Judy's letter was followed by one from Stephen. Madame Claire felt that
it was from some one very close at hand. He seemed to be coming nearer
to her daily, and she no longer visualized him as separated from her by
so many miles of land and water. He was accessible now. They were more
readily accessible to each other by thoughts. She felt more confidence
in his health, too, and in his determination to come to England again.
She had been wise in sending Judy to him!
"_It's amazing,_" Stephen wrote, "_how much there is of you in Judy.
She has your way of understanding what one wants to say almost
before one has said it. She doesn't make me feel an old man. We
talk as equals. She is very human and is gifted with real humor,
which means that she enjoys the humorous side of mankind. I think
that her not very happy youth--for it's obvious that she has been
far from happy at home--has given her a certain depth and insight._
"_She is much amused by an old friend of mine, an American named
Colebridge. We met years ago in the Argentine, and he considers
that he has reason to be grateful for something in the past.
Together, the two are a source of great entertainment to me. Judy
becomes every moment more British, and he--well, he couldn't become
more American. He admires Judy enormously, and I think he is ready
to lay a not inconsiderable fortune at her feet. I wish I could
remember their talk. Yesterday we motored to Grasse, and coming
home we passed peasants returning from their work in the fields.
Simple, contented people, with clothes colored like the earth._
"_'In America,' says Mr. Colebridge, 'all these folks would own
Fords.'_
"_'Then thank God for Europe!' says Judy; and so they go on, until
at last Mr. Colebridge turns to me and says, 'Say, I guess I'm
ready to agree to anything Miss Pendleton says. She's got more
sense than any woman I ever met.' Which takes the wind out of
Judy's sails. They make me feel years younger. Colebridge wears
the most Philistine clothes, and never looks at the scenery. He
sees nothing._
"_Judy often goes to the Casino, and she tells me she saw Chiozzi
there last night. He was with Mlle. Pauline, whom Judy describes as
a most exquisite creature. She was struck with the contrast between
them--Chiozzi so dark and hideous, and the woman so fair and
pretty--and she asked some one who they were. She says Chiozzi is
extremely jealous and was constantly watching his companion. She
also says that he was losing a great deal of money--Connie's money,
perhaps?--at the tables. He has left this hotel, so I never see him
now._
"_Miss McPherson seems to think I will be able to travel in less
than a month. A month, Claire! Only thirty days. It's nothing. And
yet, it's an eternity. I might have another stroke--no, no! I feel
sure I won't. Not with Judy here. I think it was sheer boredom that
brought it on before. That, and a hopeless feeling that I should
never quite reach you. Now I seem to have accomplished half the
journey._
"_I have said nothing to Judy as yet about a settlement. It is a
difficult subject, and I feel I must tread lightly. All the same,
I mean to have my way. If the young deny us these pleasures, what
is left for us? Of course, if she were to marry Colebridge she
wouldn't want it, but that I feel almost certain she will not do.
They are poles apart. It's not because of their nationality. It's
because of their outlook on life. It wouldn't do. If Judy were
less sensitive, less feeling, less intelligent, it might._
"_Well, I am aweary of this eternal sunshine. And when the sun does
not shine, it all seems very drab. One is constantly reminded here
of too much that is rich--and gross. And yet it is lovely, I
suppose, very lovely._
"_It's you I want, Claire, and London. For the first time in my life
I'm unspeakably, unutterably homesick. I long to see the rain on
London streets, the lamps' yellow eyes through the deep blue haze
and smoke. I want crocuses and primroses instead of mimosa. I want
little, homely, decorous shops, and people who put on their clothes
merely to cover them and to keep warm. I want your fireside and you
and Dawson, and crumpets for tea. What an old fool I am! I would
like to hear the old talk of the London that I knew; these memoirs,
that play, such and such a speech; what So and So said to Blank
when he met him in the lobby of the House; who is talked of as the
next Speaker. I hardly dare look at the papers, Claire, for then I
know how many years there are between the old talk and the talk of
to-day. The jingle of hansom bells seem to run through it all, and
faint, forgotten old tunes._
"_But it will all be preserved, summed up, epitomized in you. I will
find it all again in you._
"_It is Judy who has brought back this love of London. It is she who
has made it fresh again._
"_She says your hair is perfectly white. How pretty it must be!_
"_Good-by! I grow verbose, lachrymose, and comatose._
"STEPHEN."
Well, he would find London changed, though it had changed less than
most Western cities. But he would find that it had retained its old
character even though it had assumed new manners. And after all, why
pretend that it had not improved? It had improved. It was easier to get
about now than it had been in Stephen's day. There was more to do.
There was less misery among the poor. One needn't feel so suicidal on
Sundays. There were better shops, better libraries, and--yes--more and
better books. Better preachers in the pulpits, too, better food, better
music, better teachers in the schools. And if one regretted the hansom
bells and the old tunes, that was because one regretted one's youth,
and the friends of one's youth. But the present couldn't be blamed for
that. The present was full of promise, let the old fogies say what they
pleased. The sea was rougher, perhaps, but the port was nearer ... and
after all, seasickness wasn't often fatal, and was very often
beneficial. Not that there weren't alarming symptoms--there were....
Stephen and she could still go to the Temple and see the old, unchanged
gray stones, and the vivid grass making a carpet for the delicate feet
of spring when she visited London; and she loved to visit London, that
beloved guest, as though she delighted in contrasting her fleeting and
perennial loveliness with what was gray and immutable. The old, slow
river, too, and the towers of Westminster--they could look at them and
see little change there.
And after all, they hadn't stood still themselves. They had gone on.
If they hadn't, she wouldn't have fitted into the picture to-day, as
she knew she did, nor would Stephen have found so much in common with
Judy. No, she had long ago said good-by to the hansom bells and the
bustles and the bad doctors and the inferior plumbing--let's be
honest--and the extremely uncomfortable traveling, and she had said
good-by without regret.
She was writing to him the following afternoon, putting these thoughts
on paper while they were still fresh in her mind, when Major Crosby
called. She had hoped he would come. Certainly he wouldn't go to Eaton
Square for news of Judy. He would come to her. She wondered how far he
would commit himself. Here was another simple man, but simple in a
different way from Eric's way. Major Crosby's was the simplicity of the
hermit, Eric's of the clear thinking man of action who had no use for
subtleties. She hoped he would feel that he could unburden himself to a
woman of her age.
That, evidently, was one of the things he had come for. Madame Claire
wanted to be able to make up her mind about him to-day. She had liked
him before, but to-day she hoped to be able to say, "Yes, that's the
man for Judy."
He very soon asked for news of her.
"She's being extraordinarily good for my old friend Stephen de Lisle,"
she told him. "It's well, Major Crosby, to keep one's hold on the
present generation. Mr. de Lisle had almost lost his, and he was
slipping back. That's why I sent Judy to him."
"Will she be back in time to see her brother before he goes?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure of it. She'll be very lonely without Noel."
What nice eyes the man had! Blue-gray eyes, rather misty, like the eyes
of a kitten or a baby. The face was serious--a little too serious, she
thought. She liked it though. It was a good face. She liked the thin,
rather aquiline nose, the close-cut, brown mustache, the mouth with its
expression of peculiar sweetness. She could picture him performing acts
of curious bravery, unconscious of any heroism. A man who could study
Druidism in the trenches!... But life was passing him by, as it would
pass Judy by, unless she made up her mind to grasp it.
"Tell me," she said, "how nearly finished is that prodigious book of
yours?"
"It's practically done. I'm still polishing it up though. It won't be
a popular book, Lady Gregory. In fact I think it will be very
unpopular."
"With whom will it be unpopular?"
"Oh, with people who lay much stress upon ritual and creed. I think
they will dislike knowing how much of the pagan ritual has come down
to us, and how closely our own beliefs are bound up with those of
savage peoples. And there are others who don't like hearing that
Christianity is, comparatively speaking, modern, and that there are
other vastly more ancient revelations. And there are people who won't
like what I've said about the belief in reincarnation, nor be willing
to accede an important place to the so-called modern religions, such as
Christian Science, New Thought, and Spiritualism. The book will be
banned, undoubtedly, by one great church, and public libraries will
think twice before circulating it. And yet I had to write it, and I'm
glad I've written it. I only wish it were fuller and more convincing.
It lacks what print must always lack--the power to persuade."
"And you wish to persuade us ... of what?"
"The need for tolerance."
"You think we are still intolerant? And yet there are plenty of people
who say we have grown too tolerant."
He shook his head.
"There is only one tolerance that I deplore."
"And that is?"
"Tolerance toward the man who believes in nothing at all."
"Why have you singled out that unfortunate?"
"Because we have much to fear from him." He got up and stood with his
back to the fire. "When men believe in nothing, they rot. If history
teaches us anything, it teaches us that. The world has had its greatest
moments at the times of its greatest faith. Then when belief goes, the
decline begins. But first these people who believe in nothing set up
idols of their own making. They call them by fine names--liberty,
perhaps, or communism, or the freedom of the proletariat, or the
gospel of anarchy, or mob rule. But they very soon tire of worshiping
even them. Then fear enters their hearts. They believe in no hereafter
and no god. They see that life here is short and uncertain. They see
that there are good things in the world--fine food, fine clothes,
money, power. They want the cash. The credit can go. The people who
lay up treasures in heaven are fools. Well then, let them lay up their
treasures in heaven--and let them go after them. They themselves mean
to have what they can see, feel, touch, smell. They begin trampling,
stampeding, cursing. Get, get, get, they cry. What do they attack
first? The churches. Away with restraint, away with rules, away with
sickly faith. They want more concrete things and they mean to get them.
Then blood incites them further. They kill and kill and kill. Killing
and grabbing--they are occupied with nothing else. Some for the sake
of appearances or because they like the sound of words go about
shouting their phrases. But sooner or later they turn on each other;
or their followers, sick of blood, turn upon them. And then, when there
is a little peace, faith creeps back into people's hearts again, and a
belief in God. And they wonder how the madness came, and they try to
wipe out the blood stains and live sanely again. And they go back to
work in the fields and stop hating each other. Perhaps they have
learned something. Not always. But they have got tolerance again, and
a belief. And with those two things they can begin once more. To
believe in something beyond this world, to have faith in the destiny
of the soul ... that's everything."
He looked at her, suddenly abashed.
"I've been talking to you," he said, "as if I were addressing a
meeting. I'm so sorry."
"I've liked it. Go on. So your book shows----"
"Shows that any faith is good. Shows that all beliefs are so
intermingled that they are almost inextricable. It shows that what
matters is their common foundation--the belief in a Divine Creator.
Without these various revelations that are the foundations of religion,
the world would have been chaos. Destroy them, and the world will be
chaos. Christianity is the light on the path of the Western world.
Other worlds, other lights. But to say that we can walk without light,
or to shut our eyes and say there is no light--that is the great
insanity, the great evil."
"Yes, I think that's true," she agreed.
"I'm not a religious fellow, in the ordinary sense of the word," he
explained, "and yet I'm more interested in religion than in any other
subject. I do go to church, but more as a student than a worshiper. I
like to think about the psychology of a congregation, and the
possible--the probable benefits of worshiping all together in a
building with four walls and a roof."
It wasn't so difficult, after all, to draw him out. She liked making
him talk. And when she thought she had drawn him out enough she rang
for tea.
"Of course this work of yours is tremendously interesting, but at the
same time I feel more than ever that you need diversions. The dancing
wasn't altogether a success, I gathered."
"No," he agreed, smiling, "I'm afraid it wasn't. But when we were
discussing hobbies the other day, I forgot to tell you that I had
another, besides religions. And that's the stage."
Madame Claire laughed.
"You extraordinary man! What aspect of the stage?"
"I like writing plays. I've written several, but I don't think they're
any good and I've never tried to do anything with them. I don't think
my people would be real--especially the women. I wonder--I'd
like--would you read them some time? You're critical, but you're very
kind, too."
"I long to read them! Bring them. The sooner the better. I love plays
and I love the theater, and though my criticisms may not be valuable,
you shall have them. I often wish Judy had gone on the stage. She has
the looks and she has talent, too. But of course it would have killed
her parents."
It was then that he took the plunge. She had felt for some time that he
was preparing to take it.
"Miss Pendleton," he said, "is the only woman I have ever met who has
made me wish I were a rich man--or a successful man. Not that she would
consider me if I were."
"I'm beginning to think you're human!" cried Madame Claire. "The stage;
and now you're in love with Judy. I'm delighted, Major Crosby!
Delighted. Now we have two excellent diversions for you. Plays, and
love."
Her old eyes twinkled.
"But I've no talent for either."
"Oh, let some one else judge of that! Let Judy judge."
He looked somewhat confused.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have said what I did."
"Why not? I sha'n't give you away."
"If I had any prospects at all ..."
"It's amazing," she interrupted, "how strong and how weak men can be!
There's my son Eric, for instance. A born fighter. In war, in politics,
no compromise. But in love--in love he has the courage of a ... of a
schoolgirl. If he had only _managed_ his wife! What he needs is a
course in nettle-grasping. And so do you, Major Crosby."
"But I don't think for a minute that Miss Pendleton----"
He paused, hoping, she saw, that she would help him out.
"That Miss Pendleton is interested?"
"Oh, interested ... she might be, just a little, out of the kindness of
her heart."
"Major Crosby, let me tell you that women are only kind when it gives
them pleasure to be kind. A woman will rarely put herself out, I'm
afraid, for a man who bores her."
"But even if she were--interested--even if she did think twice about
me, which I find it very difficult to believe, I've nothing whatever to
offer her."
"You mean you can't offer her money."
"That's only one of the things I haven't got."
He stood in front of the fire again, as if to give himself the
advantage of higher ground. He wanted to be convincing even while he
hoped to be convinced.
"All I ask you to do," said Madame Claire, "is, for your own sake, to
give yourself a chance. There are obstacles, admittedly, but don't begin
by throwing up earthworks as well. Don't _make_ obstacles. Mind you,
I'm not encouraging you. I only know that Judy likes you more than she
likes most people. Beyond that I'm completely in the dark. Yes,
Dawson?"
"Please, m'lady," said Dawson from the doorway, "can you see Miss
Connie?"
"Yes. Ask her to come in. No, don't go, Major Crosby. You've met my
daughter, Countess Chiozzi."
"I must go," he said, holding out his hand. "But I'd like to come again
soon, if I may."
"If you don't," she said, smiling up at him, "I shall think I have
lectured you too much. And the plays--don't forget them!"
He exchanged a few words with Connie as he passed her in the hall, and
she was graciously polite to him. She never forgot for an instant, in
the presence of a man, that she was a charming woman. After she had
kissed her mother, however, she felt that a remonstrance was
justifiable.
"Mother, you're not encouraging that man, I hope?"
"No, Connie, my dear, I assure you I'm not. I think that the difference
in our ages is really too great."
"Oh, mother! I meant for Judy, of course."
"Ah! But before I answer that, let me tell you of something Eric and I
thought of a few days ago. Something to do with you."
Before Connie had left her, an hour later, she had agreed to give up
her rooms at the hotel as soon as Noel went to Germany, and go and keep
house for Eric.
She had been wondering how she was going to bear her life after Noel
left, she said.
"If Eric really wants me, of course I'll go. I'm not a very good
housekeeper, I'm afraid. I'm so out of practice."
"It will be a change for him," Madame Claire told her. "Louise is
rather too good. She fusses. And besides, Eric won't be difficult. He
has very simple tastes."
"I think," said Connie, "that from what I've heard, I shall be a better
hostess than his wife has been."
"I'm convinced of it," answered Madame Claire.
When Connie had gone, she telephoned at once to Eric, to tell him what
she had done.
"It's so obviously the best thing all round," he agreed, "that I simply
never thought of it. If it suits Connie, it suits me."
"It suits Connie very well. But of course you'll say nothing to Louise.
It will be time enough for her to know when she's settled comfortably
at Mistley."