THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILLS
Shall I e'er love thee less fondly than now, dear?
Tell me if e'er my devotion can die?
Never until thou shalt cease to be thou, dear;
Never until I no longer am I.
Whether the doctors were right when they talked of the renewed desire to
live producing fresh vitality, or whether the wise man knew best after
all when he said that love is stronger than death, who can say? Anyway,
the fact remained that Christopher responded--as he had ever
responded--to Elisabeth's cry for help, and came back from the very
gates of the grave at her bidding. He had never failed her yet, and he
did not fail her now.
The days of his recovery were wonderful days to Elisabeth. It was so
strange and new to her to be doing another person's will, and thinking
another person's thoughts, and seeing life through another person's
eyes; it completely altered the perspective of everything. And there was
nothing strained about it, which was a good thing, as Elisabeth was too
light-hearted to stand any strain for long; the old comradeship still
existed between them, giving breadth to a love which the new
relationship had made so deep.
And it was very wonderful to Christopher, also, to find himself in the
sunshine at last after so many years of shadowland. At first the light
almost dazzled him, he was so unaccustomed to it; but as he gradually
became used to the new feeling of being happy, his nature responded to
the atmosphere of warmth and brightness, and opened as a flower in the
sun. As it was strange to Elisabeth to find herself living and moving
and having her being in another's personality, so it was strange to
Christopher to find another's personality merged in his. He had lived so
entirely for other people that it was a great change to find another
person living entirely for him; and it was a change that was wholly
beneficial. As his nature deepened Elisabeth's, so her nature expanded
his; and each was the better for the influence of the other, as each was
the complement of the other. So after a time Christopher grew almost as
light-hearted as Elisabeth, while Elisabeth grew almost as
tender-hearted as Christopher. For both of them the former things had
passed away, and all things were made new.
It was beautiful weather, too, which helped to increase their happiness;
that still, full, green weather, which sometimes comes in the late
summer, satisfying men's souls with its peaceful perfectness; when the
year is too old to be disturbed by the restless hope of spring, too
young to be depressed by the chilling dread of autumn, and so just
touches the fringe of that eternity which has no end neither any
beginning. The fine weather hastened Christopher's recovery; and, as he
gained strength, he and Elisabeth spent much time in the old garden,
looking toward the Welsh mountains.
"So we have come to the country on the other side of the hills at
last," she said to him, as they were watching one of the wonderful
Mershire sunsets and drinking in its beauty. "I always knew it was
there, but sometimes I gave up all hope of ever finding it for myself."
Christopher took her hand and began playing with the capable
artist-fingers. "And is it as nice a country as you expected,
sweetheart?"
"As nice as I expected? I should just think it is. I knew that in the
country over the hills I should find all the beautiful things I had
imagined as a child and all the lovely things I had longed for as a
woman; and that, if only I could reach it, all the fairy-tales would
come true. But now that I have reached it, I find that the fairy-tales
fell far short of the reality, and that it is a million times nicer than
I ever imagined anything could be."
"Darling, I am glad you are so happy. But it beats me how such a stupid
fellow as I am can make you so."
"Well, you do, and that's all that matters. Nobody can tell how they do
things; they only know that they can do them. I don't know how I can
paint pictures any more than you know how you can turn smoky ironworks
into the country over the hills. But we can, and do; which shows what
clever people we are, in spite of ourselves."
"I think the cleverness lies with you in both cases--in your wonderful
powers of imagination, my dear."
"Do you? Then that shows how little you know about it."
Christopher put his arm round her. "I always was stupid, you know; you
have told me so with considerable frequency."
"Oh! so you were; but you were never worse than stupid."
"That's a good thing; for stupidity is a misfortune rather than a
fault."
"Now I was worse than stupid--much worse," continued Elisabeth gravely;
"but I never was actually stupid."
"Weren't you? Don't be too sure of that. I don't wish to hurt your
feelings, sweetheart, or to make envious rents in your panoply of
wisdom; but, do you know, you struck me now and again as being a
shade--we will not say stupid, but dense?"
"When I thought you didn't like me because you went to Australia, you
mean?"
"That was one of the occasions when your acumen seemed to be slightly at
fault. And there were others."
Elisabeth looked thoughtful. "I really did think you didn't like me
then."
"Denseness, my dear Elisabeth--distinct denseness. It would be gross
flattery to call it by any other name."
"But you never told me you liked me."
"If I had, and you had then thought I did not, you would have been
suffering from deafness, not denseness. You are confusing terms."
"Well, then, I'll give in and say I was dense. But I was worse than
that: I was positively horrid as well."
"Not horrid, Betty; you couldn't be horrid if you tried. Perhaps you
were a little hard on me; but it's all over and done with now, and you
needn't bother yourself any more about it."
"But I ought to bother about it if I intend to make a trustworthy
step-ladder out of my dead selves to upper storeys."
"A trustworthy fire-escape, you mean; but I won't have it. You sha'n't
have any dead selves, my dear, because I shall insist on keeping them
all alive by artificial respiration, or restoration from drowning, or
something of that kind. Not one of them shall die with my permission;
remember that. I'm much too fond of them."
"You silly boy! You'll never train me and discipline me properly if you
go on in this way."
"Hang it all, Betty! Who wants to train and discipline you? Certainly
not I. I am wise enough to let well--or rather perfection--alone."
Elisabeth nestled up to Christopher. "But I'm not perfection, Chris; you
know that as well as I do."
"Probably I shouldn't love you so much if you were; so please don't
reform, dear."
"And you like me just as I am?"
"Precisely. I should break my heart if you became in any way different
from what you are now."
"But you mustn't break your heart; it belongs to me, and I won't have
you smashing up my property."
"I gave it to you, it is true; but the copyright is still mine. The
copyright of letters that I wrote to you is mine; and I believe the law
of copyright is the same with regard to hearts as to letters."
"Well, anyhow, I've written my name all over it."
"I know you have; and it was very untidy of you, my dearest. Once would
have been enough to show that it belonged to you; but you weren't
content with that: you scribbled all over every available space, until
there was no room left even for advertisements; and now nobody else will
ever be able to write another name upon it as long as I live."
"I'm glad of that; I wouldn't have anybody else's name upon it for
anything. And I'm glad that you like me just as I am, and don't want me
to be different."
"Heaven forbid!"
"But still I was horrid to you once, Chris, however you may try to gloss
it over. My dear, my dear, I don't know how I ever could have been
unkind to you; but I was."
"Never mind, sweetheart; it is ancient history now, and who bothers
about ancient history? Did you ever meet anybody who fretted over the
overthrow of Carthage, or made a trouble of the siege of Troy?"
"No," Elisabeth truthfully replied; "and I'm really nice to you now,
whatever I may have been before. Don't you think I am?"
"I should just think you are, Betty; a thousand times nicer than I
deserve, and I am becoming most horribly conceited in consequence."
"And, after all, I agree with the prophet Ezekiel that if people are
nice at the end, it doesn't much matter how disagreeable they have been
in the meantime. He doesn't put it quite in that way, but the sentiment
is the same. I suit you down to the ground now, don't I, Chris?"
"You do, my darling; and up to the sky, and beyond." And Christopher
drew her still closer to him and kissed her.
After a minute's silence Elisabeth whispered--
"When one is as divinely happy as this, isn't it difficult to realize
that the earth will ever be earthy again, and the butter turnipy, and
things like that? Yet they will be."
"But never quite as earthy or quite as turnipy as they were before;
that's just the difference."
After playing for a few minutes with Christopher's watch-chain,
Elisabeth suddenly remarked--
"You never really appreciated my pictures, Chris. You never did me
justice as an artist, though you did me far more than justice as a
woman. Why was that?"
"Didn't I? I'm sorry. Nevertheless, I'm not sure that you are right. I
was always intensely interested in your pictures because they were
yours, quite apart from their own undoubted merits."
"That was just it; you admired my pictures because they were painted by
me, while you really ought to have admired me because I had painted the
pictures."
A look of amusement stole over Christopher's face. "Then I fell short of
your requirements, dear heart; for, as far as you and your works were
concerned, I certainly never committed the sin of worshipping the
creature rather than the creator."
"But there was a time when I wanted you to do so."
"As a matter of fact," said Christopher thoughtfully, "I don't believe a
man who loves a woman can ever appreciate her genius properly, because
love is greater than genius, and so the greater swallows up the less. In
the eyes of the world, her genius is the one thing which places a woman
of genius above her fellows, and the world worships it accordingly. But
in the eyes of the man who loves her, she is already placed so far above
her fellows that her genius makes no difference to her altitude. Thirty
feet makes all the difference in the height of a weather-cock, but none
at all in the distance between the earth and a fixed star."
"What a nice thing to say! I adore you when you say things like that."
Christopher continued: "You see, the man is interested in the woman's
works of art simply because they are hers; just as he is interested in
the rustle of her silk petticoat simply because it is hers. Possibly he
is more interested in the latter, because men can paint pictures
sometimes, and they can never rustle silk petticoats properly. You are
right in thinking that the world adores you for the sake of your
creations, while I adore your creations for the sake of you; but you
must also remember that the world would cease to worship you if your
genius began to decline, while I should love you just the same if you
took to painting sign-posts and illustrating Christmas cards--even if
you became an impressionist."
"What a dear boy you are! You really are the greatest comfort to me. I
didn't always feel like this, but now you satisfy me completely, and
fill up every crevice of my soul. There isn't a little space anywhere in
my mind or heart or spirit that isn't simply bursting with you." And
Elisabeth laughed a low laugh of perfect contentment.
"My darling, how I love you!" And Christopher also was content.
Then there was another silence, which Christopher broke at last by
saying--
"What is the matter, Betty?"
"There isn't anything the matter. How should there be?"
"Oh, yes, there is. Do you think I have studied your face for over
thirty years, my dear, without knowing every shade of difference in its
expression? Have I said anything to vex you?"
"No, no; how could I be vexed with you, Chris, when you are so good to
me? I am horrid enough, goodness knows, but not horrid enough for that."
"Then what is it? Tell me, dear, and see if I can't help?"
Elisabeth sighed. "I was thinking that there is really no going back,
however much we may pretend that there is. What we have done we have
done, and what we have left undone we have left undone; and there is no
blotting out the story of past years. We may write new stories, perhaps,
and try to write better ones, but the old ones are written beyond
altering, and must stand for ever. You have been divinely good to me,
Chris, and you never remind me even by a look how I hurt you and
misjudged you in the old days. But the fact remains that I did both; and
nothing can ever alter that."
"Silly little child, it's all over and past now! I've forgotten it, and
you must forget it too."
"I can't forget it; that's just the thing. I spoiled your life for the
best ten years of it; and now, though I would give everything that I
possess to restore those years to you, I can't restore them, or make
them up to you for the loss of them. That's what hurts so dreadfully."
Christopher looked at her with a great pity shining in his eyes. He
longed to save from all suffering the woman he loved; but he could not
save her from the irrevocableness of her own actions, strive as he
would; which was perhaps the best thing in the world for her, and for
all of us. Human love would gladly shield us from the consequences of
what we have done; but Divine Love knows better. What we have written,
we have written on the page of life; and neither our own tears, nor the
tears of those who love us better than we love ourselves, can blot it
out. For the first time in her easy, self-confident career, Elisabeth
Farringdon was brought face to face with this merciless truth; and she
trembled before it. It was just because Christopher was so ready to
forgive her, that she found it impossible to forgive herself.
"I always belonged to you, you see, dear," Christopher said very gently,
"and you had the right to do what you liked with your own. I had given
you the right of my own free will."
"But you couldn't give me the right to do what was wrong. Nobody can do
that. I did what was wrong, and now I must be punished for it."
"Not if I can help it, sweetheart. You shall never be punished for
anything if I can bear the punishment for you."
"You can't help it, Chris; that's just the point. And I am being
punished in the way that hurts most. All my life I thought of myself,
and my own success, and how I was going to do this and that and the
other, and be happy and clever and good. But suddenly everything has
changed. I no longer care about being happy myself; I only want you to
be happy; and yet I know that for ten long years I deliberately
prevented you from being happy. Don't you see, dear, how terrible the
punishment is? The thing I care for most in the whole world is your
happiness; and the fact remains, and will always remain, that that was
the thing which I destroyed with my own hands, because I was cruel and
selfish and cold."
"Still, I am happy enough now, Betty--happy enough to make up for all
that went before."
"But I can never give you back those ten years," said Elisabeth, with a
sob in her voice--"never as long as I live. Oh! Chris, I see now how
horrid I was; though all the time I thought I was being so good, that I
looked down upon the women who I considered had lower ideals than I had.
I built myself an altar of stone, and offered up your life upon it, and
then commended myself when the incense rose up to heaven; and I never
found out that the sacrifice was all yours, and that there was nothing
of mine upon the altar at all."
"Never mind, darling; there isn't going to be a yours and mine any more,
you know. All things are ours, and we are beginning a new life
together."
Elisabeth put both arms round his neck and kissed him of her own accord.
"My dearest," she whispered, "how can I ever love you enough for being
so good to me?"
But while Christopher and Elisabeth were walking across enchanted
ground, Cecil Farquhar was having a hard time. Elisabeth had written to
tell him the actual facts of the case almost as soon as she knew them
herself; and he could not forgive her for first raising his hopes and
then dashing them to the ground. And there is no denying that he had
somewhat against her; for she had twice played him this trick--first as
regarded herself, and then as regarded her fortune. That she had not
been altogether to blame--that she had deluded herself in both cases as
effectually as she had deluded him--was no consolation as far as he was
concerned; his egoism took no account of her motives--it only resented
the results. Quenelda did all in her power to comfort him, but she
found it uphill work. She gave him love in full measure; but, as it
happened, money and not love was the thing he most wanted, and that was
not hers to bestow. He still cared for her more than he cared for
anybody (though not for anything) else in the world; it was not that he
loved Cæsar less but Rome more, Cecil's being one of the natures to whom
Rome would always appeal more powerfully than Cæsar. His life did
consist in the things which he had; and, when these failed, nothing else
could make up to him for them. Neither Christopher nor Elisabeth was
capable of understanding how much mere money meant to Farquhar; they had
no conception of how bitter was his disappointment on knowing that he
was not, after all, the lost heir to the Farringdon property. And who
would blame them for this? Does one blame a man, who takes a dirty bone
away from a dog, for not entering into the dog's feelings on the matter?
Nevertheless, that bone is to the dog what fame is to the poet and glory
to the soldier. One can but enjoy and suffer according to one's nature.
It happened, by an odd coincidence, that the mystery of Cecil's
parentage was cleared up shortly after Elisabeth's false alarm on that
score; and his paternal grandfather was discovered in the shape of a
retired shopkeeper at Surbiton of the name of Biggs, who had been cursed
with an unsatisfactory son. When in due time this worthy man was
gathered to his fathers, he left a comfortable little fortune to his
long-lost grandson; whereupon Cecil married Quenelda, and continued to
make art his profession, while his recreation took the form of
believing--and retailing his belief to anybody who had time and patience
to listen to it--that the Farringdons of Sedgehill had, by foul means,
ousted him from his rightful position, and that, but for their
dishonesty, he would have been one of the richest men in Mershire. And
this grievance--as is the way of grievances--never failed to be a source
of unlimited pleasure and comfort to Cecil Farquhar.
But in the meantime, when the shock of disappointment was still fresh,
he wrote sundry scathing letters to Miss Elisabeth Farringdon, which she
in turn showed to Christopher, rousing the fury of the latter thereby.
"He is a cad--a low cad!" exclaimed Christopher, after the perusal of
one of these epistles; "and I should like to tell him what I think of
him, and then kick him."
Elisabeth laughed; she always enjoyed making Christopher angry. "He
wanted to marry me," she remarked, by way of adding fuel to the flames.
"Confounded impudence on his part!" muttered Christopher.
"But he left off when he found out that I hadn't got any money."
"Worse impudence, confound him!"
"Oh! I wish you could have seen him when I told him that the money was
not really mine," continued Elisabeth, bubbling over with mirth at the
recollection; "he cooled down so very quickly, and so rapidly turned his
thoughts in another direction. Don't you know what it is to bite a
gooseberry at the front door while it pops out at the back? Well, Cecil
Farquhar's love-making was just like that. It really was a fine sight!"
"The brute!"
"Never mind about him, dear! I'm tired of him."
"But I do mind when people dare to be impertinent to you. I can't help
minding," Christopher persisted.
"Then go on minding, if you want to, darling--only don't let us waste
our time in talking about him. There's such a lot to talk about that is
really important--why you said so-and-so, and how you felt when I said
so-and-so, ten years ago; and how you feel about me to-day, and whether
you like me as much this afternoon as you did this morning; and what
colour my eyes are, and what colour you think my new frock should be;
and heaps of really serious things like that."
"All right, Betty; where shall we begin?"
"We shall begin by making a plan. Do you know what you are going to do
this afternoon?"
"Yes; whatever you tell me. I always do."
"Well, then, you are coming with me to have tea at Mrs. Bateson's, just
as we used to do when we were little; and I have told her to invite Mrs.
Hankey as well, to make it seem just the same as it used to be. By the
way, is Mrs. Hankey as melancholy as ever, Chris?"
"Quite. Time doth not breathe on her fadeless gloom, I can assure you."
"Won't it be fun to pretend we are children again?" Elisabeth exclaimed.
"Great fun; and I don't think it will need much pretending, do you
know?" replied Christopher, who saw deeper sometimes than Elisabeth did,
and now realized that it was only when they two became as little
children--he by ceasing to play Providence to her, and she by ceasing to
play Providence to herself--that they had at last caught glimpses of the
kingdom of heaven.
So they walked hand in hand to Caleb Bateson's cottage, as they had so
often walked in far-off, childish days; and the cottage looked so
exactly the same as it used to look, and Caleb and his wife and Mrs.
Hankey were so little altered by the passage of time, that it seemed as
if the shadow had indeed been put back ten degrees. And so, in a way, it
was, by the new spring-time which had come to Christopher and Elisabeth.
They were both among those beloved of the gods who are destined to die
young--not in years but in spirit; her lover as well as herself was what
Elisabeth called "a fourth-dimension person," and there is no growing
old for fourth-dimension people; because it has already been given to
them to behold the vision of the cloud-clad angel, who stands upon the
sea and upon the earth and swears that there shall be time no longer.
They see him in the far distances of the sunlit hills, in the mysteries
of the unfathomed ocean, and their ears are opened to the message that
he brings; for they know that in all beauty--be it of earth, or sea, or
sky, or human souls--there is something indestructible, immortal, and
that those who have once looked upon it shall never see death. Such of
us as make our dwelling-place in the world of the three dimensions, grow
weary of the sameness and the staleness of it all, and drearily echo the
Preacher's _Vanitas vanitatum_; but such of us as have entered into the
fourth dimension, and have caught glimpses of the ideal which is
concealed in all reality, do not trouble ourselves over the flight of
time, for we know we have eternity before us; and so we are content to
wait patiently and joyfully, in sure and certain hope of that better
thing which, without us, can not be made perfect.
It was with pride and pleasure that Mr. and Mrs. Bateson received their
guests. The double announcement that Christopher was the lost heir of
the Farringdons (for Elisabeth had insisted on his making this known),
and that he was about to marry Elisabeth, had given great delight all
through Sedgehill. The Osierfield people were proud of Elisabeth, but
they had learned to love Christopher; they had heard of her glory from
afar, but they had been eye-witnesses of the uprightness and
unselfishness and nobility of his life; and, on the whole, he was more
popular than she. Elisabeth was quite conscious of this; and--what was
more--she was glad of it. She, who had so loved popularity and
admiration, now wanted people to think more of Christopher than of her.
Once she had gloried in the thought that George Farringdon's son would
never fill her place in the hearts of the people of the Osierfield; now
her greatest happiness lay in the fact that he filled it more completely
than she could ever have done, and that at Sedgehill she would always be
second to him.
"Deary me, but it's like old times to see Master Christopher and Miss
Elisabeth having tea with us again," exclaimed Mrs. Bateson, after Caleb
had asked a blessing; "and it seems but yesterday, Mrs. Hankey, that
they were here talking over Mrs. Perkins's wedding--your niece Susan as
was--with Master Christopher in knickers, and Miss Elisabeth's hair
down."
Mrs. Hankey sighed her old sigh. "So it does, Mrs. Bateson--so it does;
and yet Susan has just buried her ninth."
"And is she quite well?" asked Elisabeth cheerfully. "I remember all
about her wedding, and how immensely interested I was."
"As well as you can expect, miss," replied Mrs. Hankey, "with eight
children on earth and one in heaven, and a husband as plays the trombone
of an evening. But that's the worst of marriage; you know what a man is
when you marry him, but you haven't a notion what he'll be that time
next year. He may take to drinking or music for all you know; and then
where's your peace of mind?"
"You are not very encouraging," laughed Elisabeth, "considering that I
am going to be married at once."
"Well, miss, where's the use of flattering with vain words, and crying
peace where there is no peace, I should like to know? I can only say as
I hope you'll be happy. Some are."
Here Christopher joined in. "You mustn't discourage Miss Farringdon in
that way, or else she'll be throwing me over; and then whatever will
become of me?"
Mrs. Hankey at once tried to make the _amende honorable_; she would not
have hurt Christopher's feelings for worlds, as she--in common with most
of the people at Sedgehill--had had practical experience of his kindness
in times of sorrow and anxiety. "Not she, sir; Miss Elisabeth's got too
much sense to go throwing anybody over--and especially at her age, when
she's hardly likely to get another beau in a hurry. Don't you go
troubling your mind about that, Master Christopher. You won't throw over
such a nice gentleman as him, will you, miss?"
"Certainly not; though hardly on the grounds which you mention."
"Well, miss, if you're set on marriage you're in luck to have got such a
pleasant-spoken gentleman as Master Christopher--or I should say, Mr.
Farringdon, begging his pardon. Such a fine complexion as he's got, and
never been married before, nor nothing. For my part I never thought you
would get a husband--never; and I've often passed the remark to Mr. and
Mrs. Bateson here. 'Mark my words,' I said, 'Miss Elisabeth Farringdon
will remain Elisabeth Farringdon to the end of the chapter; she's too
clever to take the fancy of the menfolk, and too pale. They want
something pink and white and silly, men do."
"Some want one thing and some another," chimed in Mrs. Bateson, "and
they know what they want, which is more than women-folks do. Why, bless
you! girls 'll come telling you that they wouldn't marry so-and-so, not
if he was to crown 'em; and the next thing you hear is that they are
keeping company with him, and that no woman was ever so happy as them,
and that the man is such a piece of perfection that the President of the
Conference himself isn't fit to black his boots."
"You have hit upon a great mystery, Mrs. Bateson," remarked Christopher,
"and one which has only of late been revealed to me. I used to think, in
my masculine ignorance, that if a woman appeared to dislike a man, she
would naturally refuse to marry him; but I am beginning to doubt if I
was right."
Mrs. Bateson nodded significantly. "Wait till he asks her; that's what I
say. It's wonderful what a difference the asking makes. Women think a
sight more of a sparrow in the hand than a covey of partridges in the
bush; and I don't blame them for it; it's but natural that they should."
"A poor thing but mine own," murmured Christopher.
"That's not the principle at all," Elisabeth contradicted him; "you've
got hold of quite the wrong end of the stick this time."
"I always do, in order to give you the right one; as in handing you a
knife I hold it by the blade. You so thoroughly enjoy getting hold of
the right end of a stick, Betty, that I wouldn't for worlds mar your
pleasure by seizing it myself; and your delight reaches high-water-mark
when, in addition, you see me fatuously clinging on to the ferrule."
"Never mind what women-folk say about women-folk, Miss Elisabeth," said
Caleb Bateson kindly; "they're no judges. But my missis has the right of
it when she says that a man knows what he wants, and in general sticks
to it till he gets it. And if ever a man got what he wanted in this
world, that man's our Mr. Christopher."
"You're right there, Bateson," agreed the master of the Osierfield; and
his eyes grew very tender as they rested upon Elisabeth.
"And if he don't have no objection to cleverness and a pale complexion,
who shall gainsay him?" added Mrs. Hankey. "If he's content, surely it
ain't nobody's business to interfere; even though we may none of us,
Miss Elisabeth included, be as young as we was ten years ago."
"And he is quite content, thank you," Christopher hastened to say.
"I think you were right about women not knowing their own minds,"
Elisabeth said to her hostess; "though I am bound to confess it is a
little stupid of us. But I believe the root of it is in shyness, and in
a sort of fear of the depth of our own feelings."
"I daresay you're right, miss; and, when all's said and done, I'd sooner
hear a woman abusing a man she really likes, than see her throwing
herself at the head of a man as don't want her. That's the uptake of
all things, to my mind; I can't abide it." And Mrs. Bateson shook her
head in violent disapproval.
Mrs. Hankey now joined in. "I remember my sister Sarah, when she was a
girl. There was a man wanted her ever so, and seemed as cut-up as never
was when she said no. She didn't know what to do with him, he was that
miserable; and yet she couldn't bring her mind to have him, because he'd
red hair and seven in family, being a widower. So she prayed the Lord to
comfort him and give him consolation. And sure enough the Lord did; for
within a month from the time as Sarah refused him, he was engaged to
Wilhelmina Gregg, our chapel-keeper's daughter. And then--would you
believe it?--Sarah went quite touchy and offended, and couldn't enjoy
her vittles, and wouldn't wear her best bonnet of a Sunday, and kept
saying as the sons of men were lighter than vanity. Which I don't deny
as they are, but that wasn't the occasion to mention it, Wilhelmina's
marriage being more the answer to prayer, as you may say, than any extra
foolishness on the man's part."
"I should greatly have admired your sister Sarah," said Christopher;
"she was so delightfully feminine. And as for the red-headed swain, I
have no patience with him. His fickleness was intolerable."
"Bless your heart, Master Christopher!" exclaimed Mrs. Bateson, "men are
mostly like that. Why should they waste their time fretting after some
young woman as hasn't got a civil word for them, when there are scores
and scores as has?"
Christopher shook his head. "I can't pretend to say why; that is quite
beyond me. I only know that some of them do."
"But they are only the nice exceptions that prove the rule," said
Elisabeth, as she and Christopher caught each other's eye.
"No; it is she who is the nice exception," he replied. "It is only in
the case of exceptionally charming young women that such a thing ever
occurs; or rather, I should say, in the case of an exceptionally
charming young woman."
"My wedding dress will be sent home next week," said Elisabeth to the
two matrons; "would you like to come and see it?"
"Indeed, that we should!" they replied simultaneously. Then Mrs. Bateson
inquired: "And what is it made of, deary?"
"White satin."
Mrs. Hankey gazed critically at the bride-elect. "White satin is a bit
young, it seems to me; and trying, too, to them as haven't much colour."
Then cheering second thoughts inspired her. "Still, white's the proper
thing for a bride, I don't deny; and I always say 'Do what's right and
proper, and never mind looks.' The Lord doesn't look on the outward
appearance, as we all know; and it 'ud be a sight better for men if they
didn't, like Master Christopher there; there'd be fewer unhappy
marriages, mark my words. Of course, lavender isn't as trying to the
complexion as pure white; no one can say as it is; but to my mind
lavender always looks as if you've been married before; and it's no use
for folks to look greater fools than they are, as I can see."
"Certainly not," Christopher agreed. "If there is any pretence at all,
let it be in the opposite direction, and let us all try to appear wiser
than we are!"
"And that's easy enough for some of us, such as Hankey, for instance,"
added Hankey's better half. "And there ain't as much wisdom to look at
as you could put on the point of a knife even then."
So the women talked and the men listened--as is the way of men and women
all the world over--until tea was finished and it was time for the
guests to depart. They left amid a shower of heartfelt congratulations,
and loving wishes for the future opening out before them. Just as
Elisabeth passed through the doorway into the evening sunshine, which
was flooding the whole land and turning even the smoke-clouds into
windows of agate whereby men caught faint glimmerings of a dim glory as
yet to be revealed, she turned and held out her hands once more to her
friends. "It is very good to come back to you all, and to dwell among
mine own people," she said, her voice thrilling with emotion; "and I am
glad that Mrs. Hankey's prophecy has come true, and that Elisabeth
Farringdon will be Elisabeth Farringdon to the end of the chapter."
THE END
* * * * *
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End of Project Gutenberg's The Farringdons, by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler