For in her youth
There is a prone and speechless dialect,
Such as moves men; besides, she hath prosperous art,
When she will play with reason and discourse,
And well she can persuade.
_Measure for Measure._
If anybody had stated that Geoffrey Hampstead was a scoundrel, he would
have had grounds for his opinion. As he did not attempt to palliate his
own misdeeds, nobody will do so for him. He repudiated the idea of being
led into wrong-doing, or driven into it by outside circumstances.
Whatever he did, he liked to do thoroughly, and of his own accord. When
Nature lavishes her gifts, much ability for both good and evil is
usually part of the general endowment; and, although, perhaps, if we
knew more, all wrong-doing would receive pity, Geoffrey possessed a
knowledge of results that tends to withdraw compassion. But he had
overstepped the mark when he had told Nina there was no good in him.
Even his own statement reminded him how few things there are about which
a sweeping assertion can be made with truth. He grew impatient to find
that so many people do not hold opinions--that their opinions hold them;
and when the good equalities of a person under discussion met with no
consideration he invariably spoke of them. He had a good word to say for
most people, and no lack of courage to say it, and thus he gave
impression of being fair-minded, which made men like him. He had the
compassion for the faulty which seems to appear more frequently in those
whose lives have been by no means without reproach than among the
strictest followers of religions which claim charity as their own. He
thought he realized that consciousness of virtue does not breed so much
true compassion as consciousness of sin; and a young clergyman of his
acquaintance found that his arguments as to the utility of sin in the
world were very shocking and difficult to answer.
Thus he alternated between good and evil, very much in the ordinary way,
with only these differences, that his good seemed more disinterested and
his evil more pronounced than with most people. The good which he did
was done without the bargaining hope of future compensation, and
therefore seemed more commendable. On the other hand, as he had almost
forgotten what the idea of hell was, he was not forced to brave those
consequences which, if some believe as they profess, must render their
deliberate wrong-doing almost heroic.
What should a man be called who had in him these combinations? Too good
to be either a Quilp or a Jonas Chuzzlewit, and much too bad to resemble
any of the spotless heroes of fiction. It will settle the matter with
those who are intolerant of distinctions and who do not examine into
mixtures of good and evil outside their own range of life to have it
understood and agreed that he was a thoroughpaced scoundrel. This will
place us all on a comfortable footing.
Some days after the Dusenalls' entertainment Geoffrey was strolling
along King Street when he caught sight of Margaret Mackintosh coming
along the street with quiet eyes observant. She walked with a long,
elastic step, which seemed to speak of the buoyancy of her heart.
Geoffrey walked slower, so that he might enjoy the beauty of her
carriage, and the charm of her presence as she recognized him. It seemed
to him that no one else could convey so much in a bow as she could. With
the graceful inclination of the head came the pleasure of recognition
and a quick intelligence that lighted up her face. It was the bow of a
princess, as we imagine it; not, it will be remembered, as Canada has
experienced it. A nobility and graciousness in her face and figure made
men feel that she had a right to condescend to them. Innocence was not
the chief characteristic of her face. However attractive, innocence is a
poetic name for ignorance--the ignorance which has been canonized by the
Romish faith, and has thus produced all the insipid virgins and heroines
of the old masters and writers. She did not show that pliable, ductile,
often pretty ignorance, supposedly sanctified by the name of innocence,
which has been the priestly ideal of beauty for at least nineteen
hundred years--perhaps always.
Hers was a good face, with a sweet, firm, generous mouth, possibly
passionate, and already marked by sympathetic suffering from such human
ills as she understood. She seemed to have nothing to hide, and she was
as free and open as the day, and as fresh as the dawn; and a large part
of the charm she had for all men lay in the fact that her self-respect
was so assured to her that she had forgotten all about it. She had none
of that primness which, is the outcome of an attempt to conceal the
fact, that knowledge of which one is ashamed is continually uppermost in
the mind.
As soon as her eye rested on Geoffrey, it lighted up with that marvelous
quickness which is the attribute of rapidly-thinking people. In a flash
her mind apparently possessed itself of all she had ever known of him.
Five or six little things to say came tumbling over each other to her
lips, as she held out her long gloved hand in greeting. Even Hampstead
felt that her quick approach, earnest manner, and the way she looked
straight at him almost disconcerted him; but he had thought to wait till
she spoke to him to see what she would say. And she thought he would
speak first, so a little pause occurred for an instant that would have
been slightly awkward had they not both been young and very good-looking
and much interested in each other.
"And how are you?" said she heartily, as they shook hands. The pause
might have continued as far as either of them cared. They were
self-possessed persons--these two.
"Oh, I am pretty well, thank you," said Geoffrey, without hastening to
continue the conversation.
"And particularly well you look. Never saw you look better," said
Margaret.
Geoffrey made a deep bow, extending the palms of his hands toward her
and downward in reverent Oriental pantomime, as one who should say:
"Your slave is humbly glad to please, and dusts your path with his
miserable body."
"And what brought you into town to-day?" said he, as he turned and
walked with her. "Not the giddy delight of walking on King Street, I
hope?"
"That was my only idea, I will confess. Home was dull, and I was tired
of reading. Mother was busy and father was away somewhere; so I came out
for a walk. Yes, King Street was my only hope. No, by the way--I had an
excuse. I have been looking for a house-maid. None to be had though."
"Don't find one," said Geoffrey. "Just come out every day to look for
one. I know several fellows who would hunt house-maids with you forever
if they got the chance."
"Ah! they never dare to say that to me. They might get snapped up. Yet
it is hard to only receive compliments by deputy, like this. Do they
intend that, after all, I shall die an old maid? And your banks friends
are such excellent _partis_! are they not?"
"They are," said Geoffrey. "At least, they would be if they had a house
to put a wife into--to say nothing of the maid."
"Talking of house-maids," said Margaret, "I just met Mrs.
whats-her-name--you know, the little American with the German name; and
she had just discharged one of her maids. She said to me, 'You know I
have just one breakfast--ice-cold water and a hot roll; sometimes a
pickle. Sarah said I'd kill myself, and in spite of everything I could
say she _would_ load the table with tea or coffee and stuff I don't
want. 'Last I got mad and I walked in with her wages up to date. I said,
'Sarah I guess we had better part. You don't fill the bill.' I told her
I would try and get Sarah myself, as I didn't object to her ideas in the
matter of breakfasts. I have been looking for her and wanting some nice
person to help me to find her. What are you doing this afternoon? Won't
you come and help me to find Sarah?" This, with a little pretense of
_implorando_.
"If you think I 'fill the bill' as 'a nice person' nothing would give me
greater pleasure. Sarah will be found. No, I have nothing in particular
on hand to-day. I was going to the gymnasium to have a fellow pummel me
with the gloves. I am certain I have received more headaches and
nose-bleedings in learning how to defend myself with my hands than one
would receive in being attacked a dozen times in earnest."
"Well, now would be a good time to stop taking further lessons," said
Margaret. "Why do you give yourself so much trouble?"
"Oh, for the exercise, I suppose, or the prestige of being a boxer.
Keeps one's person sacred, in a manner; and among young men serves to
give more weight to the expression of one's opinions. I think it is a
mistake, though, as far as I am concerned. Nature made me speedy on my
feet, and when the time comes I'll use her gift instead of the
artificial one."
"I have heard it said that it is much wiser for a gentleman to run from
a street fight than to stay in it--that the fact of his not using his
feet as a means of attack in a fight always places him at a
disadvantage. Could you not learn the manly art of kicking, as well?"
"What a murderous notion!" exclaimed Geoffrey. "I don't think that
branch of self-defense is taught in the schools. It reminds one of a
duel with axes. For my part, I think that hunting Sarah is much more
improving. That is, if one did not have blood-thirsty ideas put into his
head on the way."
And Margaret looked so gentle and pacific.
"I always think a very interesting subject like this should be thought
out carefully," said she, smiling.
If she could not talk well on all subjects, she was a boon to those who
could only talk on _one_--to those who resemble a ship with only one
sail to keep them going--slow to travel on, but capable of teaching
something, and not to be despised.
With her tall figure, classic face, and blonde hair, Margaret Mackintosh
was a vision; but when she came, with large-pupiled eyes, in quest of
knowledge, even grave and reverend seigniors were apt to forget the
information she asked for. University-degree young men, the most
superior of living creatures, soon understood that she sought for what
they had learned, and not for themselves; and this demeanor on her part,
while it tended to disturb the nice balance in which the weight of their
mental talents was accurately poised against that of their physical
fascinations, went to make friends and not lovers.
There was one person, however, to whose appearance she was not
indifferent; who always suggested to her the Apollo Belvedere, and gave
her an increased interest in the Homer of arts, whereas the vigorous
life, heroic resolve, and shapely perfection of the ancient hero meet
with but little response in women who exist with difficulty. She was
perhaps entitled, by a sort of natural right, to expect that a masculine
appearance should approach that grade of excellence of which she was
herself an example.
"Do you know," she continued, as they proceeded up Yonge Street, "just
before I met you I passed such a horrible young man, with long arms
reaching almost to his knees and a little face. He made me quite
uncomfortable. It's all very well to believe in our evolution as an
abstract idea; but an experience like this brings the conviction home to
one's mind altogether too vividly. It was quite a relief to meet you.
You always look so--in fact, so different from that sort of person,
don't you know?"
She nearly said he looked so like her Apollo, but did not.
Geoffrey smiled. "There are times when the idea seems against common
sense," said he, with a short glance at her.
"Ah! you intend that for me. But you are almost repeating father's
remark. You know he is a confirmed follower of the theory. A few days
ago he said that the only thing he had against you was that you upset
his studies. He says you ought to hire out to the special-creationists
to be used as their clinching argument. So you see what it is to be an
Ap--"
She stopped.
"Ah! you were going to say something severe, then," said Geoffrey. "Just
as well, though, to snub me sometimes. I don't mind it if nobody knows
of it. But, about your father? Do you assist him in his studies?"
"I don't know that I assist him much. He does the hardest part of the
work, and then has to explain it all to me. But I read to him a good
deal when his eyes trouble him. After procuring a new book on the
subject he never rests till he has exhausted it. We often worry through
it together, taking turns at the reading. We have just finished
Haeckel's last. We are wild about Haeckel."
"Yes, there is something very spiritual and orthodox about him," said
Geoffrey. "And now that you must have got about as far as you can at
present, how does the theory affect you?"
"Not at all, except to make me long to know more. If one could live to
be two hundred years old, would it not be delightful?" said Margaret,
looking far away up the street in front of her.
"But as to your religion?" asked Geoffrey. "Do you find that it makes
any difference?"
"I don't think I was ever a very religious person," she replied,
mistaking the word religious for 'churchy.' "I never was christened, nor
confirmed, nor taught my catechism, nor anything of that sort. Nobody
ever promised that I should renounce the devil and all his works, and
so--and so I suppose I never have."
She looked at Geoffrey with the round eyes of guilelessness, slightly
mirthful, as if, while deprecating this wretched state, she could still
enjoy life.
Her companion could scarcely look away from her. There was such a
combination of knowledge and purity and all-round goodness in her face
that it fascinated him and induced him to say gravely:
"Indeed, one might have almost supposed that you had enjoyed these
benefits from your earliest youth."
"No," she answered, "I have been neglected in church matters. Who knows?
Perhaps, if I had been different, father and I would never have been
such companions. I never remember his going to church, although he pays
his pew-rent for mother and me to go. He is afraid people would call him
an atheist, you know, and no man cares about being despised or looked
upon as peculiar in that way. He says that as long as he pays his
pew-rent the good people will let him alone. As for mother, I hardly
know what her belief is now. She is mildly contemptuous of evolution;
chiefly, I think, because she does not know, or care anything about it.
She says the creed she was brought up in is quite enough for her, and if
she can keep the dust _out_ of the house and contentment _in_ it she
will do more than most people and fullfil the whole duty of woman. I
don't think she likes to be cross-questioned about her particular
tenets, which really seem to be sufficient for her, except when she is
worried over a new phase of the old family lawsuit, and then she
oscillates between pugnacity and resignation. So you see I was left
pretty much to myself as to assuming any belief that I might care
about."
"And what belief did you come to care about?" he asked, feeling
interested.
"Well, father seems to think that the most dignified attitude of our
ignorance is a respectful silence; but, as you have asked which belief I
_care about_, I can answer frankly that I like best going to church and
saying my prayers. It is so much more pleasant and comfortable to try to
think our prayers are heard, for, as mother says, reason and logic are
poor outlets for emotion when the lawsuit goes wrong. With our
information as it is, our conclusions seem to depend on whether we have
or have not in us the spirit of research. They tell me in the churches
that, being unregenerate, my heart is desperately wicked, and, as I have
nothing but a little bad temper now and then to reproach myself with, I
do not agree with them. On the contrary, I always feel that my life
rather tends to lead me toward believing--or, at any rate, does not make
me prejudiced. I like to believe that God watches over and cares for us.
There being no proof or disproof of the matter, I would find it as
difficult, by way of reasoning, to altogether disbelieve as to
altogether believe."
"Then you make evolution a part of your religion?" asked Geoffrey.
Margaret had been brought up in an advanced latter-day school. All the
unrecognized passion within her had gone out in quest of knowledge,
which her father had taught her to regard as a source of quiet
happiness, or at least as comforting to the soul during the maturer
years as an intricate knowledge of crochet and quilt work. When she took
to her bosom the so-called dry-as-dust facts of science she clothed them
in a sort of spirituality. Even slipper-working for a married curate has
been known to stir the pulses, and, though she knew that when the
objects of our enthusiasm seem to glow it is unsafe to say whether the
glow is not merely the reflection of our own fervor, she regarded the
lately dug-up facts of science somewhat as if they were mines of
long-hidden coal, capable of use and possessed of intrinsic warmth. Her
face brightened with all the enthusiasm of a devotee as she answered
Geoffrey's question.
"Indeed, yes. The new knowledge seems like the backbone of my religion.
I often sit in church and think what a blessed privilege it is to be
permitted to know even as little as we do about God's plan of creation."
She joined her hands before her quickly as she walked along, forgetful
of all but the idea that enchained her. Her face showed the devotion
seen in some old pictures of early saints, but it was too capable and
animated to be the production of any of the old masters.
"Oh, it is grand to know even a little!" she exclaimed; "to think that
this is God's plan, and that bit by bit we are allowed to unravel it! Is
it not true that we acquire knowledge as we are able to receive it? Did
not the ruder people receive the simple laws which Moses learned in
Egypt? and did not Christianity expand those laws by teaching the
religion of sympathy? These are historical facts. Why, then, should we
not regard evolution as an advanced gospel, the gospel of the knowledge
of God's works, to bind us more closely to him from our admiration of
the excellence of his handiwork--as a father might show his growing son
how his business is carried on, and how beautiful things are made? Of
course, one may reply that all the discoveries do not show that there is
a God. Perhaps they don't; but I try to think they do. I never have been
able to find that verbal creeds do much toward making us what we are.
The gloomy distort Christ's life to prove the necessity for sorrow; the
joyous do just the opposite. The naturally cruel practice their cruelty
in the name of religion. Though all start with perhaps the same words on
their lips, each individual in reality makes his religion for himself
according to his nature. Look at the difference between Guiteau and
Florence Nightingale. They both had the same creeds."
Hampstead was silent.
"I know that my religion might not suffice for others, because it has no
terrors, but to me it is compelling. When I turn it all over more
minutely, the beauty of the thoughts seems to carry me away. Let those
whose brittle creeds are broken grope about in their gloom, if they
will. To me it is glorious first to try to understand things, and then
to praise God for his marvelous works."
Margaret grew more intense in her utterance as her subject grew upon
her. They had turned off on a quiet street some time before, so there
was nothing to interrupt her. As her earnestness gave weight to her
voice, the words came out more fervently and more melodiously. Both her
hands were raised, in an unconscious gesture, while the words welled
forth with a depth and force impossible to describe.
Geoffrey walked on in silence.
He thought of the passage, "I came not to call the righteous, but
sinners to repentance," and he wondered whether Christ would have
thought that such as Margaret stood in need of any further faith. The
shrine of Understanding was the only one she worshiped at, arguing, as
she did, that from a proper understanding and true wisdom followed all
the goodness of the Christ-life. He became conscious of a vague regret
within him that he had, as he thought, passed those impressionable
periods when a man's beliefs may be molded again. There was a distinct
longing to participate in the assurance and joy which any kind of fixed
faith is capable of producing. The Byronic temperament was not absent
from him. He was keenly susceptible to anything--either moral or
immoral--which called upon his ideality; and these ideas of Margaret's,
although he had thought of them before, seemed new to him.
"It seems strange," he said musingly, "to hear of some of the most
learned men of the day erecting an altar similar to that which Paul
found at Athens 'to the unknown God,' and to find them impelled to
worship something which they speak of as unknown and unknowable."
"And yet," she answered, "it is the work of some of these very men, and
their predecessors, that gives the light and life to the religion which
I, for one, find productive of comfort and enthusiasm. One can
understand the practicability of a heaven where a gradual acquisition of
the fullness of knowledge could be a joyful and everlasting occupation;
and I think a religion to fit us for such a heaven should, like the
Buddhist's, strive to increase our knowledge instead of endeavoring to
stifle it. What is there definitely held out as reward by religions to
make men improve? As far as I can see, there is nothing definite
promised, except in Buddhism perhaps, which men with active minds would
care to accept. But knowledge! knowledge! This is what may bring an
eternity of active happiness. Here is a vista as delightful as it is
boundless. Surely in this century, we have less cause to call God
altogether 'unknown' than had the men of Athens. In the light of
omniscience the difference may be slight indeed, but to us it is great.
I do hope," she added, "that what I have said does not offend any of
your own religious convictions."
"I have none," said Geoffrey simply; "and it is very good of you to tell
me so much about yourself. I have been wanting something of the kind.
You know Bulwer says, 'No moral can be more impressive than that which
shows how a man may become entangled in his own sophisms.' He says it is
better than a volume of homilies; and it is difficult sometimes, after a
course of reading mixed up with one's own vagaries, to judge as to one's
self or others from a sufficiently stable standpoint. You always seem to
give me an intuitive knowledge of what good really is, and to tell me
where I am in any moral fog."
They walked on together for some little distance further when Margaret
stopped and began to look up and down the street.
"Why, where are we?" she said. "What street is this?"
"I can not help you with the name of the street. I supposed we were
approaching the domicile of Sarah. We are now in St. John's Ward, I
think, and unless Sarah happens to be a colored person you are not
likely to find her in this neighborhood."
"Dear me," said Margaret, as she descended from considering the possible
occupations of the heavenly host to those usual in St. John's Ward, "I
have not an idea where we are. We must have come a long distance out of
our way. It is your fault for doing all the talking."
"On the contrary, Miss Margaret, I have been unable to get a word in
edgewise."
The search for Sarah was abandoned, and they wended their way toward
Margaret's home, the conversation passing to other subjects and to Nina
Lindon, whom they discussed in connection with the ball at the
Dusenalls'.
"They certainly seem very devoted, do they not?" said Margaret,
referring to Jack Cresswell also.
"Yes, their attachment for each other is quite idyllic," said Geoffrey,
lapsing into his cynical speech, "which is as it should be. I did not
see them much together, as I left early."
"I noticed your absence, at least I remembered afterward not having seen
you late in the evening, but, as you take such an interest in your
friend, you should have stayed longer, if only to see the very happy
expression on his face. You know she is spoken of as being the _belle_,
and certainly he ought to be proud of her, as the attention she
attracted was so very marked. I thought her appearance was charming.
They seemed to make an exception to the rule among lovers that one loves
and the other submits to be loved."
"I am glad to hear you say this," said Geoffrey, as he silently
reflected as to the cause of Nina's return to do her duty in a way that
would tend to ease her conscience. "Jack is worthy of the best of girls.
Have you ever called upon the Lindons?"
"No, not yet. But Mr. Cresswell spoke to me about Miss Lindon and said
he would like me to know her. So I said we would call. I am afraid,
however, that mother will complain at the length of her visiting list
being increased. She will have to be coaxed into this call to please
me."
"Jack cherishes an idea that Miss Lindon, he, and I will become a trio
of good friends," said Geoffrey. "Now, if anything could be done to make
it a quartette, if you would consent to make a fourth, Miss Margaret, I
am certain the new arrangement would be more satisfactory to all
parties, especially so to me considered as one of the trio. A
gooseberry's part is fraught with difficulties."
"The more the merrier, no doubt, in this case. Numbers will release you
from your responsibilities. I have myself two or three friends that
would make excellent additions to the quartette. There's Mr. Le Fevre,
of your bank, and also Mr.--"
"Ah, well!" said Geoffrey, interrupting. "Let us consider. I don't think
that it was contemplated to make a universal brotherhood of this
arrangement. If there are to be any more elected I should propose that
the male candidates should be balloted for by the male electors only,
and that additional lady members should be disposed of by their own sex
only. Let me see. In the event of a tie in voting, the matter might be
left to a general meeting to be convened for consultation and ice-cream,
and, if the candidate be thrown out by a majority, the proposer should
be obliged to pay the expenses incurred by the conclave."
"That seems a feasible method," said Margaret. "Although I tell you, if
we girls do not have the right men, there will be trouble. And now we
ought to name the new society. What do you say to calling it 'An
Association for the Propagation of Friendly Feeling among Themselves'?"
"Limited," added Geoffrey, thinking that the membership ought to be
restricted.
"Oh, limited, by all means," cried Margaret. "I should rather think so.
Limited in finances, brains, and everything else. And then the rules!
Politics and religion excluded, of course, as in any other club?"
"Well, I don't mind those so much as discussions of millinery and
dress-making. These should be vetoed at any general meeting."
"Excuse me. These are subjects that come under the head of art, and
ought to be permissible to any extent; but I do make strong objection to
the use of yachting terms and sporting language generally."
"Possibly you are right," said Geoffrey. "But Jack--poor Jack! he must
refer to starboard bulkheads and that sort of thing from time to time.
However, we will agree to each other's objections, but we must certainly
place an embargo upon saying ill-natured things about our neighbors--"
"Good heavens, man! Do you expect us to be dumb?" cried Margaret. "Very
well. It shall be so. We will call it the 'Dumb Improvement Company for
Learned Pantomime.'"
And thus they rattled on in their fanciful talk merrily
enough--interrupting each other and laughing over their own absurdities,
and sharpening their wits on each other, as only good friends can, until
Margaret's home was reached.
To Geoffrey it seemed to emphasize Margaret's youth and companionability
when, in following his changing moods, she could so readily make the
transition from the sublime to the ridiculous.