FELICIA FINDS HAPPINESS
Give me that peak of cloud which fills
The sunset with its gorgeous form,
Instead of these familiar hills
That shield me from the storm.
After having been weighed in Elisabeth's balance and found wanting, Alan
Tremaine went abroad for a season, and Sedgehill knew him no more until
the following spring. During that time Elisabeth possessed her soul and
grew into a true woman--a woman with no smallness or meanness in her
nature, but with certain feminine weaknesses which made her all the more
lovable to those people who understood her, and all the more incongruous
and irritating to those who did not. Christopher, too, rested in an
oasis of happiness just then. He was an adept in the study of Elisabeth,
and he knew perfectly well what had passed between her and Alan,
although she flattered herself that she had kept him completely in the
dark on the subject. But Christopher was always ready to dance to
Elisabeth's piping, except when it happened to be on red-hot iron; even
then he tried to obey her bidding, and it was hardly his fault if he
failed.
Christopher Thornley was one of those people whose temperament and
surroundings are at war with each other. Such people are not few in this
world, though they themselves are frequently quite unaware of the fact;
nevertheless, there is always an element of tragedy in their lot. By
nature he was romantic and passionate and chivalrous, endowed with an
enthusiastic admiration for beauty and an ardent longing for all forms
of joyousness; and he had been trained in a school of thought where all
merely human joys and attractions are counted as unimportant if not
sinful, and where wisdom and righteousness are held to be the two only
ends of life. Perhaps in a former existence--or in the person of some
remote ancestor--Christopher had been a knightly and devoted cavalier,
ready to lay down his life for Church and king, and in the meantime
spending his days in writing odes to his mistress's eyebrow; and now he
had been born into a strict Puritan atmosphere, where principles rather
than persons commanded men's loyalty, and where romance was held to be a
temptation of the flesh if not a snare of the devil. He possessed a
great capacity for happiness, and for enjoyment of all kinds;
consequently the dull routine of business was more distasteful to him
than to a man of coarser fibre and less fastidious tastes. Christopher
was one of the people who are specially fitted by nature to appreciate
to the full all the refinements and accessories of wealth and culture;
therefore his position at the Osierfield was more trying to him than it
would have been to nine men out of every ten.
When spring came back again, Alan Tremaine came with it to the Moat
House; and at the same time Felicia Herbert arrived on a visit to the
Willows. Alan had enough of the woman in his nature to decide
that--Elisabeth not being meant for him--Elisabeth was not worth the
having; but, although she had not filled his life so completely as to
make it unendurable without her, she had occupied his thoughts
sufficiently to make feminine society and sympathy thenceforth a
necessity of his being. So it came to pass that when he met Felicia and
saw that she was fair, he straightway elected her to the office which
Elisabeth had created and then declined to fill; and because human
nature--and especially young human nature--is stronger even than early
training or old associations, Felicia fell in love with him in return,
in spite of (possibly because of) her former violent prejudice against
him. To expect a person to be a monster and then to find he is a man,
has very much the same effect as expecting a person to be a man and
finding him a fairy prince; we accord him our admiration for being so
much better than our fancy painted him, and we crave his forgiveness for
having allowed it to paint him in such false colours. Then we long to
make some reparation to him for our unjust judgment; and--if we happen
to be women--this reparation frequently takes the form of ordering his
dinner for the rest of his dining days, and of giving him the right to
pay our dressmakers' bills until such time as we cease to be troubled
with them.
Consequently that particular year the spring seemed to have come
specially for the benefit of Alan and Felicia. For them the woods were
carpeted with daffodils, and the meadows were decked in living green;
for them the mountains and hills broke forth into singing, and the trees
of the field clapped their hands. Most men and women have known one
spring-time such as this in their lives, whereof all the other
spring-times were but images and types; and, maybe, even that one
spring-time was but an image and a type of the great New Year's Day
which shall be Time's to-morrow.
But while these two were wandering together in fairyland, Elisabeth felt
distinctly left out in the cold. Felicia was her friend--Alan had been
her lover; and now they had drifted off into a strange new country, and
had shut the door in her face. There was no place for her in this
fairyland of theirs; they did not want her any longer; and although she
was too large-hearted for petty jealousies, she could not stifle that
pang of soreness with which most of us are acquainted, when our
fellow-travellers slip off by pairs into Eden, and leave us to walk
alone upon the dusty highway.
Elisabeth could no more help flirting than some people can help
stammering. It was a pity, no doubt; but it would have been absurd to
blame her for it. She had not the slightest intention of breaking
anybody's heart; she did not take herself seriously enough to imagine
such a contingency possible; but the desire to charm was so strong
within her that she could not resist it; and she took as much trouble to
win the admiration of women as of men. Therefore, Alan and Felicia
having done with her, for the time being, she turned her attention to
Christopher; and although he fully comprehended the cause, he none the
less enjoyed the effect. He cherished no illusions concerning Elisabeth,
for the which he was perhaps to be pitied; since from love which is
founded upon an illusion, there may be an awakening; but for love which
sees its objects as they are, and still goes on loving them, there is no
conceivable cure either in this world or the world to come.
"I'm not jealous by nature, and I think it is horrid to be
dog-in-the-mangerish," she remarked to him one sunny afternoon, when
Alan and Felicia had gone off together to Badgering Woods and left her
all alone, until Christopher happened to drop in about tea-time. He had
a way of appearing upon the scene when Elisabeth needed him, and of
effacing himself when she did not. He also had a way of smoothing down
all the little faults and trials and difficulties which beset her path,
and of making for her the rough places plain. "But I can't help feeling
it is rather dull when a man who has been in love with you suddenly
begins to be in love with another girl."
"I can imagine that the situation has its drawbacks."
"Not that there is any reason why he shouldn't, when you haven't been in
love with him yourself."
"Not the slightest. Even I, whom you consider an epitome of all that is
stiff-necked and strait-laced, can see no harm in that. It seems to me a
thing that a man might do on a Sunday afternoon without in any way
jeopardizing his claim to universal respect."
"Still it is dull for the woman; you must see that."
"I saw it the moment I came in; nevertheless I am not prepared to state
that the dulness of the woman is a consummation so devoutly to be prayed
against. And, besides, it isn't at all dull for the other woman--the new
woman--you know."
"And of course the other woman has to be considered."
"I suppose she has," Christopher replied; "but I can't for the life of
me see why," he added under his breath.
"Let's go into the garden," Elisabeth said, rising from her chair;
"nobody is in but me, and it is so stuffy to stay in the house now we
have finished tea. Cousin Maria is busy succouring the poor, and----"
"And Miss Herbert is equally busy consoling the rich. Is that it?"
"That is about what it comes to."
So they went into the garden where they had played as children, and sat
down upon the rustic seat where they had sat together scores of times;
and Elisabeth thought about the great mystery of love, and Christopher
thought about the length of Elisabeth's eyelashes.
"Do you think that Alan is in love with Felicia?" the girl asked at
last.
"Appearances favour the supposition," replied Christopher.
"You once said he wasn't capable of loving any woman."
"I know I did; but that didn't in the least mean that he wasn't capable
of loving Miss Herbert."
"She is very attractive; even you like her better than you like me,"
Elisabeth remarked, looking at him through the very eyelashes about
which he was thinking. "I wonder at it, but nevertheless you do."
"One never can explain these things. At least I never can, though you
seem to possess strange gifts of divination. I remember that you once
expounded to me that either affinity or infinity was at the root of
these matters--I forget which."
"She is certainly good-looking," Elisabeth went on.
"She is; her dearest friend couldn't deny that."
"And she has sweet manners."
"Distinctly sweet. She is the sort of girl that people call restful."
"And a lovely temper."
Christopher still refused to be drawn. "So I conclude. I have never
ruffled it--nor tried to ruffle it--nor even desired to ruffle it."
"Do you like ruffling people's tempers?"
"Some people's tempers, extremely."
"What sort of people's?"
"I don't know. I never schedule people into 'sorts,' as you do. The
people I care about can not be counted by 'sorts': there is one made of
each, and then the mould is broken."
"You do like Felicia better than me, don't you?" Elisabeth asked, after
a moment's silence.
"So you say, and as you are a specialist in these matters I think it
wise to take your statements on faith without attempting to dispute
them."
"Chris, you are a goose!"
"I know that--far better than you do." And Christopher sighed.
"But I like you all the same."
"That is highly satisfactory."
"I believe I always liked you better than Alan," Elisabeth continued,
"only his way of talking about things dazzled me somehow. But after a
time I found out that he always said more than he meant, while you
always mean more than you say."
"Oh! Tremaine isn't half a bad fellow: his talk is, as you say, a little
high-flown; but he takes himself in more than he takes in other people,
and he really means well." Christopher could afford to be magnanimous
toward Alan, now that Elisabeth was the reverse.
"I remember that day at Pembruge Castle, while he was talking to me
about the troubles of the poor you were rowing Johnnie Stubbs about on
the mere. That was just the difference between you and him."
"Oh! there wasn't much in that," replied Christopher; "if you had been
kind to me that day, and had let me talk to you, I am afraid that poor
Johnnie Stubbs would have had to remain on dry land. I merely took the
advice of the great man who said, 'If you can not do what you like, do
good.' But I'd rather have done what I liked, all the same."
"That is just like you, Chris! You never own up to your good points."
"Yes, I do; but I don't own up to my good points that exist solely in
your imagination."
"You reckon up your virtues just as Cousin Maria reckons up her luggage
on a journey; she always says she has so many packages, and so many that
don't count. And your virtues seem to be added up in the same style."
Christopher was too shy to enjoy talking about himself; nevertheless, he
was immensely pleased when Elisabeth was pleased with him. "Let us
wander back to our muttons," he said, "which, being interpreted, means
Miss Herbert and Tremaine. What sort of people are the Herberts, by the
way? Is Mrs. Herbert a lady?"
Elisabeth thought for a moment. "She is the sort of person who
pronounces the 't' in often."
"I know exactly; I believe 'genteel' is the most correct adjective for
that type. Is she good-looking?"
"Very; she was the pencil sketch for Felicia."
"About how old?"
"It is difficult to tell. She is one of the women who are sixty in the
sun and thirty in the shade, like the thermometer in spring. I should
think she is really an easy five-and-forty, accelerated by limited means
and an exacting conscience. She is always bothering about sins and
draughts and things of that kind. I believe she thinks that everything
you do will either make your soul too hot or your body too cold."
"You are severe on the excellent lady."
"I try not to be, because I think she is really good in her way; but her
religion is such a dreadfully fussy kind of religion it makes me angry.
It seems to caricature the whole thing. She appears to think that
Christianity is a sort of menu of moral fancy-dishes, which one is bound
to swallow in a certain prescribed order."
"Poor dear woman!"
"When people like Mrs. Herbert talk about religion," Elisabeth went on,
"it is as bad as reducing the number of the fixed stars to pounds,
shillings, and pence; just as it is when people talk about love who know
nothing at all about it."
Christopher manfully repressed a smile. "Still, I have known quite
intelligent persons do that. They make mistakes, I admit, but they don't
know that they do; and so their ignorance is of the brand which the poet
describes as bliss."
"People who have never been in love should never talk about it,"
Elisabeth sagely remarked.
"But, on the other hand, those who have been, as a rule, can't; so who
is to conduct authorized conversations on this most interesting and
instructive subject?"
"The people who have been through it, and so know all about it," replied
Elisabeth.
"Allow me to point out that your wisdom for once is at fault. In the
first place, I doubt if the man who is suffering from a specific disease
is the suitable person to read a paper on the same before the College
of Surgeons; and, in the second, I should say--for the sake of
argument--that the man who has been through eternity and come out whole
at the other end, knows as much about what eternity really means
as--well, as you do. But tell me more about Mrs. Herbert and her
peculiarities."
"She is always bothering about what she calls the 'correct thing.' She
has no peace in her life on account of her anxiety as to the etiquette
of this world and the next--first to know it and then to be guided by
it. I am sure that she wishes that the Bible had been written on the
principle of that dreadful little book called Don't, which gives you a
list of the solecisms you should avoid; she would have understood it so
much better than the present system."
"But you would call Miss Herbert a lady, wouldn't you?" Christopher
asked.
"Oh, yes; a perfect lady. She is even well-bred when she talks about her
love affairs; and if a woman is a lady when she talks about her love
affairs, she will be a lady in any circumstances. It is the most crucial
test out."
"Yes; I should have called Miss Herbert a perfect lady myself."'
"That is the effect of Fox How; it always turned out ladies, whatever
else it failed in."
"But I thought you maintained that it failed in nothing!"
"No more it did; but I threw that in as a sop to what's-his-name,
because you are so horribly argumentative."
Christopher was amused. Elisabeth was a perfect _chef_ in the preparing
of such sops, as he was well aware; and although he laughed at himself
for doing it (knowing that her present graciousness to him merely meant
that she was dull, and wanted somebody to play with, and he was better
than nobody), he made these sops the principal articles of his heart's
diet, and cared for no other fare.
"What is Mr. Herbert like?" he inquired.
"Oh! he is a good man in his way, but a back-boneless, sweet-syrupy kind
of a Christian; one of the sort that seems to regard the Almighty as a
blindly indulgent and easily-hoodwinked Father, and Satan himself as
nothing worse than a rather crusty old bachelor uncle. You know the
type."
"Perfectly; they always drawl, and use the adjective 'dear' in and out
of season. I quite think that among themselves they talk of 'the dear
devil.' And yet 'dear' is really quite a nice word, if only people like
that hadn't spoiled it."
"You shouldn't let people spoil things for you in that way. That is one
of your greatest faults, Christopher; whenever you have seen a funny
side to anything you never see any other. You have too much humour and
too little tenderness; that's what's the matter with you."
"Permit me to tender you a sincere vote of thanks for your exhaustive
and gratuitous spiritual diagnosis. To cure my faults is my duty--to
discover them, your delight."
"Well, I'm right; and you'll find it out some day, although you make fun
of me now."
"I say, how will Mrs. Herbert fit in Tremaine's religious views--or
rather absence of religious views--with her code of the next world's
etiquette?" asked Christopher, wisely changing the subject.
"Oh! she'll simply decline to see them. Although, as I told you, she is
driven about entirely by her conscience, it is a well-harnessed
conscience and always wears blinkers. It shies a good deal at gnats, I
own; but it can run in double-harness with a camel, if worldly
considerations render such a course desirable. It is like a horse we
once had, which always shied violently at every puddle, but went past a
steamroller without turning a hair."
"'By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband if thou be so
shrewd of thy tongue,'" quoted Christopher.
"I don't want to be too severe, but Mrs. Herbert does make me so mad.
When people put religious things in a horrid light, it makes you feel as
if they were telling unkind and untrue tales about your dearest
friends."
"What does the good woman say that makes 'my lady Tongue' so furious?"
"Well, she is always saying one must give up this and give up that, and
deny one's self here and deny one's self there, for the sake of
religion; and I don't believe that religion means that sort of giving up
at all. Of course, God is pleased when we do what He wishes us to do,
because He knows it is the best for us; but I don't believe He wants us
to do things when we hate doing them, just to please Him."
"Perhaps not. Still, if one does a thing one doesn't like doing, to
please another person, one often ends by enjoying the doing of the
thing. And even if one never enjoys it, the thing has still to be done."
"Well, if you were awfully fond of anybody, should you want them to
spend their time with you, and do what you were doing, when you knew all
the time that they didn't like being with you, but were dying to be with
some one else?"
"Certainly not." Christopher might not know much about theology, but he
knew exactly how people felt when they were, as Elisabeth said,
"awfully fond of anybody."
"Of course you wouldn't," the girl went on; "you would wish the person
you loved to be happy with you, and to want to be with you as much as
you wanted to be with them; and if they didn't really care to be with
you, you wouldn't thank them for unselfishness in the matter. So if an
ordinary man like you doesn't care for mere unselfishness from the
people you are really fond of, do you think that what isn't good enough
for you is good enough for God?"
"No. But I still might want the people I was fond of to be unselfish,
not for my own sake but for theirs. The more one loves a person, the
more one wishes that person to be worthy of love; and though we don't
love people because they are perfect, we want them to be perfect because
we love them, don't you see?"
"You aren't a very good instance, Chris, because, you see, you are
rather a reserved, cold-hearted person, and not at all affectionate; but
still you are fond of people in your own way."
"Yes; I am fond of one or two people--but in my own way, as you say,"
Christopher replied quietly.
"And even you understand that forced and artificial devotion isn't worth
having."
"Yes; even I understand as much as that."
"So you will see that unselfishness and renunciation and things of that
sort are only second-best things after all, and that there is nothing of
the kind between people who really love each other, because their two
wills are merged in one, and each finds his own happiness in the
happiness of the other. And I don't believe that God wants us to give up
our wills to His in a 'Thy way not mine' kind of way; I believe He
wants the same mind to be in us that was in Christ Jesus, so that He and
we shall be wishing for the same things."
"Wise Elisabeth, I believe that you are right."
"And you'll see how right I am, when you really care very much for
somebody yourself. I don't mean in the jolly, comfortable way in which
you care for Mr. Smallwood and Cousin Maria and me. That's a very nice
friendly sort of caring, I admit, and keeps the world warm and homelike,
just as having a fire in the room keeps the room warm and homelike; but
it doesn't teach one much."
Christopher smiled sadly. "Doesn't it? I should have thought that it
taught one a good deal."
"Oh! but not as much as a lovely romantic attachment would teach
one--not as much as Alan and Felicia are teaching each other now."
"Don't you think so?"
"Of course I don't. Why, you've never taught me anything, Chris, though
we've always been fond of each other in the comfortable, easy fashion."
"Then the fault has been in me, for you have taught me a great many
things, Elisabeth."
"Because I've taken the trouble to do so. But the worst of it is that by
the time I've taught you anything, I have changed my mind about it
myself, and find I've been teaching you all wrong. And it is a bother to
begin to unteach you."
"I wonder why. I don't think I should find it at all a bother to unteach
you certain things."
"And it is a greater bother still to teach you all over again, and teach
you different." Elisabeth added, without attending to the last remark.
"Thank you, I think I won't trespass on your forbearance to that extent.
Some lessons are so hard to master that life would be unbearable if one
had to learn them twice over." Christopher spoke somewhat bitterly.
Elisabeth attended then. "What a funny thing to say! But I know what it
is--you've got a headache; I can see it in your face, and that makes you
take things so contrariwise."
"Possibly."
"Poor old boy! Does it hurt?"
"Pretty considerably."
"And have you had it long?"
"Yes," replied Christopher with truth, and he added to himself, "ever
since I can remember, and it isn't in my head at all."
Elisabeth stroked his sleeve affectionately. "I am so sorry."
Christopher winced; it was when Elisabeth was affectionate that he found
his enforced silence most hard to bear. How he could have made her love
him if he had tried, he thought; and how could he find the heart to make
her love him as long as he and she were alike dependent upon Miss
Farringdon's bounty, and they had neither anything of their own? He
rejoiced that Alan Tremaine had failed to win her love; but he scorned
him as a fool for not having succeeded in doing so when he had the
chance. Had Christopher been master of the Moat House he felt he would
have managed things differently; for the most modest of men cherish a
profound contempt for the man who can not succeed in making a woman love
him when he sets about it.
"By Jove!" he said to himself, looking into the gray eyes that were so
full of sympathy just then, "what an ass the man was to talk to such a
woman as this about art and philosophy and high-falutin' of that sort!
If I had only the means to make her happy, I would talk to her about
herself and me until she was tired of the subject--and that wouldn't be
this side Doomsday. And she thinks that I am cold-hearted!" But what he
said to Elisabeth was, "There isn't much the matter with my
head--nothing for you to worry about, I can assure you. Let us talk
about something more interesting than my unworthy self--Tremaine, for
instance."
"I used to believe in Alan," Elisabeth confessed; "but I don't so much
now. I wonder if that is because he has left off making love to me, or
because I have seen that his ideas are so much in advance of his
actions."
"He never did make love to me, so I always had an inkling of the truth
that his sentiments were a little over his own head. As a matter of
fact, I believe I mentioned this conviction to you more than once; but
you invariably treated it with the scorn that it doubtless deserved."
"And yet you were right. It seems to me that you are always right,
Chris."
"No--not always; but more often than you are, perhaps," replied
Christopher, in rather a husky voice, but with a very kindly smile. "I
am older, you see, for one thing; and I have had a harder time of it for
another, and some of the idealism has been knocked out of me."
"But the nice thing about you is that though you always know when I am
wrong or foolish, you never seem to despise me for it."
Despise her? Christopher laughed at the word; and yet women were
supposed to have such keen perceptions.
"I don't care whether you are wise or foolish," he said, "as long as
you are you. That is all that matters to me."
"And you really think I am nice?"
"I don't see how you could well be nicer."
"Oh! you don't know what I could do if I tried. You underrate my powers;
you always did. But you are a very restful person, Chris; when my mind
gets tired with worrying over things and trying to understand them, I
find it a perfect holiday to talk to you. You seem to take things as
they are."
"Well, I have to, you see; and what must be must."
"Simple natures like yours are very soothing to complex natures like
mine. When I've lived my life and worn myself out with trying to get the
utmost I can out of everything, I shall spend the first three thousand
years of eternity sitting quite still upon a fixed star without
speaking, with my legs dangling into space, and looking at you. It will
be such a nice rest, before beginning life over again."
"Say two thousand years; you'd never be able to sit still without
speaking for more than two thousand years at the outside. By that time
you'd have pulled yourself together, and be wanting to set about
teaching the angels a thing or two. I know your ways."
"I should enjoy that," laughed Elisabeth.
"So would the angels, if they were anything like me."
Elisabeth laughed again, and looked through the trees to the fields
beyond. Friends were much more comfortable than lovers, she said to
herself; Alan in his palmiest days had never been half so soothing to
her as Christopher was now. She wondered why poets and people of that
kind made so much of love and so little of friendship, since the latter
was obviously the more lasting and satisfactory of the two. Somehow the
mere presence of Christopher had quite cured the sore feeling that Alan
and Felicia had left behind them when they started for their walk
without even asking her to go with them; and she was once more sure of
the fact that she was necessary to somebody--a certainty without which
Elisabeth could not live. So her imagination took heart of grace again,
and began drawing plans for extensive castles in Spain, and arranging
social campaigns wherein she herself should be crowned with triumph. She
decided that half the delight of winning life's prizes and meeting its
fairy princes would be the telling Christopher all about them afterward;
for her belief in his exhaustless sympathy was boundless.
"A penny for your thoughts," he said, after she had been silent for some
moments.
"I was looking at Mrs. Bateson feeding her fowls," said Elisabeth
evasively; "and, I say, have you ever noticed that hens are just like
tea-pots, and cocks like coffee-pots? Look at them now! It seems as if
an army of breakfast services had suddenly come to life _à la_ Galatea,
and were pouring libations at Mrs. Bateson's feet."
"It does look rather like that, I admit. But here are Miss Herbert and
Tremaine returning from their walk; let's go and meet them."
And Elisabeth went to meet the lovers with no longer any little cobwebs
of jealousy hiding in the dark corners of her heart, Christopher's hand
having swept them all away; he had a wonderful power of exterminating
the little foxes which would otherwise have spoiled Elisabeth's vines;
and again she said to herself how much better a thing was friendship
than love, since Alan had always expected her to be interested in his
concerns, while Christopher, on the contrary, was always interested in
hers.
It was not long after this that Elisabeth was told by Felicia of the
latter's engagement to Alan Tremaine; and Elisabeth was amazed at the
rapidity with which Felicia had assimilated her lover's views on all
subjects. Elisabeth had expected that her friend would finally sacrifice
her opinions on the altar of her feelings; she was already old enough to
be prepared for that; but she had anticipated a fierce warfare in the
soul of Felicia between the directly opposing principles of this young
lady's mother and lover. To Elisabeth's surprise, this civil war never
took place. Felicia accepted Alan's doubts as unquestioningly as she had
formerly accepted Mrs. Herbert's beliefs; and as she loved the former
more devotedly than she had ever loved the latter, she was more devout
and fervid in her agnosticism than she had ever been in her faith. She
had believed, because her mother ordered her to believe; she doubted,
because Alan desired her to doubt; her belief and unbelief being equally
the outcome of her affections rather than of her convictions.
Mrs. Herbert likewise looked leniently upon Alan's want of orthodoxy,
and at this Elisabeth was not surprised. Possibly there are not many of
us who do not--in the private and confidential depths of our evil
hearts--regard earth in the hand as worth more than heaven in the bush,
so to speak; at any rate, Felicia's mother was not one of the bright
exceptions; and--from a purely commercial point of view--a saving faith
does not go so far as a spending income, and it is no use pretending
that it does. So Mrs. Herbert smiled upon her daughter's engagement; but
compromised with that accommodating conscience of hers by always
speaking of her prospective son-in-law as "poor Alan," just as if she
really believed, as she professed she did, that the death of the body
and the death of the soul are conditions equally to be deplored.
"You see, my dear," she said to Elisabeth, who came to stay at Wood Glen
for Felicia's marriage, which took place in the early summer, "it is
such a comfort to Mr. Herbert and myself to know that our dear child is
so comfortably provided for. And then--although I can not altogether
countenance his opinions--poor Alan has such a good heart."
Elisabeth, remembering that she had once been fascinated by the master
of the Moat House, was merciful. "He is an extremely interesting man to
talk to," she said; "he has thought out so many things."
"He has, my love. And if we are tempted to rebuke him too severely for
his non-acceptance of revealed truth, we must remember that he was
deprived comparatively early in life of both his parents, and so ought
rather to be pitied than blamed," agreed Mrs. Herbert, who would
cheerfully have poured out all the vials of the Book of Revelation upon
any impecunious doubter who had dared to add the mortal sin of poverty
to the venial one of unbelief.
"And he is really very philanthropic," Elisabeth continued; "he has done
no end of things for the work-people at the Osierfield. It is a pity
that his faith is second-rate, considering that his works are
first-class."
"Ah! my dear, we must judge not, lest in turn we too should be judged.
Who are we, that we should say who is or who is not of the elect? It is
often those who seem to be the farthest from the kingdom that are in
truth the nearest to it." Mrs. Herbert had dismissed a kitchen-maid,
only the week before, for declining to attend her Bible-class, and
walking out with a young man instead.
"Still, I am sorry that Alan has all those queer views," Elisabeth
persisted; "he really would be a splendid sort of person if he were only
a Christian; and it seems such a pity that--with all his learning--he
hasn't learned the one thing that really matters."
"My love, I am ashamed to find you so censorious; it is a sad fault,
especially in the young. I would advise you to turn to the thirteenth of
First Corinthians, and see for yourself how excellent a gift is
charity--the greatest of all, according to our dear Saint Paul."
Elisabeth sighed. She had long ago become acquainted with Mrs. Herbert's
custom of keeping religion as a thing apart, and of treating it from an
"in-another-department-if-you-please" point of view; and she felt that
Tremaine's open agnosticism was almost better--and certainly more
sincere--than this.
But Mrs. Herbert was utterly unconscious of any secret fault on her own
part, and continued to purr contentedly to herself. "Felicia, dear
child! will certainly take an excellent position. She will be in county
society, the very thing which I have always desired for her; and she
will enter it, not on sufferance, but as one of themselves. I can not
tell you what a pleasure it is to Mr. Herbert and myself to think of our
beloved daughter as a regular county lady; it quite makes up for all the
little self-denials that we suffered in order to give her a good
education and to render her fit to take her place in society. I
shouldn't be surprised if she were even presented at Court." And the
mother's cup of happiness ran over at the mere thought of such honour
and glory.
Felicia, too, was radiantly happy. In the first place, she was very much
in love; in the second, her world was praising her for doing well to
herself. "I can not think how a clever man like Alan ever fell in love
with such a stupid creature as me," she said to Elisabeth, not long
before the wedding.
"Can't you? Well, I can. I don't wonder at any man's falling in love
with you, darling, you are so dear and pretty and altogether adorable."
"But then Alan is so different from other men."
Elisabeth was too well-mannered to smile at this; but she made a note of
it to report to Christopher afterward. She knew that he would understand
how funny it was.
"I am simply amazed at my own happiness," Felicia continued; "and I am
so dreadfully afraid that he will be disappointed in me when he gets to
know me better, and will find out that I am not half good enough for
him--which I am not."
"What nonsense! Why, there isn't a man living that would really be good
enough for you, Felicia."
"Elisabeth! When I hear Alan talking, I wonder how he can put up with
silly little me at all. You see, I never was clever--not even as clever
as you are; and you, of course, aren't a millionth part as clever as
Alan. And then he has such grand thoughts, too; he is always wanting to
help other people, and to make them happier. I feel that as long as I
live I never can be half grateful enough to him for the honour he has
done me in wanting me for his wife."
Elisabeth shrugged her shoulders; the honours that have been within our
reach are never quite so wonderful as those that have not.
So Alan and Felicia were married with much rejoicing and ringing of
bells; and Elisabeth found it very pleasant to have her old schoolfellow
settled at the Moat House. In fact so thoroughly did she throw herself
into the interests of Felicia's new home, that she ceased to feel her
need of Christopher, and consequently neglected him somewhat. It was
only when others failed her that he was at a premium; when she found she
could do without him, she did. As for him, he loyally refrained from
blaming Elisabeth, even in his heart, and cursed Fate instead; which
really was unfair of him, considering that in this matter Elisabeth, and
not Fate, was entirely to blame. But Christopher was always ready to
find excuses for Elisabeth, whatever she might do; and this, it must be
confessed, required no mean order of ingenuity just then. Elisabeth was
as yet young enough to think lightly of the gifts that were bestowed
upon her freely and with no trouble on her part, such as bread and air
and sunshine and the like; it was reserved for her to learn later that
the things one takes for granted are the best thing life has to offer.
It must also be remembered, for her justification, that Christopher had
never told her that he loved her "more than reason"; and it is difficult
for women to believe that any man loves them until he has told them so,
just as it is difficult for them to believe that a train is going direct
to the place appointed to it in Bradshaw, until they have been verbally
assured upon the point by two guards, six porters, and a newspaper boy.
Nevertheless, Elisabeth's ignorance--though perhaps excusable,
considering her sex--was anything but bliss to poor Christopher, and
her good-natured carelessness hurt him none the less for her not knowing
that it hurt him.
When Felicia had been married about three months her mother came to stay
with her at the Moat House; and Elisabeth smiled to herself--and to
Christopher--as she pictured the worthy woman's delight in her
daughter's new surroundings.
"She'll extol all Felicia's belongings as exhaustively as if she were
the Benedicite," Elisabeth said, "and she'll enumerate them as carefully
as if she were sending them to the wash. You'll find there won't be a
single one omitted--not even the second footman or the soft-water
cistern. Mrs. Herbert is one who battens on details, and she never
spares her hearers a single item."
"It is distinctly naughty of you," Christopher replied, with the smile
that was always ready for Elisabeth's feeblest sallies, "to draw the
good soul out for the express purpose of laughing at her. I am ashamed
of you, Miss Farringdon."
"Draw her out, my dear boy! You don't know what you are talking about.
The most elementary knowledge of Mrs. Herbert would teach you that she
requires nothing in the shape of drawing out. You have but to mention
the word 'dinner,' and the secret sins of her cook are retailed to you
in chronological order; you have but to whisper the word 'clothes,' and
the iniquities of her dressmaker's bill are laid bare before your eyes.
Should the conversation glance upon Mr. Herbert, his complete biography
becomes your own possession; and should the passing thought of childhood
appear above her mental horizon, she tells you all about her own
children as graphically as if she were editing a new edition of The
Pillars of the House. And yet you talk of drawing her out! I am afraid
you have no perceptions, Christopher."
"Possibly not; everybody doesn't have perceptions. I am frequently
struck with clever people's lack of them."
"Well, I'm off," replied Elisabeth, whipping up her pony, "to hear Mrs.
Herbert's outpourings on Felicia's happiness; when I come back I expect
I shall be able to write another poem on 'How does the water come down
at Lodore'--with a difference."
And Christopher--who had met her in the High Street--smiled after the
retreating figure in sheer delight at her. How fresh and bright and
spontaneous she was, he thought, and how charmingly ignorant of the
things which she prided herself upon understanding so profoundly! He
laughed aloud as he recalled how very wise Elisabeth considered herself.
And then he wondered if life would teach her to be less sure of her own
buoyant strength, and less certain of her ultimate success in everything
she undertook; and, if it did, he felt that he should have an ugly
account to settle with life. He was willing for Fate to knock him about
as much and as hardly as she pleased, provided she would let Elisabeth
alone, and allow the girl to go on believing in herself and enjoying
herself as she was so abundantly capable of doing. By this time
Christopher was enough of a philosopher to think that it did not really
matter much in the long run whether he were happy or unhappy; but he was
not yet able to regard the thought of Elisabeth's unhappiness as
anything but a catastrophe of the most insupportable magnitude; which
showed that he had not yet sufficient philosophy to go round.
When Elisabeth arrived at the Moat House she found Mrs. Herbert alone,
Felicia having gone out driving with her husband; and, to Elisabeth's
surprise, there was no sign of the jubilation which she had anticipated.
On the contrary, Mrs. Herbert was subdued and tired-looking.
"I am so glad to see you, my dear," she said, kissing Elisabeth; "it is
lonely in this big house all by myself."
"It is always rather lonely to be in state," Elisabeth replied,
returning her salute. "I wonder if kings find it lonely all by
themselves in pleasures and palaces. I expect they do, but they put up
with the loneliness for the sake of the stateliness; and you could
hardly find a statelier house than this to be lonely in, if you tried."
"Yes; it is a beautiful place," agreed Mrs. Herbert listlessly.
Elisabeth wondered what was wrong, but she did not ask; she knew that
Mrs. Herbert would confide in her very soon. People very rarely were
reserved with Elisabeth; she was often amazed at the rapidity with which
they opened their inmost hearts to her. Probably this accounted in some
measure for her slowness in understanding Christopher, who had made it a
point of honour not to open his inmost heart to her.
"Don't the woods look lovely?" she said cheerfully, pretending not to
notice anything. "I can't help seeing that the trees are beautiful with
their gilt leaves, but it goes against my principles to own it, because
I do so hate the autumn. I wish we could change our four seasons for two
springs and two summers. I am so happy in the summer, and still happier
in the spring looking forward to it; but I am wretched in the winter
because I am cold, and still wretcheder in the autumn thinking that I'm
going to be even colder."
"Yes; the woods are pretty--very pretty indeed."
"I am so glad you have come while the leaves are still on. I wanted you
to see Felicia's home at its very best; and, at its best, it is a home
that any woman might be proud of."
Mrs. Herbert's lip trembled. "It is indeed a most beautiful home, and I
am sure Felicia has everything to make her happy."
"And she is happy, Mrs. Herbert; I don't think I ever saw anybody so
perfectly happy as Felicia is now. I'm afraid I could never be quite as
satisfied with any impossible ideal of a husband as she is with Alan; I
should want to quarrel with him just for the fun of the thing, and to
find out his faults for the pleasure of correcting them. A man as
faultless as Alan--I mean as faultless as Felicia considers Alan--would
bore me; but he suits her down to the ground."
But even then Mrs. Herbert did not smile; instead of that her light blue
eyes filled with tears. "Oh! my dear," she said, with a sob in her
voice, "Felicia is ashamed of me."
For all her high spirits, Elisabeth generally recognised tragedy when
she met it face to face; and she knew that she was meeting it now. So
she spoke very gently--
"My dear Mrs. Herbert, whatever do you mean? I am sure you are not very
strong, and so your nerves are out of joint, and make you imagine
things."
"No, my love; it is no imagination on my part. I only wish it were. Who
can know Felicia as well as her mother knows her--her mother who has
worshipped her and toiled for her ever since she was a little baby? And
I, who can read her through and through, feel that she is ashamed of
me." And the tears overflowed, and rolled down Mrs. Herbert's faded
cheeks.
Elisabeth's heart swelled with an immense pity, for her quick insight
told her that Mrs. Herbert was not mistaken; but all she said was--
"I think you are making mountains out of molehills. Lots of girls lose
their heads a bit when first they are married, and seem to regard
marriage as a special invention and prerogative of their own, which
entitles them to give themselves air _ad libitum_; but they soon grow
out of it."
Mrs. Herbert shook her head sorrowfully; her tongue was loosed and she
spake plain. "Oh! it isn't like that with Felicia; I should think
nothing of that. I remember when first I was married I thought that no
unmarried woman knew anything, and that no married woman knew anything
but myself; but, as you say, I soon grew out of that. Why, I was quite
ready, after I had been married a couple of months, to teach my dear
mother all about housekeeping; and finely she laughed at me for it. But
Felicia doesn't trouble to teach me anything; she thinks it isn't worth
while."
"Oh! I can not believe that Felicia is like that. You must be mistaken."
"Mistaken in my own child, whom I carried in my arms as a little baby?
No, my dear; there are some things about which mothers can never be
mistaken, God help them! Do you think I did not understand when the
carriage came round to-day to take her and Alan to return Lady
Patchingham's visit, and Felicia said, 'Mamma won't go with us to-day,
Alan dear, because the wind is in the east, and it always gives her a
cold to drive in an open carriage when the wind is in the east'? Oh! I
saw plain enough that she didn't want me to go with them to Lady
Patchingham's; but I only thanked her and said I would rather stay
indoors, as it would be safer for me. When they had started I went out
and looked at the weather-cock for myself; it pointed southwest." And
the big tears rolled down faster than ever.
Elisabeth did not know what to say; so she wisely said nothing, but took
Mrs. Herbert's hand in hers and stroked it.
"Perhaps, my dear, I did wrong in allowing Felicia to marry a man who is
not a true believer, and this is my punishment."
"Oh! no, no, Mrs. Herbert; I don't believe that God ever punishes for
the sake of punishing. He has to train us, and the training hurts
sometimes; but when it does, I think He minds even more than we do."
"Well, my love, I can not say; it is not for us to inquire into the
counsels of the Almighty. But I did it for the best; I did, indeed. I
did so want Felicia to be happy."
"I am sure you did."
"You see, all my life I had taken an inferior position socially, and the
iron of it had entered into my soul. I daresay it was sinful of me, but
I used to mind so dreadfully when my husband and I were always asked to
second-rate parties, and introduced to second-rate people; and I longed
and prayed that my darling Felicia should be spared the misery and the
humiliation which I had had to undergo. You won't understand it,
Elisabeth. People in a good position never do; but to be alternately
snubbed and patronized all one's life, as I have been, makes social
intercourse one long-drawn-out agony to a sensitive woman. So I
prayed--how I prayed!--that my beautiful daughter should never suffer as
I have done."
Elisabeth's eyes filled with tears; and Mrs. Herbert, encouraged by her
unspoken sympathy, proceeded--
"Grand people are so cruel, my dear. I daresay they don't mean to be;
but they are. And though I had borne it for myself, I felt I could not
bear it for Felicia. I thought it would kill me to see fine ladies
overlook her as they had so often overlooked me. So when Alan wanted to
marry her, and make her into a fine lady herself, I was overwhelmed with
joy; and I felt I no longer minded what I had gone through, now that I
knew no one would ever dare to be rude to my beautiful daughter. Now I
see I was wrong to set earthly blessings before spiritual ones; but I
think you understand how I felt, Elisabeth."
"Yes, I understand; and God understands too."
"Then don't you think He is punishing me, my dear?"
"No; I think He is training Felicia--and perhaps you too, dear Mrs.
Herbert."
"Oh! I wish I could think so. But you don't know what Felicia has been
to her father and me. She was such a beautiful baby that the people in
the street used to stop the nurse to ask whose child she was; and when
she grew older she never gave us a moment's trouble or anxiety. Then we
pinched and pared in order to be able to afford to send her to Fox How;
and when her education was finished there wasn't a more perfect lady in
the land than our Felicia. Oh! I was proud of her, I can tell you. And
now she is ashamed of me, her own mother! I can not help seeing that
this is God's punishment to me for letting her marry an unbeliever." And
Mrs. Herbert covered her face with her hands and burst out into bitter
sobs.
Elisabeth took the weeping form into her strong young arms. "My poor
dear, you are doing Him an injustice, you are, indeed. I am sure He
minds even more than you do that Felicia is still so ignorant and
foolish, and He is training her in His own way. But He isn't doing it to
punish you, dear; believe me, He isn't. Why, even the ordinary human
beings who are fond of us want to cure our faults and not to punish
them," she continued, as the memory of Christopher's unfailing patience
with her suddenly came into her mind, and she recalled how often she had
hurt him, and how readily he had always forgiven her; "they are sorry
when we do wrong, but they are even sorrier when we suffer for it. And
do you think God loves us less than they do, and is quicker to punish
and slower to forgive?"
So does the love of the brother whom we have seen help us in some
measure to understand the love of the God Whom we have not seen; for
which we owe the brother eternal thanks.