A CONFERENCE
Jenny Ironsyde came to see Ernest Churchouse upon the matter of the
marriage. She found him pensive and a little weary. According to his
custom he indulged in ideas before approaching the subject just then
uppermost in all minds in Bridetown.
"I have been suffering from rather a severe dose of the actual," he
said; "at present, in the minds of those about me, there is no room for
any abstraction. We are confronted with facts--painful facts--a most
depressing condition for such a mind as mine. There are three orders of
intelligence, Jenny. The lowest never reaches higher than the discussion
of persons; the second talks about places, which is certainly better;
the third soars into the region of ideas; and when one finds a person
indulge in ideas, then court their friendship, for ideas are the only
sound basis of intellectual interchanges. It is so strange to see an
educated person, who might be discussing the deepest mysteries and
noblest problems of life, preferring to relate the errors of a domestic
servant, or deplore the price of sprats."
"All very well for you," declared Miss Ironsyde; "from your isolated
situation, above material cares and anxieties, you can affect this
superiority; but what about Mrs. Dinnett? You would very soon be
grumbling if Mrs. Dinnett put the deepest mysteries and noblest problems
of life before the price of sprats. It is true that man cannot live by
bread alone; and it is equally true that he cannot live without it. The
highest flights are impossible without cooking, and cooking would be
impossible if all aspired to the highest flights."
"As a matter of fact, Mrs. Dinnett is my present source of depression,"
he said. "All is going as it should go, I suppose. The young people are
reconciled, and I have arranged that Sabina should be married from here
a fortnight hence. Thus, as it were, I shield and protect her and
support her against back-biting and evil tongues."
"It is splendid of you."
"Far from it. I am only doing the obvious. I care much for the girl. But
Mary Dinnett, despite the need to be sanguine and expeditious, permits
herself an amount of obstinate melancholy which is most ill-judged and
quite unjustified by the situation. Nothing will satisfy her. She scorns
hope. She declines to take a cheerful view. She even confesses to a
premonition they are not going to be married after all. She says that
her grandmother had second sight and believes that the doubtful gift has
been handed down to her."
"This is very bad for Sabina."
"Of course it is. I impress that upon her mother. The girl has been
through a great deal. She is highly strung at all times, and these
affairs have wrought havoc with her intelligence for the moment. Her one
thought and feverish longing is to be married, and her mother's fatuous
prophecies that she never will be are causing serious nervous trouble to
Sabina. I feel sure of it. They may even be doing permanent harm."
"You should suppress Mary."
"I endeavour to do so. I put much serving upon her; but her frame of
mind is such that her energy is equal to anything. You had better see
her and caution her. From another woman, words of wisdom would carry
more weight than mine. As to Sabina, I have warned her against her
mother--a strong thing to do, but I felt it to be my duty."
They saw Mary Dinnett then, and Miss Ironsyde quickly realised that
there were subtle tribulations and shades of doubt in the mother's mind
beyond Mr. Churchouse's power to appreciate. Indeed, Mrs. Dinnett,
encouraged so to do by the sympathetic presence of Jenny Ironsyde,
strove to give reasons for her continued gloom.
"You must be more hopeful and put a brighter face on it, Mary, if only
for the sake of the young people," declared the visitor. "You're not
approaching the marriage from the right point of view. We must forget
the past and keep our minds on the future and proceed with this affair
just as though it were an ordinary marriage without any disquieting
features. We have to remember that they love each other and really are
well suited. The future is chequered by certain differences between my
nephews, which have not yet been smoothed out; but I am sure that they
will be; and meantime you need feel no fear of any inconvenience for
Sabina. I am responsible."
"I know all that," said Mrs. Dinnett, "and your name is in my prayers
when I rise up and when I go to bed. But while there's a lot other
people can do for 'em, there's also a deal they can only do for
themselves; and, in my opinion, they are not doing it. It's no good us
playacting and forgetting the past and pretending everything is just as
it should be, if they won't."
"But they have."
"Sabina has. I doubt if he has. I don't know how you find him, but when
I see him he's not in a nice temper and not taking the situation in the
spirit of a happy bridegroom--very far from it. And my second-sight,
which I get from my grandmother, points to one thing: that there won't
be no wedding."
"This is preposterous," declared Miss Ironsyde. "The day is fixed and
every preparation far advanced."
"That's nought to a wayward mind like his. He's got in a state now when
I wouldn't trust him a yard. And I hope to God you'll hold the reins
tight, miss, and not slacken till they're man and wife. Once let him see
his way clear to bolt, and bolt he will."
Mr. Churchouse protested, while Jenny only sighed. Sabina's mother was
echoing her own secret uneasiness, but she lamented that others had
marked it as well as herself.
"He is in a very moody state, but never speaks of any change of mind to
me."
"Because he well knows you hold the purse," said Mrs. Dinnett. "I don't
want to say anything uncharitable against the man, though I might; but I
will say that there's danger and that I do well to be a miserable woman
till the danger's past. You tell me to cheer up, and I promise to cheer
up quick enough when there's reason to do so. Mr. Churchouse here is the
best gentleman on God's earth; but he don't understand a mother's
heart--how should he? and he don't know what a lot women have got to
hide from men--for their own self-respect, and because men as a body are
such clumsy-minded fools--speaking generally, of course."
To see even Mrs. Dinnett dealing thus in ideas excited Ernest and filled
him with interest. He forgot everything but the principle she asserted
and would have discussed it for an hour; but Mary, having thus hit back
effectively, departed, and Miss Ironsyde brought the master of 'The
Magnolias' back to their subject.
"There's a lot of truth in what she says and it shows how trouble
quickens the wits," she declared; "and I can say to you, what I wouldn't
to her, that Raymond is not taking this in a good spirit, or as I hoped
and expected. I feel for him, too, while being absolutely firm with him.
Stupid things were done and the secret of his folly made public. He has
a grudge against them and, of course, that is rather a threatening fact,
because a grudge against anybody is a deadly thing to get into one's
mind. It poisons character and ruins your steady outlook, if it is deep
seated enough."
"Would you say that he bore Sabina a grudge?"
"I'm afraid so; but I do my best to dispel it by pointing out what she
thought herself faced with. And I tell him what is true, that Sabina in
her moments of greatest fear and exasperation, always behaved like a
lady. But in your ear only, Ernest, I confess to a new sensation--a
sickly sensation of doubt. It comes over my religious certainty
sometimes, like a fog. It's cold and shivery. Of course from every
standpoint of religion and honour and justice, they ought to be married.
But--"
He stopped her.
"Having named religion and honour and justice, there is no room for
'but.' Indeed, Jenny, there is not."
"Let me speak, all the same. Other people can have intuitions besides
Mrs. Dinnett. It's an intuition--not second sight--but it is alive.
Supposing this marriage doesn't really make for the happiness of either
of them?"
"If they put religion and honour and justice first, it must," he
repeated. "You cannot, I venture to say, have happiness without religion
and honour and justice; and if Raymond were to go back on his word now,
he would be the most miserable man in the country."
"I wonder."
"Don't wonder. Be sure of it. Granted he finds himself miserable--that
is because he has committed a fault. Will it make him less miserable to
go on and commit a greater? Sorrow is a fair price to pay for wisdom,
Jenny. He is a great deal wiser now than he was six months ago, and to
shirk his responsibilities and break his word will not mend matters.
Besides, there is another consideration, which you forget. These young
people are no longer free. Even if they both desired to remain single,
honour, justice and religion actually demand marriage. There was a doubt
in my own mind once, too, whether their happiness would be assured by
union. Now there is no doubt. A child is coming into the world. Need I
say more?"
"I stand corrected," she answered. "There is really nothing more to be
said. For the child's sake, if for no other reason, marry they must. We
know too well the fate of the child born out of wedlock in this
country."
"It is a shameful and cruel fate; and while the Church of England
cowardly suffers the State to impose it, and selfish men care not, we,
with some enthusiasm for the unborn and some indignation to see their
disabilities, must do what lies in our power for them."
He rambled off into generalities inspired by this grave theme.
"'Suffer the little children to come unto Me,' said Christ; and we make
it almost impossible for fifty thousand little children to come unto Him
every year; and those who stand for Him, the ministers of His Church,
lift not a finger. The little children of nobody they are. They grow up
conscious of their handicap; they come into the world to trust and hope
and find themselves pariahs. Is that conducive to a religious trust in
God, or a rational trust in man for these outlawed thousands?"
She brought him back again to Raymond and Sabina.
"Apart from the necessity and justice," she said, "and taking it for
granted that the thing must happen, what is your opinion of the future?
You know Sabina well and ought to be in a position to say if you think
she will have the wit and sense to make it a happy marriage."
"I should wish to think so. They are a gracious pair--at least they
were. I liked both boy and girl exceedingly and I happened to be the one
who introduced them to each other. It was after Henry's death. Sabina
came in with our tea and one could almost see an understanding spring up
and come to life under one's eyes. They've been wicked, Jenny; but such
is my hopelessly open mind in the matter of goodness and wickedness,
that I often find it harder to forgive some people for doing their duty
than others for being wicked. In fact, some do their duty in a way that
is perfectly unforgivable, while others fail in such an affecting and
attractive manner that they make you all the fonder of them."
"I feel so, too, sometimes," she admitted, "but I never dared to
confess it. Once married, I think Raymond would steady down and realise
his responsibilities. We must both do what we can to bring the brothers
together again. It will take a long time to make Daniel forgive this
business."
"It is just the Daniel type who would take it most seriously, even if we
are able soon to say 'all's well that ends well.' For that reason, one
regrets he heard particulars. However, we must trust and believe the
future will set all right and reinstate Raymond at the works. For my own
part I feel very sure that will happen."
"Well, I always like to see hope triumphing over experience," she said,
"and one need never look further than you for that."
"Thank yourself," he answered. "Your steadfast optimism always awakes an
echo in me. If we make up our minds that this is going to be all right,
that will at least help on the good cause. We can't do much to make it
all right, but we can do something. They are in Bridport house-hunting
this morning, I hear."
"They are; and that reminds me they come to lunch and, I hope, to report
progress. Of course anything Raymond likes, Sabina approves; but he
isn't easily satisfied. However, they may have found something. Daniel,
rather fortunately, is from home just now, in the North."
"If we could get him to the wedding, it would be a great thing."
"I'm afraid we mustn't hope for that; but we can both urge him to come.
He may."
"I will compose a very special letter to him," said Mr. Churchouse.
"How's your rheumatism?"
"Better, if anything."