through your examinations?” she asked.
“You do work, don’t you? And though I called you an imbecile just now,
you have more perception than most people. Or do you spend all your day
at the piano?”
“He has forbidden me to have a piano in my rooms next term,” said
Martin. “So I shall have to waste more time in walking to the pianos of
other people and interrupting their work as well as my own.”
“Ah, that’s too bad,” said Helen.
Martin only grunted in reply, and his sister went on:
“But it is foolish of you,” she said. “Indeed it is foolish. No doubt
what you have got to do, Greek, Latin, is all very dull to you and seems
very useless, but it is surely better to look at it as one of those
things that has got to be done. As you say, and as father says, and as I
say, I am a success at all these dreadful functions in the Room. Why?
Merely because it has got to be done, and therefore, although it is all
intensely stupid and bores me so much that I could cry, I attend
sufficiently to do it respectably. Now, can’t you adopt the same
attitude towards classics? Besides, you know what father feels about
it.”
“I am perfectly aware of what father feels about it,” said Martin,
dryly.
“Has he been at you again?”
“Yes, I think you might call it that without conveying a false
impression. He apparently wants to give me to understand that it is some
moral crime not to be able to do Greek iambics. Well, I am a criminal
then. I can’t. Also that it is impossible to be educated without. Then I
began arguing,--which is always stupid,--and said I supposed it depended
on what one meant by education. And he said he imagined he was the best
judge of that. So there we were.”
“And what do you mean by education?” asked Helen.
“Why, of course, the appreciation of beauty,” said Martin, quickly. “‘O
world as God has made it,’--you know the lines.”
“Ah, say them,” she said.
Martin sat up, tilting back his hat.
“‘O world as God has made it, all is beauty,
And knowing this is love, and love is duty,
What further may be sought for or declared?’”
“Yes, that isn’t a bad creed,” said Helen.
“I hope not, for it is mine. And it seems to me that you may look for
beauty and find it in almost everything. Where you look for it should
depend entirely on your tastes. Father finds it in the works of
Demosthenes, but I in the works of Schumann and a few other people he
has never heard of.”
“But aren’t Greek plays beautiful?” asked Helen.
“Oh, I daresay. But, being what I am, music concerns me more. Don’t
let’s argue. It is so enfeebling. When I begin arguing I always feel
like Mr. Tulliver, when he said, ‘It’s puzzling work, is talking.’”
Helen laughed.
“Well, you and I ought to be pretty well puzzled by now,” she said. “I’m
sure we’ve talked enough. I’ll play you one-half game of croquet before
dinner. Oh, by the way, father is dining with Uncle Rupert. You and Aunt
Clara and I will be alone. You will have to read prayers.”
“And sing the hymn an octave below,” remarked Martin.
The Honorable and Reverend Sidney Challoner--or, as he preferred to be
addressed, the Reverend-Honorable--was a man of method and economy who
hated wasting anything from time down to the brown paper in which
parcels arrived, and at this moment he was employing the half-hour
before it was necessary to go to dress for dinner at Chartries, his
brother’s place, which stood pleasantly among woods about a mile
distant, in finishing his sermon for Trinity Sunday. His study, where he
worked, was singularly like himself, and seemed as integral a part of
him as the snail-shell is of the snail. There was nothing, for instance,
in the least drowsy or dusty about the room. Everything was in its
place, the place of each thing being in every case strictly determined
by the use to which it was to be put, and the frequency with which it
was to be used. A scrupulously orderly and energetic severity in fact,
was the keynote of the room.
Something of the same characteristic also ran through the sermon at
which he was working, which was an exposition, historically introduced,
of the less encouraging and comfortable verses of the Athanasian creed,
which his congregation would have recited during the service. He was
master of a style of English, in itself neat, correct, and lucid, which
served him, not as in the sermons of so many preachers, to clothe and
cover his lack of ideas, but to reveal the abundance of them and convey
without possibility or misunderstanding, but rather with the precision
of hitting a nail on the head, what he thought on any particular
subject. There survived in him, indeed, a full if not a double portion
of the Puritan spirit on religious matters; and though his mind, his
soul, his actions were all dictated and impelled by a fervent and
whole-hearted Christianity, yet his eloquence was wont to dwell, and did
so here, on the doctrine of eternal damnation with a very curious gusto.
It appeared to him that the truth of it was abundantly warranted in the
Bible, and that it was therefore his duty as minister of the Word to
bring this as well as other doctrines home to his flock. And something
of the same grim aspect of duty extended to affairs of ordinary life;
and where censure was clearly deserved, any offence was visited by him
with a force that his approbation sometimes lacked if there was nothing
to blame. The Puritan, too, survived in a certain mistrust he had of
mirth and gaiety: without being in the least sour, he was so intensely
serious that at any given moment it appeared to him that there was
probably something better to do than to laugh, and a moment’s thought
easily discovered what it was. Of work he was insatiable: if he was
unsparing to others, at any rate he never spared himself, and the day
of rest was to all in his house the most iron day of all. All pleasure,
except that which was to him the greatest pleasure in life, active
religious work and religious exercises, was put away; but since all
exercises, even religious ones, are fatiguing, it was a weary household
that went up to bed on Sunday evening.
Now, though to have a very strong vocation towards a particular work, to
be convinced that such work is the highest and best in the world, and to
do it is a disposition of affairs that makes for happiness, it is
probable that if you had taken Mr. Challoner unawares and asked him if
he was happy, he would have hesitated before he answered. For, in spite
of his firm and convinced attitude, both towards life in general and to
those most intimate with him, there rose deep down in the man a great
fountain of tenderness, a great longing for love. Herein lay the secret
tragedy of his life: he longed with the same intensity with which he
served God for the ordinary human affections and relationships, but
through the armour-crust of his nature--an armour, be it noted, of
welded and hammered work and duty--his human hand could not break its
way to clasp the hands of others. That still was the tragedy of his life
with regard to his two children, just as it had been even more bitterly
so with regard to his wife, a half-Italian by birth, whom he had adored
with that serious fervour which suffused his nature. It was just his
spiritual anxiety and care for her which had, by a refined irony of
fate, come like an impassible barrier between them. To her he seemed
always to be checking the innocent and sunny impulses of joy that were
as vitally hers as fervour was his. He put it that there was always
something better to be done with the precious passing hours than to sing
or laugh or gather flowers or embroider some dainty fragment of personal
embellishment. Or, rather, let her take these innocent tastes and raise
them, elevate them, dedicate them. Let her sing by all means, but let
her gift of music be devoted to the help of the parish choir; let her
gather flowers to send to the sick; let her embroider an altar-cloth.
But poor Mrs. Challoner, a girl still in years, whose motor-power in
life was joy, found that to fit her pleasures to useful ends meant that
they ceased to be pleasures. There are many natures, not necessarily
shallow or selfish, like that; and when her husband told her that the
flowers with which she loved to fill her rooms were beautiful to her so
that thereby her thoughts might be led heavenwards, she was minded to
throw them away.
From the first, indeed, the marriage had been strangely ill-assorted. It
may have been made in heaven, but in that case it would probably have
been far better if it had not come down to earth. Sidney Challoner had
had his reason and his senses taken captive for a time by this delicious
piece of dew and sunlight; on her side his imperiousness, his eager
over-mastering desire for her, his extreme good looks, and perhaps also
the fact that he stood next in succession to the earldom of Flintshire,
his elder brother, the present holder of that delightful position, being
unmarried, led her to accept his devotion. This disillusionment had soon
come to each. The exquisite child-like beauty of his wife, behind which
he had conjectured the child-like spirit, he found to be a mere mask;
while to her the fiery, dominating lover turned to a hard, unbending
master. A year after their marriage twins were born, and from that time
the girl-mother had drooped and dwindled. The fogs of this northern
climate--fogs, too, more intimate and distressing of mind and
spirit--and the absence of mirth and laughter chilled her to the bone,
and a year afterwards she was dead.
Her death left him inconsolable, in so far that he determined never to
marry again; but when his sister Clara came to keep house for him and
look after the early education of Martin and Helen, it cannot be denied
that the widower found himself more comfortable than he had been. For
Clara was one of those not uncommon English spinsters who had a perfect
passion for doing the things she ought to do and leaving completely
undone the things she ought not. As the feminine element in the house of
a parish priest it was her clear mission to be aunt, if not mother, to
the flock, and classes and instructions, so hated of her niece’s soul,
grew up under her care like seed sown in April. She had practically no
pleasures, and her only relaxation was Patience, which she played
regularly from the time dinner was finished till family prayers at a
quarter to ten. Precisely at twenty minutes to ten, if the cards were
going awkwardly, she began to cheat, and continued, if necessary, to
cheat until the parlourmaid began to set out a row of chairs for the
servants. Thus she was able by the time they filed in to sweep the cards
triumphantly up together in their due and proper order and be humbly
thankful for the temptations into which she had not fallen that day.
Mr. Challoner this evening found that the peroration with which he
concluded his sermon took rather less time than he had anticipated, and
there was still some ten minutes after he had arranged the sheets in
order and placed them under a paper-weight to be read through in the
morning before he need go to dress. As his custom was, he closed his
eyes for a moment after finishing his work, in silent prayer that it
might bear good fruit, and then, hearing the clash of croquet-balls from
the garden, he strolled out to see his children. He had had a very
unpleasant talk with Martin that morning on the subject of his late
failure at Cambridge, and though the occasion seemed to him then and
seemed still to have demanded stern speaking, he had wondered several
times since whether he had not been too severe. Yet how else except by
very earnest remonstrance could he awaken in the lad his sense of
responsibility with regard to the spending of the days that would never
come again. All his life he had faithfully and strenuously striven to
implant in his boy the duty of making the best and the most of his
youth. Prayer and work were the two great guides of life. These must be
constant and concentrated; and how gravely and mortally would he himself
be to blame if through any want of inculcation on his part his son grew
up tepid in the one and slack in the other. Still, and here his
essential tenderness groped about, Martin was young yet and more tender
perhaps in mind even than in years, and the clash of croquet-balls and a
sudden burst of boyish laughter from the lawn made him long to enter
into his children’s pleasures. So without putting on his hat, for the
evening breeze was not too cool to the head, he went out down the
box-hedge and round the corner on to the croquet-lawn.
Martin, standing with his back to him, had not heard his approach, and
was examining the position of his two balls, which were quite close
together, but with an uncompromising wire between them. On the bank
where they had been sitting lay “The Mill on the Floss,” and Helen was
standing close by her brother, in the proud, calm consciousness of
having wired him with complete success.
“Well, of all the devilish things to do, Helen,” said Martin at length,
and struck wildly in the hopes of an impossible cannon off the wire.
“My turn, I think,” she said.
She walked across to the ball in play and saw her father.
“Come and play, father,” she said.
“No, dear; thanks. I must go and dress in a few minutes. Martin, old
boy, come here a moment.”
Again his duty, the need for remonstrance, strove with his tenderness.
“Martin,” he said, gently, “that’s rather strong language to use to your
sister, isn’t it? Don’t get in that sort of habit, dear fellow; never
use words idly like that.”
At this all the genial instinctive pleasure faded out of Martin’s face
and his eyes fell.
“Yes, father, I’m sorry,” he said, in a perfectly dull, conventional
voice.
“I know it was only thoughtlessness, old boy,” said his father; “but try
to think. There then. How’s the game going?--is Helen playing with the
frightful precision we are getting accustomed to? Look there, she’s hit
your ball from right across the lawn. Don’t be too merciless, Helen,
with your poor brother.”
Helen smiled and made some laughing reply to her father. Then her eye
caught sight of the book lying on the bank, her smile faded, and as she
went after the ball she had hit she wondered what could be done. She
guessed, though she had not heard the words, that Martin had already
been rebuked for what he had said. She knew there had been one dreadful
hour already that morning, and another was certain if her father saw the
book. Mean time he was strolling down the lawn right in its direction,
where it was lying radiant and blatant in its crimson cover on the vivid
green of the grass. Martin also had seen what would happen, and as she
passed him whispered to her:
“He’ll see it. O Lord!” with a drearily comic expression.
Mr. Challoner strolled on, came to where the book lay, and picked it up
with the amiable intention of putting it on the chair to save its cover
from the damp. As he did this, he read the title on the back. Then there
was a dreadful pause.
“Is this yours, Martin?” he asked.
“Yes, father.”
Mr. Challoner said nothing more, but went on his way, taking the book
with him. At the corner of the box-hedge, however, he turned.
“If you are up when I come back, Martin,” he said, “will you come into
my study? But don’t wait up for me if I am late.”
He turned his back again to walk on, and Martin thought he had gone. But
next moment he paused again, and raised his voice slightly.
“You should answer when I speak to you,” he said.
“I thought you had gone, sir,” said Martin, with a little tremor of
irritation in his tone.
This time he passed out of sight, and Martin threw down his
croquet-mallet.
“Rather bad luck,” he said. “I’m not popular to-day. Helen, what a fool
you were to leave it on the grass.”
“Oh, I am so sorry Martin,” she said. “What can I do? Would it do any
good if I said I had been reading it?”
“No, not the slightest,” said he. “There would be enough to go round.”
“I will if you like,” said she. “You see, the worst of it is that only
three days ago, the day before you came home, he said that he would not
have a book of hers in the house. But you couldn’t be expected to know
that.”
“No, but I did,” said Martin, “because you told me.”
Helen threw down her mallet too.
“Oh, it’s dreary,” she said.
Lord Flintshire, Mr. Challoner’s elder brother, with whom he was dining
to-night, was a figure of some distinction. He had been at one time a
political factor of great weight in the country, a weight due chiefly to
the force of inertia, since he never professed the least personal
interest in politics and could not possibly be considered as having any
ambition or aim to gratify in spending so much time and labour in the
interests of the Conservative party. His wealth and position, in fact,
were like a large, heavy parcel strongly tied up and dropped into the
Tory scale. But at the age of fifty-five he and they considered that he
had done enough, resigned the Cabinet appointment he held, and for the
last seven years had devoted himself with far more zest than he had ever
brought into the political arena to the aristocratic pursuit of doing
nothing whatever. To the successful discharge of this he brought all his
acuteness and perception and practised it with such charming success as
to raise it to the level of a fine art. He was never in a hurry and
never either felt or exhibited the slightest sign of irritation or
annoyance at anything which the world or the powers of heaven or hell
chose to do. He had great appreciation of the fine arts and even a
higher appreciation of the inimitable comedy of life, so that to live in
a beautiful house, which he did, and fill it with congenial people
constituted for him a far more engrossing occupation than politics had
ever been. For his brother Sidney he had a very real affection, but also
a certain sympathetic pity. He could understand, as he had once told
him, what it must be to “feel like that.”
“You live perpetually in a bracing climate, my dear fellow,” he said,
“and find it positively necessary to do dumb-bells all day. Yes, I will
certainly give you a hundred pounds for your village Room. I shall be
charmed to do so, but I don’t want to hear about it. And, pray, let me
know if you want more.”
There was only a small party that night, and when the women went
upstairs and the men seceded to the smoking-room, Lord Flintshire
detained his brother for a moment as he was leaving.
“Will you not stop a quarter of an hour, my dear fellow,” he said, “and
have a chat? I have not seen you since Easter. How are you all? How are
Helen and Martin? That girl grows handsomer every time I see her. And
Martin?”
“Martin has just achieved one of his annual failures at Cambridge,” said
his father. “Yes, I will wait a quarter of an hour, Rupert. I should
like to talk to you about him. I am a good deal troubled.”
“Wild oats of some kind?” asked the other. “If so, I should, if I were
you, look very steadily in another direction. As one grows older, my
dear Sidney, one is apt to look on wild oats as something much more
poisonous than they really are--nightshade--deadly nightshade, for
instance. But they are only wild oats really.”
Sidney sat down.
“Ah, you don’t expect me to share that view,” he said. “Sin is sin
whether you are twenty or sixty. But Martin, as far as I know, has not
been----“
“Playing about,” said Lord Flintshire, with the amiable desire to find a
periphrasis. But it did not please his brother.
“I can’t discuss things with you in that spirit,” he said. “However,
that point is really alien. I have no reason to suspect Martin of such
things. But what I deplore is his general slackness. It is to the mind
like low physical health to the body: it predisposes to all diseases. I
had to speak to him severely about his failure at Cambridge this
morning,--too severely perhaps,--and this evening again he has
distressed me very much.”
“What has he done?” asked Rupert.
“Well, you will think it very insignificant, no doubt, but to me it
appears most significant of his general state. He was playing croquet
with Helen and I heard him say to her, ‘Well, of all the devilish
things to do.’ Now, when we were boys, Rupert, we didn’t say that sort
of thing at all, and we couldn’t have said it to our sisters.”
Lord Flintshire felt some kindly amusement at this. Sidney was such a
dear fellow.
“But it is some years since we were boys,” said he at length, “and
rightly or wrongly the world has begun to take things more--how shall I
say it--to ride life on the snaffle instead of the curb. What else has
Martin done?”
“He has brought into the house ‘The Mill on the Floss.’”
Rupert’s admirable courtesy enabled him not to smile.
“Have you read the book?” he asked.
“No; but I will not have a book of that author in the house. I said so
only the other day. Martin must have known it. For all I know, he has
given it to his sister to read.”
“I hope so,” said Lord Flintshire, quietly. “Because it is a very
beautiful book. Of course his disobedience to your wishes is a different
point, and to my mind a more serious one. But am I to understand that
you are consulting me as to what general line you should take with
Martin, what policy you should pursue?”
“Yes, I am very much puzzled, and I cannot seem to get any guidance
about it. It does no good, I am afraid, to pull the poor lad up first
here and then there thirty times a day. And it appears to do no good
either to talk to him on the general principles of earnestness and
industry. But I do so want him to grasp them. All the faults I see in
him spring from slackness. He will not think. He did not think what the
word he used to his sister means. He never thinks how just a little
carelessness about his work repeated and again repeated must lead to a
habit of idleness. I am most deeply thankful that our father was strict
with us, Rupert. He made industry a habit with one.”
Rupert laughed.
“A habit from which I have succeeded in freeing myself,” he said. “But
Martin is not slack about everything. He is not slack about music.”
“Ah, that is a distraction which is responsible for a great deal of his
idleness,” said his father. “But I have forbidden him to have a piano in
his room next term.”
Lord Flintshire did not pursue this. There was a plot already on foot
here, and his brother got up, and with his quick, neat touch put
straight a couple of books lying on the table.
“There is this, too,” he said. “Not only does my continual correction of
him seem to do no real good, but it certainly does harm to my relations
with the boy. He will get to look on me as a continual menace to his
pleasure, as a continual school-master. And I want to be kind to the
lad, to make him happy, to make a friend of him. But when that which I
consider my duty leads me to correct him, and again and again to correct
him, I am so afraid that his estimate of the love I bear him will be
lowered, eclipsed. And nothing in the world, Rupert, could be sadder to
me than that my children should not think of me as their friend.”
His strong, tender voice quivered for a moment as he spoke these words,
and he paused a moment to regain the complete control of himself.
“But nothing, not even that,” he said, “must or shall stand in my way or
count for anything in regard to the responsibility which God has laid
upon me to make my children worthy children of Him. I should be the
weakest and most culpable of fathers if for the sake of any human
affection, however sweet, I sacrificed one jot or tittle of that.”
Rupert was silent a moment. Though he had always felt great respect and
esteem and strong affection for his brother, he had never found him,
emotionally speaking, particularly interesting. He had the greatest
admiration for his industrious, strenuous life, his undoubted mental
gifts, his swift and keen intelligence, the absolute undeviating probity
of his character; but his admiration had been somewhat of the sort a
mechanician may feel for his bright engine with its rhythmical accuracy,
its precise strokes, its clean efficiency and strength. But suddenly the
engine had developed a human and a pathetic side: its throbs were not
steam-driven only, but they were the throbs of a human heart. True, he
had known the wild adoration of Sidney for his girl-wife, but that with
its speedy disillusionment had seemed to him the one concession Sidney
had made to the flesh. It was human, but it was not high humanity,
otherwise he would have made a better recovery, so to speak. His passion
had been awakened then, but not the man, and his religion and his
passion together had mixed no better than oil and water. The experience
had not humanized him.
Lord Flintshire’s strong appreciation of the inimitable comedy of life
did not help him here, as he sat silent for a moment before replying.
Elements of comedy were not wanting, his brother’s heart-felt distress
at the fact of Martin calling his sister devilish, for instance, was
ludicrous enough, but these things combined to form nothing to laugh at;
the result was tragedy, tragedy in no grand and great style, but a
pitiful little tragedy of misunderstanding and estrangement. And Rupert,
knowing his brother and knowing Martin, saw no possibility of comedy
entering with any unexpected “happy ending.” For Sidney was, so to
speak, an irreconcileable: he admitted no sort or shadow of compromise;
he would hold no parleying with the enemy, even if the enemy was
entrenched in one of his own household. He and Martin, in fact,
disagreed vitally and fundamentally; the lad was a good lad
accidentally, essentially he was an artist to his finger-tips. Those
were the influences which governed him. But to his father all the
artists and all the artistic achievements of man were no more than a
fringe on the visible garment of God.
“No one can really help you in this,” said Rupert at length, “except
yourself and Martin. But I can suggest to you a certain point of view.
Do, I beg you, allow for individualism in other people. You yourself,
dear Sidney, have a great deal of it. But there is no reason to suppose
that Martin has any less. And remember also that the younger generation
is always ahead of the elder, and though we can, by using extreme care,
influence them a little, yet the reins of government are in their hands,
not ours. That is partly why I retired from politics. And as a practical
suggestion I offer you this: I beg you to say nothing more about ‘The
Mill on the Floss’ to Martin. It is quite impossible that he should
agree with you, simply because he is of the next generation to you.
Indeed, if you do not take care, that which you are afraid of will
certainly happen, even if it has not happened already. He will get to
think of you as a man who is always finding fault, always correcting--a
thing fatal to friendship.”
“Is it irremediable if it has already happened?” asked Sidney, with a
rather pathetic humility.
“Of course it is not, just because boys are so extraordinarily generous,
so eager to like one. Martin is a delightful boy: he is upright, honest,
clean. Be thankful for that, and let him develop on his own lines. He
will do so, by the way, whether you like it or not; so it is just as
well to like it. Besides, you must not interfere with other people’s
individualities. I feel that rather strongly.”
Lord Flintshire got up and began walking softly up and down the room. In
face he was very like his brother, but, though older, he looked younger,
for there was a softness about his features extraordinarily youthful.
“As one gets old, my dear Sidney,” he said, “one stands in danger of
getting old-fashioned. That seems to me to be a very terrible thing.
One’s own convictions may become hard, fixed in outline, incapable of
growth or adaptation, and one may become incapable of imagining that one
can be wrong. You may draw your convictions from the highest source; you
may be able to say quite honestly, ‘I believe with my whole heart that
the will of God is so.’ But, as Oliver Cromwell once remarked, ‘It is
just possible that one may be mistaken.’”
He paused a moment.
“I seldom talk so much,” he said, “but I have not quite done even now.
The younger generation, take them all round, ride life, as I said, on
the snaffle. Now, if you choose, you may call that slackness, and as
slackness condemn it. But all your condemnation of it will do no good.
Martin will continue to be what you call slack; mean time you are in
danger of becoming what he would call tiresome. He will also, on
occasion, continue to call his sister ‘devilish.’ Nor is there the
slightest reason why he should not. If you or I had called our sisters
devilish when we were boys, it would have been undesirable. What you
forget is that ‘devilish’ does not mean now what it meant thirty years
ago, nor does Martin mean by it what you mean by it.”
Mr. Challoner got up too, his mouth drawn rather tight.
“I am much obliged to you for your advice, Rupert,” he said, “but I find
I disagree with you in principle so absolutely and fundamentally that
there is no use in my discussing with you. I too claim my individual
liberty, a very large part of which is concerned with my sense of
responsibility for my children.”
“My dear fellow, you make a great mistake,” said Lord Flintshire.
“I cannot alter my convictions.”
“And you will make a great mess of it,” said the other.