A SQUARE IN THE PATCHWORK
"Reading into the Unknown
Hopes that we have long outgrown.
Weaving into the Unseen
Tidings of the Might-have-Been."--S. R. LYSAGHT.
"What do you do for companionship?" asked Philippa presently. "Don't
you find it a little lonely here sometimes?"
"Yes, I am lonely sometimes. There is no use in denying it," answered
Isabella. "But I am not more lonely here than I should be anywhere
else. Some people are born to be alone, it seems to me; it must just
be accepted as a fact and made the best of. But I lead a very busy
life in my own way, and I have plenty of books, as you see."
"Oh," cried Philippa, as she turned to a small bookcase which stood
close at hand, "I see you have some of Ian Verity's books. Do you like
them? My father was particularly fond of them, and we read most of
them together. His writing appeals to me tremendously. I have fought
more than one battle on his behalf with people who say he is too hard
on women, and that some of his characters are overdrawn. Do you know
him?"
"Yes, I think I may say that I know him pretty well," replied the other
quietly.
"I should very much like to meet him," continued Philippa. "I should
so like to ask him why he wrote _The Millstone_, for, although I won't
let any one say a word against him, I do think in my heart that he made
a mistake--that his point of view was a little distorted, I mean. It
was so tragically sad."
"There is usually a strong element of tragedy in everyday life for
those who have eyes to see it, and it is just the story of a plain
woman. And there is not the slightest doubt that a woman without a
share, at any rate, of good looks, is as a rule handicapped. She
hasn't the same start in life as the others. To a woman, beauty is the
very greatest asset."
"Oh, surely not the greatest," objected Philippa. "Looks are of no
importance compared with attributes of the mind--intellect, sympathy."
"Oh yes, they are. Those things come later in life, but they will very
seldom help a woman to what she wants when she is young. A woman wants
exactly those things which a man wants to find in her; and what a man
wants is a pretty face, and the happy assurance of manner which it
gives its possessor. What man ever gave a second glance at a plain
girl, however intelligent, if there was a pretty one in the room?
Later on in life, I grant you, a plain woman may gain a place by what
you call attributes of the mind, but it won't be the same; her youth
will be over, and youth is the time."
"Evidently you agree with Ian Verity," said Philippa.
Isabella looked up, "Oh yes," she said, "of course I agree--because I
am Ian Verity."
"You are Ian Verity!" repeated the girl in astonishment.
The other nodded.
"Yes, but until this minute not a soul knew it except my publisher."
"But every one thinks a man wrote the books."
"Let them continue to think so," said Isabella easily. "I don't mind.
As a matter of fact I had no intention of deceiving any one when I
published my first book under my initials only, but they all jumped to
the conclusion that I. V. was a man; and when, later, my publisher
thought it would be better for me to take a name instead of initials
only, I saw no reason to undeceive the world at large, and chose a name
to fit the letters."
"I think it is wonderful," said Philippa, after a slight pause. "I
cannot tell you how interested I am. When I think of the times without
number that my father and I tried to build up a personality for the
writer from the books, and the intense interest we took in him, and now
to find that after all, if he had but known it, it was an old friend of
his who wrote them and not a 'he' at all."
"I am glad he liked my books. I wonder if he thought _The Millstone_
true to life," she said musingly. "I think, somehow, that he would
have understood. Oh yes, it is true to life, my dear. I have been a
plain woman, and I ought to know."
"But how can you say that beauty is everything when you have such a
wonderful gift? It is no small thing to be Ian Verity, and bring
pleasure to thousands."
"That may be so. I grant you that is the case. But it has come too
late to give me the joy of youth. I am not holding it lightly, do not
think so for a moment. It is everything to me now--or nearly
everything--but it did not help me to climb the heights, it only makes
my journey across the plains fuller and brighter. Oh," she cried, with
a sudden ring of feeling in her voice, "if I had a daughter I know what
I should say to her. If she was pretty I would say, 'My dear, make the
very most of your looks and of your time. Don't try to be clever,
because you are probably a fool, but that doesn't matter. Keep your
mouth shut, and look all the brilliant things you haven't the wit to
say.' And if she were ugly I would say, 'For heaven's sake be amusing,
and cultivate the gift of patience, and don't hope for the
impossible.'" Isabella smiled. "Why did no one give me any good
advice when I was young, I wonder? When I think of what I was as a
girl--shy, awkward, and insufferably dull! I was unselfish. Oh yes,
revoltingly unselfish. So pitifully anxious to please that I couldn't
have said Boo to a goose, if I could have found a bigger one than
myself, which is extremely doubtful. In fact, I was thoroughly worthy;
and, my dear, God help the girl to whom her friends apply that
adjective."
She leaned forward, clasping her knees with her hands, and with her
eyes fixed on the distant heathland. She spoke without a trace of
bitterness. "One day, it is very long ago now, but I have not
forgotten, I happened to overhear a conversation which was not intended
for my ears. I heard my name mentioned, and I heard some one answer,
'Isabella! Oh, we all love old Isabella--she is just like a nice sandy
cat.' And the person who said that was the one whose opinion I valued
more than anything else in the wide world. That remark showed me
exactly where I stood, it left no loophole for self-deception. A man
does not want to marry a sandy cat."
Philippa could not help smiling at Isabella's tone. "A very pleasant
companion for the fireside," she said decidedly.
"That may be; but who thinks of the fireside when the sun is shining,
and spring is in the air and in the blood? Not a bit of it. It is
human nature--beauty rules the world, and it does not matter whether
the particular world she rules over is large or small, her dominion is
the same. Beauty is queen, and although her reign may be short it is
absolute. The queen can do no wrong."
Isabella spoke half jestingly, and Philippa thought of her conversation
with the doctor and his judgment, or rather his vindication, of a
beautiful woman. It seemed a proof in favour of the argument.
"And so," continued the other, "like the fool I was, instead of proving
that I was something more than a hearthrug ornament, I shut up at that
remark, and retired still further into my shell. I stayed there for a
long time. The years passed, and youth with them, and then, one day,
when I had learned quite a few lessons, I realised that the years which
rob us so in passing throw us a few compensations in return for all the
wealth they steal, and that although the pattern had all gone wrong,
still, there was no sense in leaving my particular square of the
patchwork with the edges all frayed. So I took my brains off the shelf
and dusted them, with a very fair result on the whole. If I had been a
man in a novel I should of course have gone to the New Forest, and
lived the simple life in sandals and few clothes, subsisting mainly on
nuts; but as I was a woman in real life, with an honest contempt for
what some one has called the widowhood of the unsatisfied, I settled
down here. For reasons of my own I wanted to be in this part of the
world. To me there is ever a healing strength in wide spaces, and
Bessmoor has been my best friend. And if the leaves of memory make a
rustling at times, I am glad of it. I do not want to forget. By this
I do not mean I spend my time in weaving withered wreaths for the
past--I don't; but I do not forget. And I sit here, writing very
busily, secure in the sheltering personality of the mythical Ian
Verity, firing broadsides at a patient public, giving them the truth as
I see it, whether they want it or not. They don't want it, but most of
the things we don't want are good for us, which is one of the
disagreeable axioms of nursery days. I disguise it sometimes, just as
my old nurse wrapped the powder in a spoonful of raspberry jam out of
the pot which was kept for the purpose on the right-hand corner of the
mantelpiece in the night nursery--I can see it now. But sometimes they
have got to swallow it _pur et simple_, just as it is."
"It is very difficult to know what is the truth," said Philippa slowly;
"the truth as regards our own actions, I mean. We cannot always judge
of the truth of them ourselves."
"It is very difficult. And after all, though we sit here glibly
talking of it, what is truth? It is not easy to define. Dictionaries
will tell you that it is the agreement of our notions with the reality
of things, but that is hardly an answer, for what is the reality of
things? Who can arrive at it? Ten people may witness some
occurrence--a fire, an accident, what you will--and yet, if questioned,
not more than two at most will give the same account of the happening.
Their versions will probably be entirely contradictory in detail, and
yet they may each be under the impression that they are speaking the
truth, giving each an honest description of their notion of the reality
of things. Of course this is a very different matter to deliberately
stating what you know to be untrue; and yet, do you know, I can easily
imagine circumstances where even that would be the only possible
course. You have probably heard the story of the soldier who was
court-martialed for cowardice on the field of battle. I think it was
in the Peninsular War, but I have forgotten. Anyway, the man was
accused of having hidden himself in some safe place until all danger
was over. He turned to his officer after hotly denying the accusation,
and said, 'You know I was in the thick of it, sir. Why, I shouted to
you and you answered me. You must remember.' Well, the officer had
absolutely no recollection of it, and yet it was quite possible that
the man's story was true and that he had forgotten. Think of the
excitement of the moment. Memory plays strange tricks at such a time.
Everything depended on his answer, for the man would undoubtedly be
shot if he could not prove his innocence, and the officer lied
unhesitatingly. 'I remember perfectly,' he said. 'You were there.'
What would you have done?"
"I should have done the same," said Philippa quickly.
"So should I," agreed Isabella. "I am absolutely certain of it. But I
don't know that that proves the morality of it. Ours is a woman's
point of view, and I am not at all sure that there isn't some
foundation for the statement that a woman's idea of honour is easier
than a man's. It is a humiliating reflection. And yet,
notwithstanding that, I still feel that if such a thing as a human life
depended on my lying I should lie. And I don't think I should have any
fear of the slate of the recording angel either. I am afraid you will
be shocked at these unorthodox opinions, and consider me a dangerous
acquaintance, but I can assure you that I am generally considered a
truthful person Fortunately these stern tests to my veracity do not
occur every day."
Philippa laughed. "I am not afraid," she said.
At this moment Mrs. Palling reappeared. "Didn't I say that were true?"
she announced triumphantly. "That poor little thing's gone. Milsom's
Jimmy jus' come up to tell me. You haven't got such a thing as a bit
o' crape about you, have you, miss? I'm sorry to trouble you, but I
haven't a scrap left."
"I am afraid I haven't," replied Isabella. "Does Mrs. Milsom want
crape?"
"Why no, ma'm. Crape ain't for her as would be more likely to be
wantin' bread-an'-butter; but I did think I'd like just to take a bit
to them bees. 'Tis real important to let them know when there's a
death about, and I always like just to tie a bit o' crape on the hives,
if you would be so good."
Isabella preserved a solemnity of manner suitable to the occasion, but
her mouth twitched with hardly suppressed laughter as she regretted her
inability to comply with the request, but suggested that a piece of
black ribbon which she happened to possess would perhaps do as well.
Mrs. Palling seemed a little doubtful at first as to whether the bees
might not consider this exchange in the light of an attempt to defraud
them of their just due; but after some consideration she assented, and
departed in search of the mark of complimentary mourning. At the door
she paused, and looking back, she said with a low triumphant chuckle--
"I knew 'twere true. Didn't I say so?"
"'Truth is the agreement of our notions with the reality of things,'"
quoted Isabella, laughing. "There you have it plainly demonstrated."
"I must go now," said Philippa, rising. "I have to thank you for a
very delightful afternoon."
"I only hope it may be the first of many others," answered Isabella
warmly. "I should like to try and persuade you to stay longer, but if
you really cannot do so I will get the cart ready and drive you back.
You will come again, won't you?" she added earnestly.
This Philippa was only too glad to promise, and a few minutes later
they were proceeding across the moor at the same dignified pace at
which they had travelled on their outward journey.