LITTLE WILLIE
He that beginneth may not end,
And he that breaketh can not mend.
The summer which brought fame to Elisabeth, brought something better
than fame to Willie Tremaine. All through the winter the child had grown
visibly feebler and frailer, and the warmer weather seemed to bring
additional weakness rather than strength. In vain did Alan try to
persuade himself that Willie was no worse this year than he had been
other years, and that he soon would be all right again. As a matter of
fact, he soon was all right again; but not in the way which his father
meant.
Caleb Bateson's wisdom had been justified. Through his passionate love
for little Willie, Alan had drawn near to the kingdom of God; not as yet
to the extent of formulating any specific creed or attaching himself to
any special church--that was to come later; but he had learned, by the
mystery of his own fatherhood, to stretch out groping hands toward the
great Fatherhood that had called him into being; and by his own love for
his suffering child to know something of the Love that passeth
knowledge. Therefore Alan Tremaine was a better and wiser man than he
had been in times past. A strong friendship had gradually grown up
between himself and Christopher Thornley; and it was a friendship which
was good for both of them. Though Christopher never talked about his
religious beliefs, he lived them; and it is living epistles such as this
which are best known and read of all thoughtful men, and which--far more
than all the books and sermons ever written--are gradually converting
the kingdoms of this world into the kingdoms of our Lord and of His
Christ. Alan would have refuted--to his own satisfaction, if not to
Christopher's--any arguments which the latter might have brought forward
in favour of Christianity; but he could not refute the evidence of a
life which could never have been lived but for that Other Life lived in
Judæa nineteen centuries ago. Perhaps his friendship with Christopher
did as much for Alan as his love for Willie in opening his eyes to the
hidden things of God.
The intercourse with the Tremaines was, on the other hand, of great
advantage to Christopher, as it afforded him the opportunity of meeting
and mixing with men as clever and as cultivated as himself, which is not
always easy for a lonely man in a provincial town who devotes his
loneliness to intellectual pursuits. Christopher was fast becoming one
of the most influential men in Mershire; and his able management of the
Osierfield had raised those works to a greater height of prosperity than
they had ever attained before, even in the days of William and John
Farringdon.
But now the shadows were darkening around Alan Tremaine, as day by day
Willie gradually faded away. Felicia, too, at last awoke to the real
state of the case, and, in her way, was almost as anxious as her
husband.
During the spring-time, as Willie's life grew shorter with the
lengthening days, the child's chiefest delight lay in visits from
Christopher. For Elisabeth's sake Christopher had always felt an
interest in little Willie. Had not her dear hands fondled the child,
before they were too busy to do anything but weave spells to charm the
whole world? And had not her warm heart enfolded him, before her success
and her fame had chilled its fires? For the sake of the Elisabeth that
used to be, Christopher would always be a friend to Willie; and he did
not find it hard to love the child for his own sake, since Christopher
had great powers of loving, and but little to expend them upon.
As Willie continually asked for Elisabeth, Felicia wrote and told her
so; and the moment she found she was wanted, Elisabeth came down to the
Willows for a week--though her fame and the London season were alike at
their height--and went every day to see Willie at the Moat House. He
loved to have her with him, because she talked to him about things that
his parents never mentioned to him; and as these things were drawing
nearer to Willie day by day, his interest in them unconsciously
increased. He and she had long talks together about the country on the
other side of the hills, and what delightful times they would have when
they reached it: how Willie would be able to walk as much as he liked,
and Elisabeth would be able to love as much as she wanted, and life
generally would turn out to be a success--a thing which it so rarely
does on this side of the hills.
Christopher, as a rule, kept away from the Moat House when Elisabeth
was there; he thought she did not wish to see him, and he was not the
type of man to go where he imagined he was not wanted; but one afternoon
they met there by accident, and Christopher inwardly blessed the Fate
which made him do the very thing he had so studiously refrained from
doing. He had been sitting with Tremaine, and she with Felicia and
Willie; and they met in the hall on their way out.
"Are you going my way?" asked Elisabeth graciously, when they had shaken
hands. It was dull at Sedgehill after London, and the old flirting
spirit woke up in her and made her want to flirt with Christopher again,
in spite of all that had happened. With the born flirt--as with all born
players of games--the game itself is of more importance than the
personality of the other players; which sometimes leads to unfortunate
mistakes on the part of those players who do not rightly understand the
rules of the game.
"Yes, Miss Farringdon, I am," said Christopher, who would have been
going Elisabeth's way had that way led him straight to ruin. With him
the personality of the player--in this case, at least--mattered
infinitely more than any game she might choose to play. As long as he
was talking to Elisabeth, he did not care a straw what they were talking
about; which showed that he really was culpably indifferent to--if not
absolutely ignorant of--the rules of the game.
"Then we might as well walk together." And Elisabeth drew on her long
Suède gloves and leisurely opened her parasol, as they strolled down the
drive after bidding farewell to the Tremaines.
Christopher was silent from excess of happiness. It was so wonderful to
be walking by Elisabeth's side again, and listening to her voice, and
watching the lights and shadows in those gray eyes of hers which
sometimes were so nearly blue. But Elisabeth did not understand his
silence; she translated it, as she would have translated silence on her
own part, into either boredom or ill-temper, and she resented it
accordingly.
"You are very quiet this afternoon. Aren't you going to talk to me?" she
said; and Christopher's quick ear caught the sound of the irritation in
her voice, though he could not for the life of him imagine what he had
done to bring it there; but it served to silence him still further.
"Yes--yes, of course I am," he said lamely; "what shall we talk about? I
am afraid there is nothing interesting to tell you about the Osierfield,
things are going on so regularly there, and so well."
How exactly like Christopher to begin to talk about business when she
had given him the chance to talk about more interesting
subjects--herself, for instance, Elisabeth thought; but he never had a
mind above sordid details! She did not, of course, know that at that
identical moment he was wondering whether her eyes were darker than they
used to be, or whether he had forgotten their exact shade; he could
hardly have forgotten their colour, he decided, as there had never been
a day when he had not remembered them since he saw them last; so they
must actually be growing darker.
"I'm glad of that," said Elisabeth coldly, in her most fine-ladylike
manner.
"It was distinctly kind of you to find time to run down here, in the
midst of your London life, to see Willie! He fretted after you sadly,
and I am afraid the poor little fellow is not long for this world." And
Christopher sighed.
Elisabeth noted the sigh and approved of it. It was a comfort to find
that the man had feelings of any sort, she said to herself, even though
only for a child; that was better than being entirely immersed in
self-interest and business affairs.
So they talked about Willie for a time, and the conversation ran more
smoothly--almost pleasantly.
Then they talked about books; and Elisabeth--who had grown into the
habit of thinking that nobody outside London knew anything--was
surprised to find that Christopher had read considerably more books than
she had read, and had understood them far more thoroughly. But this part
of the conversation was inclined to be stormy; since Christopher as a
rule disliked the books that Elisabeth liked, and this she persisted in
regarding as tantamount to disliking herself.
Whereupon she became defiant, and told stories of her life in London of
which she knew Christopher would disapprove. There was nothing in the
facts that he could possibly disapprove of, so she coloured them up
until there was; and then, when she had succeeded in securing his
disapproval, she was furious with him on account of it. Which was
manifestly unfair, as Christopher in no way showed the regret which he
could not refrain from experiencing, as he listened to Elisabeth making
herself out so much more frivolous and heartless than she really was.
"This is the first time I have had an opportunity of congratulating you
on your success," he said to her at last; "we are all very proud of it
at Sedgehill; but, believe me, there is no one who rejoices in it a
tithe as much as I do, if you will allow me to say so."
Elisabeth was slightly mollified. She had been trying all the time, as
she was so fond of trying years ago, to divert the conversation into
more personal channels; and Christopher had been equally desirous of
keeping it out of the same. But this sounded encouraging.
"Thank you so much," she answered; "it is very nice of you all to be
pleased with me! I always adored being admired and praised, if you
remember."
Christopher remembered well enough; but he was not going to tell this
crushing fine lady how well he remembered. If he had not exposed his
heart for Elisabeth to peck at in the old days, he certainly was not
going to expose it now; then she would only have been scientifically
interested--now she would probably be disdainfully amused.
"I suppose you saw my picture in this year's Academy," Elisabeth added.
"Saw it? I should think I did. I went up to town on purpose to see it,
as I always do when you have pictures on view at any of the shows."
"And what did you think of it?"
Christopher was silent for a moment; then he said--
"Do you want me to say pretty things to you or to tell you the truth?"
"Why, the truth, of course," replied Elisabeth, who considered that the
two things were synonymous--or at any rate ought to be.
"And you won't be angry with me, or think me impertinent?"
"Of course not," answered Elisabeth, who most certainly would; and
Christopher--not having yet learned wisdom--believed her.
"I thought it was a distinctly powerful picture--a distinctly remarkable
picture--and if any one but you had painted it, I should have been
delighted with it; but somehow I felt that it was not quite up to your
mark--that you could do, and will do, better work."
For a second Elisabeth was dumbfounded with amazement and indignation.
How dare this one man dispute the verdict of London? Then she said--
"In what way do you think the work could have been done better?"
"That is just what I can't tell you; I wish I could; but I'm not an
artist, unfortunately. It seems to me that there are other people (not
many, I admit, but still some) who could have painted that picture;
while you are capable of doing work which no one else in the world could
possibly do. Naturally I want to see you do your best, and am not
satisfied when you do anything less."
Elisabeth tossed her head. "You are very hard to please, Mr. Thornley."
"I know I am, where your work is concerned; but that is because I have
formed such a high ideal of your powers. If I admired you less, I should
admire your work more, don't you see?"
But Elisabeth did not see. She possessed the true artist-spirit which
craves for appreciation of its offspring more than for appreciation of
itself--a feeling which perhaps no one but an artist or a mother really
understands. Christopher, being neither, did not understand it in the
least, and erroneously concluded that adoration of the creator absolves
one from the necessity of admiration of the thing created.
"I shall never do a better piece of work than that," Elisabeth retorted,
being imbued with the creative delusion that the latest creation is of
necessity the finest creation. No artist could work at all if he did not
believe that the work he was doing--or had just done--was the best piece
of work he had ever done or ever should do. This is because his work,
however good, always falls short of the ideal which inspired it; and,
while he is yet working, he can not disentangle the ideal from the
reality. He must be at a little distance from his work until he can do
this properly; and Elisabeth was as yet under the influence of that
creative glamour which made her see her latest picture as it should be
rather than as it was.
"Oh, yes, you will; you will fulfil my ideal of you yet. I cherish no
doubts on that score."
"I can't think what you see wrong in my picture," said Elisabeth
somewhat pettishly.
"I don't see anything wrong in it. Good gracious! I must have expressed
myself badly if I conveyed such an impression to you as that, and you
would indeed be justified in writing me down an ass. I think it is a
wonderfully clever picture--so clever that nobody but you could ever
paint a cleverer one."
"Well, I certainly couldn't. You must have formed an exaggerated
estimate of my artistic powers."
"I think not! You can, and will, paint a distinctly better picture some
day."
"In what way better?"
"Ah! there you have me. But I will try to tell you what I mean, though I
speak as a fool; and if I say anything very egregious, you must let my
ignorance be my excuse, and pardon the clumsy expression of my
intentions because they are so well meant. It doesn't seem to me to be
enough for anybody to do good work; they must go further, and do the
best possible work in their power. Nothing but one's best is really
worth the doing; the cult of the second-best is always a degrading form
of worship. Even though one man's second-best be intrinsically superior
to the best work of his fellows, he has nevertheless no right to offer
it to the world. He is guilty of an injustice both to himself and the
world in so doing."
"I don't agree with you. This is an age of results; and the world's
business is with the actual value of the thing done, rather than with
the capabilities of the man who did it."
"You are right in calling this an age of results, Miss Farringdon; but
that is the age's weakness and not its strength. The moment men begin to
judge by results, they judge unrighteous judgment. They confound the
great man with the successful man; the saint with the famous preacher;
the poet with the writer of popular music-hall songs."
"Then you think that we should all do our best, and not bother ourselves
too much as to results?"
"I go further than that; I think that the mere consideration of results
incapacitates us from doing our best work at all."
"I don't agree with you," repeated Elisabeth haughtily. But,
nevertheless, she did.
"I daresay I am wrong; but you asked me for my candid opinion and I gave
it to you. It is a poor compliment to flatter people--far too poor ever
to be paid by me to you; and in this case the simple truth is a far
greater compliment than any flattery could be. You can imagine what a
high estimate I have formed of your powers, when so great a picture as
The Pillar of Cloud fails to satisfy me."
The talk about her picture brought to Elisabeth's mind the remembrance
of that other picture which had been almost as popular as hers; and,
with it, the remembrance of the man who had painted it.
"I suppose you have heard nothing more about George Farringdon's son,"
she remarked, with apparent irrelevance. "I wonder if he will ever turn
up?"
"Oh! I hardly think it is likely now; I have quite given up all ideas of
his doing so," replied Christopher cheerfully.
"But supposing he did?"
"In that case I am afraid he would be bound to enter into his kingdom.
But I really don't think you need worry any longer over that unpleasant
contingency, Miss Farringdon; it is too late in the day; if he were
going to appear upon the scene at all, he would have appeared before
now, I feel certain."
"You really think so?"
"Most assuredly I do. Besides, it will not be long before the limit of
time mentioned by your cousin is reached; and then a score of George
Farringdon's sons could not turn you out of your rights."
For a moment Elisabeth thought she would tell Christopher about her
suspicions as to the identity of Cecil Farquhar. But it was as yet
merely a suspicion, and she knew by experience how ruthlessly
Christopher pursued the line of duty whenever that line was pointed out
to him; so she decided to hold her peace (and her property) a little
longer. But she also knew that the influence of Christopher was even yet
so strong upon her, that, when the time came, she should do the right
thing in spite of herself and in defiance of her own desires. And this
knowledge, strange to say, irritated her still further against the
innocent and unconscious Christopher.
The walk from the Moat House to Sedgehill was a failure as far as the
re-establishment of friendly relations between Christopher and Elisabeth
was concerned, for it left her with the impression that he was less
appreciative of her and more wrapped up in himself and his own opinions
than ever; while it conveyed to his mind the idea that her success had
only served to widen the gulf between them, and that she was more
indifferent to and independent of his friendship than she had ever been
before.
Elisabeth went back to London, and Christopher to his work again, and
little Willie drew nearer and nearer to the country on the other side of
the hills; until one day it happened that the gate which leads into that
country was left open by the angels, and Willie slipped through it and
became strong and well. His parents were left outside the gate, weeping,
and at first they refused to be comforted; but after a time Alan learned
the lesson which Willie had been sent to teach him, and saw plain.
"Dear," he said to his wife at last, "I've got to begin life over again
so as to go the way that Willie went. The little chap made me promise to
meet him in the country over the hills, as he called it; and I've never
broken a promise to Willie and I never will. It will be difficult for
us, I know; but God will help us."
Felicia looked at him with sad, despairing eyes. "There is no God," she
said; "you have often told me so."
"I know I have; that was because I was such a blind fool. But now I
know that there is a God, and that you and I must serve Him together."
"How can we serve a myth?" Felicia persisted.
"He is no myth, Felicia. I lied to you when I told you that He was."
And then Felicia laughed; the first time that she had laughed since
Willie's death, and it was not a pleasant laugh to hear. "Do you think
you can play pitch-and-toss with a woman's soul in that way? Well, you
can't. When I met you I believed in God as firmly as any girl believed;
but you laughed me out of my faith, and proved to me what a string of
lies and folly it all was; and then I believed in you as firmly as
before I had believed in God, and I knew that Christianity was a fable."
Alan's face grew very white. "Good heavens! Felicia, did I do this?"
"Of course you did, and you must take the consequences of your own
handiwork; it is too late to undo it now. Don't try to comfort me, even
if you can drug yourself, with fairy-tales about meeting Willie again. I
shall never see my little child again in this life, and there is no
other."
"You are wrong; believe me, you are wrong." And Alan's brow was damp
with the anguish of his soul.
"It is only what you taught me. But because you took my faith away from
me, it doesn't follow that you can give it back to me again; it has gone
forever."
"Oh, Felicia, Felicia, may God and you and Willie forgive me, for I can
never forgive myself!"
"I can not forgive you, because I have nothing to forgive; you did me no
wrong in opening my eyes. And God can not forgive you, because there
never was a God; so you did Him no wrong. And Willie can not forgive
you, because there is no Willie now; so you did him no wrong."
"My dearest, it can not all have gone from you forever; it will come
back to you, and you will believe as I do."
Felicia shook her head. "Never; it is too late. You have taken away my
Lord, and I know not where you have laid Him; and, however long I live,
I shall never find Him again."
And she went out of the room in the patience of a great despair, and
left her husband alone with his misery.