It was not, however, Edgar Arden’s intention to preach any crusade. On
the contrary, the first impulse of his friendly and neighbour-loving
soul was to find out some reason for the existence which seemed so
strange to him. He tried to approach, in a great many different ways,
and evoke out of it, as it were, or surprise out of it, its secrets. It
could not exist, he said to himself, without a meaning. Edgar was not
very profound in his philosophy, but still he had a way of thinking of
what he saw, and his amused interest in everything led him into a world
of questions. Besides, he was not merely conversant with Harry
Thornleigh and his class, but also with various other divisions of
society. He saw a good deal of Lord Newmarch, for instance, who was
entirely a different kind of man; and he renewed his acquaintance with
some men whom he had met abroad in his earlier days, one of whom was a
great cricketer, and another who was of the Alpine Club, and whose soul
dwelt habitually in the sacred recesses of the Matterhorn or Jungfrau.
Except Lord Newmarch and his set, these men were all utterly
disinterested, pursuing their favourite amusements, not for any purpose
to be gained, but for the mere sake of the pursuit itself. The Alpine
Club man had no curiosity about the view from the mountain-head, and
cared nothing for the formation of the glaciers, or any other subject
connected with his mountains: all his object was to get to the top; and
he did get to a great many tops, and distinguished himself, and acquired
various bits of practical knowledge, which, having no connection of
purpose or interest in his mind, were of little use to himself, and none
to others. And so likewise the men who devoted themselves to society did
not expect to be amused, or instructed, or to meet people they liked, or
to find in it any of those solaces which theorists pretend. They went
because everybody went--because it was the right thing to do--just for
the sake of going, and no other reason. This disinterestedness was the
great thing that struck Edgar. He himself was aware that he did not at
all possess it. He was continually desiring some result--pleasure or
advantage of some description, which, when you come to think of it (he
reflected), is a mean way of treating existence after all. Whereas,
society was grand in its indifference to any issue. It lived, it
assembled, it talked, it went to and fro, and gave itself a great deal
of trouble; and from all this exertion it expected nothing to come. This
was the first discovery Edgar made, or thought he made; and it staggered
him much in the contempt for society which he had been settling into.
Was not this in reality a higher principle than his own? It bewildered
him, and he could not make it out; and Lord Newmarch, though he was a
social philosopher of much greater experience than Edgar, did not seem
capable of giving him any aid.
“I don’t know what you mean by disinterestedness,” Lord Newmarch said.
“There is nobody who is disinterested. We have some selfish object in
whatever we do. I think, for my own part, that I desire sincerely the
good of the country, and make it the grand object of my life; but I know
that I want the country to be benefited in _my_ way, not in any one
else’s. We are all like that. There is my brother Everard, do you see,
making himself very agreeable to that great fat woman. He hates fat
women, and that one in particular, I know; but he is being so very civil
to her because he wants her to ask him to her garden party, which is
coming off next week. He is going to call her carriage for her, like a
humbug as he is--but all with the most selfish and interested motives.”
“I allow that,” said Edgar. “I allow that anybody will do anything for
an invitation; but why should he wish to go to her garden party? That is
what I want to know.”
“My dear fellow,” said Lord Newmarch, shrugging his shoulders, “why,
even I am going! everybody will be there.”
“Does he want to meet everybody?” said Edgar. “He does continually, and
he is sick of them. Does he want to see any one in particular? Does he
think he will enjoy himself? Is it for the pleasure of it he is going?
When he has got his invitation he will say, what a confounded bore! He
knows exactly beforehand what it will be like. Well, then, I say he is
utterly disinterested. He is going for the sake of going. It is not to
make him happier, or amuse him, or benefit him. And everybody is going
just for the same reason. Surely something might be made of this
wonderful disinterestedness! It cannot be meant to be wasted upon garden
parties and Lady Bodmiller’s ball.”
“My dear Arden, you mistake completely,” said Lord Newmarch, with even a
little irritation. “Disinterestedness! nonsense! Don’t you see they want
it to be known they have been there; everybody will be there. And out of
the list, if one name was wanting, don’t you see that the owner of it
would lose a certain position. He would feel himself left out. Of
course, you have a card. You are one of the most eligible young men of
the season. There is no telling what fears and hopes you are exciting in
some gentle breasts. Disinterested! That shows how little you know.”
And even Lord Newmarch laughed--a refined little laugh--not much like
him. He was drawn out of his usual _rôle_ for the moment by the
exceeding simplicity of his friend--a thing he could not help laughing
at. “Why, there is no saying how many fair huntresses will go there in
search of you,” he said. “These are the happy hunting-grounds where
every woman is permitted to shoot, and none of the men dare run away.”
“I was not speaking of women,” said Edgar, sharply, for he had a
kindness for women. “I was talking of your brother and the rest. These
are not happy hunting-grounds for them. There is nothing there for them
except the mere fact that they _are_ there. They go for the sake of
going. The other is poor enough, but still it is a motive if it exists.
The question is, which is finest, my stupid search for a motive, or your
brother’s grand disinterestedness. There is something splendid, don’t
you think, in seeing a man throw away his life like this?”
“What do you mean by throwing away a man’s life?” cried the social
philosopher. “You have become dreadfully highflown. An hour or two in an
afternoon, in a pretty garden, with well-dressed people about, and a
band, and all that--I don’t understand what you mean.”
To this Edgar made no reply. His antagonist had the best of it; and yet
he was right, and his theory was just. As for the poor ladies who went
to those happy hunting-grounds--if there was any truth in it--that was a
branch of the subject more melancholy and more intricate still. Edgar
preferred not to enter into it. He thought of Helena Thornleigh and her
visions, poor girl--visions which, perhaps, were only evidences of a
spasmodic state of conflict against the happy hunting-grounds. Fancy
Clare going out with her bow and her spear like the other young Dianas!
Edgar thought to himself. But then Clare was rich: she had no need to
become a huntress. She, like himself, would be the pursued and not the
pursuer. This thought made the young man faint and sick. What a ghastly
light it threw upon all these pretty parties and assemblies of pleasure!
Even the men who sought nothing were better than this.
“Women are so much more practical than we are,” said Lord Newmarch. “I
see it constantly. Now that I think of it, there is some truth in what
you say. The young fellows are singularly without motive. I don’t see
the beauty of it as you do. They do what other people do; but the women
always have an object--they are trying to marry their daughters or to
marry themselves, or to rise in the social scale, or something which is
definite. They are practical, but not in a large way. That is what
prevents them from being so useful in the way of public work as they
ought to be. They won’t or they can’t take a broad view. They fasten
upon some matter of fact, and stick to that. It is all very well, you
know, for a girl with Helena Thornleigh’s notions to talk as she does,
in that grand, vague way. But observe how women will pick up a
subject--probably a nasty subject--and harp upon it. I could give you a
hundred instances. They are not nasty women, that is the odd thing. I
suppose it is from some feeling of duty not to shrink from what is most
repugnant to them--so instead of shrinking they make a pounce upon it,
and hold by it in the most aggravating way. I don’t know a woman who
takes a really large view except your sister, Arden. She is the sort of
girl that would help a man, that would be of real use----”
“She is much obliged to you, I am sure,” said Edgar, interrupting him;
“but we were not talking of my sister--nor, indeed, of women at all. Let
us settle with the others first. You don’t seem to understand that I
want information. I want to know why these sons of piratical
land-acquiring Saxons, and conquering Normans, and robber Danes, and
marauding Celts--every one of them getting and taking as much as ever
they could--should have got into this habit of spending their lives for
nothing, neither gain nor honour, nor pleasure nor advantage to others,
nor profit to themselves--that is what I can’t make out.”
“This sort of thing only lasts for three months or so,” said Lord
Newmarch; “then there is grouse, and so forth. Never mind them--they can
take care of themselves. But, Arden, I wish you would make up your mind
to go into Parliament, and give your attention to more serious matters.
We have too many of those young fellows who mean nothing, and we have
too many who mean just one thing in particular, your rich
cotton-spinners, and so forth. They are not bad so far as they go, but
they are like women--they never take a broad view. They think themselves
Radicals, but some of them are as narrow and limited as old wives in a
village. And then there are our old squires, who are narrow in another
way. They don’t understand things as this century understands them. The
most enlightened of them will turn short round upon you all at once, and
join in some insane cry. We want young men, Arden--men of independent
minds, who have been used to think for themselves. If you were a Tory of
the old Arden type you would have been the last man I should have made
overtures to. And what is odd about it is, that your sister is
out-and-out of the old Arden type, and yet, for the best kind of reform
I should trust her instincts. She is not one of those who would be
afraid of such words as liberty or despotism. Liberty means something
more than giving a man a vote, and the people never like you any the
worse for using a little dignified force. It must be real force,
however, not sham, and it must be used with dignity. Your sister fully
understands----”
“Never mind my sister,” said Edgar, with some impatience.
“But I must mind your sister,” said Lord Newmarch. “My dear Arden, I
wish so much you would give me your ear for a little. I never met anyone
who entered into all my views like Miss Arden. I cannot tell you--for
anything I could say would sound exaggerated--how much I admire her. I
have too great a respect for her to venture to approach herself till I
have your approval. If you should know any obstacle, any
difficulty--you must know better than anyone what a treasure she is.”
Edgar was disposed to be angry, and then he was disposed to laugh, but
he did neither, feeling himself in too grave a position to permit any
levity. “Confound the fellow!” he said to himself. “You take me very
much by surprise,” he said when he had composed himself a little. “I had
not the least expectation of any such proposal from you----”
“Why not from me?--from any other, then?” asked Newmarch with anxiety.
“I thought you could not fail to remark before I left your house. Ah,
Arden, that never-to-be-forgotten visit! I had known her before, of
course, for years--but there are moments when a woman’s existence bursts
upon you like a revelation, however long you may have known her. Such a
revelation then happened to me. So beautiful, so dignified, so truly
liberal in her views, so full of real insight! I have every reason to
believe that such a match would receive the most complete sanction of my
family, and I trust it would not be disagreeable to you.”
“I am sure you do Clare and myself great honour,” said Edgar, “but you
must pardon me for being quite unprepared. I don’t know in the least
what my sister’s feelings may be; of course it is for her, and for her
alone, to decide. You know I have been little at home. I know of no
difficulties, no----; but my opinion on this point is really of very
little importance,” he continued, pausing with a recollection of Arthur
Arden which was anything but comforting. “It is Clare only who can
decide.”
“But if such a happiness should be in store for me,” said Lord Newmarch,
always correct in his expressions, “I might hope that I should meet with
no disapproval from you?”
“Whatever my sister’s decision should be, you may be sure I shall do my
best to carry it out,” said Edgar, who was confused by this sudden
attack; and they stood together for five minutes in an embarrassed
silence, and then separated, to the great relief of both. This sudden
declaration was to Edgar what a bomb suddenly falling without any
warning would be to the inhabitants of a peaceful town. He was quite
unprepared for it; his mind was full of other things, occupied with a
hundred novelties quite detached for the moment from Arden and its
concerns. He had even half forgotten the original cause which made him
leave home, and his fears for his sister. He walked to his rooms that
evening from the house where this conversation had taken place, and
found himself thrown back at once to his home and its more intimate
concerns. He had left Clare alone--much to his annoyance--but she
assured him she preferred being alone; and Arthur Arden had given him
the slip, and declined his invitation to spend the remainder of the
season with him in town. Clare had not mentioned Arthur in any of her
letters. No doubt he must be at the end of the world, forming new plans,
perhaps pursuing some new love. It was folly to think of him as Edgar
felt himself doing the moment Clare’s affairs were thus brought before
his mind. He had been so easily able to dismiss Arthur that he had
ceased thinking of him as dangerous--but now he kept presenting himself
like a spectre wherever Edgar turned his eyes. “I wonder where the
fellow is. I wonder how those fellows manage. He ought to have a secured
income,” he said to himself; and yet could not make out why it was that
when he ought to be thinking of Clare it was Arthur Arden he began to
think of--Arthur, who had divined Lord Newmarch, and hated him. Edgar’s
mind was full of excitement. It is so much more easy to philosophise
about things which don’t affect ourselves personally. He had been amused
and quite calm when he discussed with himself the doings of Mayfair, but
when it was Arden that was the subject of his thoughts he was not calm.
Thus it was the most steady and serious among all his friends and
acquaintances who threw this sudden barb into Edgar’s life.