MAN WALKETH IN A VAIN SHADOW.
Soon after the departure for France of the newly married pair Mark
returned from San Francisco. During his absence Mrs. Joe had not failed
to call Mr. Hacket in consultation, and the adviser had reiterated the
old counsel that the first step in a political career was "to get around
and get acquainted." In order to induce her son to continue this
preliminary course it became necessary to disclose her "policy."
Mark, though somewhat languid in the matter, displayed no violent
reluctance to becoming a statesman. "As to the Presidency," he observed,
laughing at his mother's lofty ambition, frankly disclosed, "that is the
heaven of the politician, to be attained only by the elect."
"Nothing's impossible, Mark."
"There's a constitutional provision which will prevent my going in for
it for some years. Meanwhile, we can investigate and learn how
Presidents start. One ended as Justice of the Peace; I might try that as
a beginning."
"A Justice of the Peace!"
"Why so scornful? It's aiming high. The usual course is to begin by
carrying a banner and shouting."
"Mark, I've set my heart on this."
"My dear mother, blessed is the man or woman that has the wisdom to
avoid that error."
"My son," said the lady reproachfully, "you seem without interest in
anything."
"I am older, hence less enthusiastic, than you," he answered, smiling,
and really believing, perhaps rightly, that, notwithstanding their
relation, he felt older than she; "but advise me what to do, and I will
do it. I am not unwilling to be a statesman, only----"
"I have told you----"
"To get about and get acquainted. Good! I'll start at once and collar
the first voter I meet and demand his friendship." So, laughing, he left
her, and within an hour Mrs. Joe saw him ride forth from the gates of
Stormpoint.
During his long ride he admitted the reasonableness of his mother's
ambition. Aside from the obstacle of great wealth, he was as eligible as
another for usefulness and such laurels as come to those who honorably
pursue a political career. He might smile at his mother's lofty dreams,
yet they were not impossible of attainment; whereas, his own, in so far
as they offered any allurement, were both unworthy and impossible. "A
man should do something better than bewail his fate," he muttered;
"since I cannot love elsewhere I'll be a lover of my country."
Greatly to Mrs. Joe's satisfaction, he thenceforward diligently pursued
the preliminary requisite of getting around, in so far as that could be
accomplished by long, solitary rides throughout the region. He seldom
appeared at dinner without a gratifying account of the acquisition of a
new rustic acquaintance, while meantime, the lady of Stormpoint saw to
it that he did not remain unknown to such Hampton magnates as she could
induce to grace her dinner table, displaying, in the matter of
hospitality, a catholicity which surprised Paula and amused Mark, who,
however, was quite willing to be amused.
Philosophers who have made the passion of love a subject of
investigation (and most philosophers have given some attention to this
branch of learning) have noticed that the violent death of an old love
is often quickly followed by the birth of a new one. A jilted man or
woman is Cupid's easiest prey.
Mrs. Joe may, or may not, have been aware of the truth of the above
axiom, or its fitness in the case before her; but, having been fairly
successful in interesting Mark in one object of her "policy," she
resolved at this time to venture further and urge upon his attention the
claims of Paula to his love; and, to her great delight, she found him
not inattentive to the suggestion. He told his mother, truly enough,
that he had a sincere affection for Paula, and admitted that she was, as
far as was compatible with humanity, faultless; for it could hardly be a
fault in Paula that he could feel no throb in his pulse, or glow in his
bosom, when he recalled her to memory.
"You forget," he said, "that while I might find it easy to love her"
(which he did not believe), "she might not find it easy to love me."
"You need have no fear." She was about to add that Paula would love
anybody that loved her, but remembered in time that this might not be
regarded as a recommendation. "She is the best creature I ever
knew--almost perfect."
"I believe she is," he assented with a sigh, which was a tribute to
Paula's perfection. "I fear she is too good for me."
"That's a strange objection."
"I am not so sure," he replied, as he lit a cigar, preparatory to
leaving the room. But when he was gone, Mrs. Joe felt that he would
consider the matter, and was content.
Unconsciously to herself, and, perhaps, without the knowledge of those
by whom she was surrounded, Paula was somewhat harshly treated by
nature; and that, notwithstanding her beauty. She was the embodiment of
purity, of affection, of all the sweeter virtues, hence, regarded as
wanting in those weaknesses which are essential to the symmetry of
strength; one who lacks the everyday vices of temper, of selfishness, of
jealousy, is, in some degree, abhorrent to our sense of the fitness of
things. It is not that we envy the possessor of all the virtues--on the
contrary, total absence of vice awakens something akin to contempt--but
we are impatient of a non-combative disposition. The ideal Christian,
offering the unsmitten cheek, presents a spectacle which, on Sundays, we
characterize as sublime; the actual Christian, making such a tender, is,
on any day, an object of scorn. Even of Paula, they who knew her would
have admitted that it was possible to rouse her to resentment, possibly
to a deed of vengeance, just as the worm may be made to turn; but, then,
humanity refuses to admire worms in any attitude.
As Mark prosecuted the study of Paula, it gradually dawned upon him
that it was interesting. From wondering whether there could be "much in
her," he attained the conviction that, whether much or little, what
there was was beyond his ken. "Paula," he asked one day, "are you as
good as you look?"
"I don't know how good I look, Mark."
"Saintlike."
"Then I am not as good as I look; only I don't think I look as you say."
"Paula, you are a mystery. That's a great thing to be, is it not?"
(Somehow, he could not help talking to Paula as if she were a child.)
"Explain the mystery."
"Everybody is a mystery. Explain the mystery."
"Here is an unexpected depth," he exclaimed, with some surprise. "You
have dared to raise a great question. Let us seek the solution at
Grandfather Eliphalet's tomb."
The tomb, renovated and neatly railed by that which Miss Claghorn
secretly regarded as the sacrilegious hand of Mrs. Joe, was near the
extremity of the Point. When the weary Eliphalet had been laid there to
rest it had been further inland, but the ever-pounding ocean was
gradually having its way, day by day encroaching upon the domain of the
seemingly indestructible rocks.
"The time will come," said Mark, as the two leaned upon the railing,
"when the sea will claim old Eliphalet's bones."
"And the time will come when the sea will give up its dead," said Paula.
"Perhaps," he answered gloomily; "and to what end? You will answer, in
order that the dead may be judged. I still ask, to what end?"
"That is the mystery, Mark."
"Not to be answered at Eliphalet's tomb, or elsewhere. Paula, did you
ever hear of Deacon Bedott?"
"You know, Mark, there are so many deacons in Hampton----"
"This one lived in Slabtown, if I remember right. He was a character of
fiction, neither very wise nor very entertaining; yet when Deacon Bedott
lifted up his voice and spake, he formulated one of the Great Truths
that man can know."
"What did he say?" she asked after a pause.
"We are all poor critters," was the answer, with a grim laugh. "Paula, I
believe it is the only truth that really does come home to a man."
"It is from the Bible," she said simply.
He looked up. "Do you mean to assert that the Deacon was merely quoting?
Are you going to destroy my faith in a pet philosopher; he who said all
that Plato said, or Socrates, or Seneca--or anybody?"
"For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain," she
answered in a low tone.
There was silence for a moment; at length Mark said: "It seems that the
Deacon was, after all, a plagiarist."
"I think that perhaps philosophers have discovered few truths concerning
man that they might not have found in the Bible, and with less labor."
"Paula, do you believe the Bible?"
"Why, Mark! It is God's word."
"And these," he said, pointing to the trees, the crags, the sea; "are
these God's word?"
"They are His creation; in that sense His word."
"And you and I, and these bones, crumbling a few feet below--these are
all His creation, and so His word--and we know not what they say."
She looked at him surprised. She had often sorrowed that these things
did not engage his attention; she was surprised to note his earnestness.
"Paula," he said, "do you know what you were made for?"
"Made for?"
"Leonard would tell you, 'to glorify God, and enjoy Him forever,'" he
said, "but he would also inform you that the chance of the purpose of
your creation coming to pass is slim."
"You know I do not subscribe to Leonard's creed," she replied a little
severely.
"The thirty-nine articles, though less explicit, imply that which
Leonard's creed has the boldness to state. Yes, Paula, that is the great
and glorious Hope offered by the Church--damnation for the great
majority."
"Mark, I do not think I ought to discuss these questions."
"You mean with a scoffer," he said a little bitterly.
"I hope you are not a scoffer. I cannot judge."
"And you decline to find out. Suppose I tell you in all honesty that I
want to know the reasons for the faith that is in you. That I want to
know them, so that I may try honestly to adopt them, if I find it
possible--I don't say easy, Paula, I say possible. Suppose I assure you
of this, as I do, will you aid me to be what you think I ought to be?"
"Mark," she answered, "I am not competent. Such a one as you should not
come to such as I."
"Surely you have a reason for your belief! Is it not possible to put it
into words?"
"Oh, Mark!" She turned and looked upon him; her eyes were brimming with
tears; she placed her hand upon his arm. "I can help you; I will help
you. I can direct you to one who can solve your doubts, who can make the
truth so plain that you must see----"
"And this One is?' he asked reverently.
"Father Cameril."
He burst into a loud laugh which shocked and grieved her. She left him
and went toward the house; he remained gazing at the tomb.
And there, if he had really contemplated seeking Paula's love, he buried
the intention with Old Eliphalet. "If your eternal welfare is to your
wife a matter to be handed over to her priest, your temporal felicity
will hardly be of moment to her," he thought, as he looked at the smoke
of his cigar hanging blue in the summer air.