As his father had said, Cuthbert Harrington's tastes differed widely
from his own. Cuthbert was essentially a Londoner, and his friends would
have had difficulty in picturing him as engaged in country pursuits.
Indeed, Cuthbert Hartington, in a scarlet coat, or toiling through a
turnip field in heavy boots with a gun on his shoulder, would have been
to them an absurd anomaly.
It was not that he lacked strength; on the contrary, he was tall and
well, if loosely, built. Grace is not a common manly attribute, but he
possessed it to an eminent degree. There was a careless ease in his
manner, an unconscious picturesqueness in his poses, a turn, that would
have smacked of haughtiness had there been the slightest element of
pride in his disposition, in the curve of the neck, and well-poised
head.
His life was chiefly passed among artists, and like them as a class, he
affected loose and easy attire. He wore turn-down collars with a
carelessly-knotted necktie, and a velvet jacket. He was one of those men
whom his intimates declared to be capable of doing anything he chose,
and who chose to do nothing. He had never distinguished himself in any
way at Harrow. He had maintained a fair place in his forms as he moved
up in the school, but had done so rather from natural ability than from
study. He had never been in the eleven, although it was the general
opinion he would have certainly had a place in it had he chosen to play
regularly. As he sauntered through Harrow so he sauntered through
Cambridge; keeping just enough chapels and lectures to avoid getting
into trouble, passing the examinations without actual discredit, rowing
a little, playing cricket when the fit seized him, but preferring to
take life easily and to avoid toil, either mental or bodily.
Nevertheless he read a great deal, and on general subjects was one of
the best informed men of his college.
He spent a good deal of his time in sketching and painting, art being
his one passion. His sketches were the admiration of his friends, but
although he had had the best lessons he could obtain at the University
he lacked the application and industry to convert the sketches into
finished paintings. His vacations were spent chiefly on the Continent,
for his life at home bored him immensely, and to him a week among the
Swiss lakes, or in the galleries of Munich or Dresden, was worth more
than all the pleasures that country life could give him.
He went home for a short time after leaving the University, but his stay
there was productive of pleasure to neither his father nor himself. They
had not a single taste in common, and though Cuthbert made an effort to
take an interest in field sports and farming, it was not long before his
father himself told him that as it was evident the life was altogether
distasteful to him, and his tastes lay in another direction, he was
perfectly ready to make him an allowance that would enable him either to
travel or to live in chambers in London.
"I am sorry, of course, lad," he said, "that you could not make yourself
happy with me here, but I don't blame you, for it is after all a matter
of natural disposition. Of course you will come down here sometimes, and
at any rate I shall be happier in knowing that you are living your own
life and enjoying yourself in your own way, than I should be in seeing
you trying in vain to take to pursuits from which you would derive no
pleasure whatever."
"I am awfully sorry, father," Cuthbert had said. "I heartily wish it had
been otherwise, but I own that I would rather live in London on an
almost starvation income than settle down here. I have really tried hard
to get to like things that you do. I feel it would have been better if I
had always stayed here and had a tutor; then, no doubt, I should have
taken to field sports and so on. However, it is no use regretting that
now, and I am very thankful for your offer."
Accordingly he had gone up to London, taken chambers in Gray's Inn,
where two or three of his college friends were established, and joined a
Bohemian Club, where he made the acquaintance of several artists, and
soon became a member of their set. He had talked vaguely of taking up
art as a profession, but nothing ever came of it. There was an easel or
two in his rooms and any number of unfinished paintings; but he was
fastidious over his own work and unable from want of knowledge of
technique to carry out his ideas, and the canvases were one after
another thrown aside in disgust. His friends upbraided him bitterly with
his want of application, not altogether without effect; he took their
remonstrances in perfect good temper, but without making the slightest
effort to improve. He generally accompanied some of them on their
sketching expeditions to Normandy, Brittany, Spain, or Algiers, and his
portfolios were the subject of mingled admiration and anger among his
artist friends in St. John's Wood; admiration at the vigor and talent
that his sketches displayed, anger that he should be content to do
nothing greater.
His days were largely spent in their studios where, seated in the most
comfortable chair he could find, he would smoke lazily and watch them at
work and criticise freely. Men grumbled and laughed at his presumption,
but were ready to acknowledge the justice of his criticism. He had an
excellent eye for color and effect and for the contrast of light and
shade, and those whose pictures were hung, were often ready enough to
admit that the canvas owed much of its charm to some happy suggestion on
Cuthbert's often ready part.
Every two or three months he went home for a fortnight. He was greatly
attached to his father, and it was the one drawback to the contentment
of his life that he had been unable to carry out the Squire's wishes,
and to settle down with him at Fairclose. He would occasionally bemoan
himself over this to his friends.
"I am as bad as the prodigal son," he would say, "except that I don't
get what I deserve, and have neither to feed on husks nor to tend swine;
but though the fatted calf would be ready for me if I were to return I
can't bring myself to do so."
"I don't know about being a prodigal," Wilson, one of the oldest of his
set would grumble in reply, "but I do know you are a lazy young beggar,
and are wasting your time and opportunities; it is a thousand pities you
were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Your father ought to have
turned you adrift with an allowance just sufficient to have kept you on
bread and butter, and have left you to provide everything else for
yourself; then you would have been an artist, sir, and would have made a
big name for yourself. You would have had no occasion to waste your time
in painting pot-boilers, but could have devoted yourself to good,
honest, serious work, which is more than most of us can do. We are
obliged to consider what will sell and to please the public by turning
out what they call pretty pictures--children playing with dogs, and
trumpery things of that sort. Bah, it is sickening to see a young fellow
wasting his life so."
But Cuthbert only laughed good-temperedly, he was accustomed to such
tirades, and was indeed of a singularly sweet and easy temper.
It was the end of the first week in May, the great artistic event of the
year was over, the Academy was opened, the pictures had been seen and
criticised, there was the usual indignation at pictures being hung
generally voted to be daubs, while others that had been considered among
the studios as certain of acceptance, had been rejected. Two or three of
Cuthbert's friends were starting at once for Cornwall to enjoy a rest
after three months' steady work and to lay in a stock of fresh sketches
for pictures for the following year.
"I will go with you," Cuthbert said when they informed him of their
intention, "it is early yet, but it is warm enough even for loafing on
the rocks, and I hate London when it's full. I will go for a fortnight
anyhow," and so with Wilson and two younger men, he started for Newquay,
on the north of Cornwall. Once established there the party met only at
meals.
"We don't want to be doing the same bits," Wilson said, "and we shall
see plenty of each other of an evening." Cuthbert was delighted with the
place, and with his usual enthusiasm speedily fixed upon a subject, and
setting up his easel and camp-stool began work on the morning after his
arrival. He had been engaged but a few hours when two young ladies came
along. They stopped close to him, and Cuthbert, who hated being
overlooked when at work, was on the point of growling an anathema under
his fair drooping mustache, when one of the girls came close and said
quietly--
"How are you, Mr. Hartington? Who would have thought of meeting you
here?"
He did not recognize her for a moment and then exclaimed--
"Why, it is Mary Brander. I beg your pardon," he went on, taking off his
soft, broad-brimmed hat, "I ought to have said Miss Brander, but having
known you so long as Mary Brander, the name slipped out. It must have
been three years since we met, and you have shot up from a girl into a
full-grown young lady. Are your father and mother here?"
"No, I came down last week to stay with my friend, Miss Treadwyn, who
was at Girton with me. Anna, this is Mr. Cuthbert Hartington. Mr.
Hartington's place is near Abchester, and he is one of my father's
clients."
Miss Treadwyn bowed and Cuthbert took off his hat.
"We have known each other ever since we were children," Mary went on,
"that is to say ever since I was a child, for he was a big boy then; he
often used to come into our house, while Mr. Hartington was going into
business matters with my father, and generally amused himself by teasing
me. He used to treat me as if I was a small sort of monkey, and
generally ended by putting me in a passion; of course that was in the
early days."
"Before you came to years of discretion, Miss Brander. You were growing
a very discreet damsel when I last saw you, and I felt rather afraid of
you. I know that you were good enough to express much disapproval of me
and my ways."
"Very likely I did, though I don't remember it. I think I was very
outspoken in those days."
"I do not think you have changed much in that respect, Mary," Miss
Treadwyn said.
"Why should one say what one does not think," Mary said, sturdily, "it
would be much better if we all did so. Do you not agree with me, Mr.
Hartington?"
"It depends upon what 'better' means; it would be awful to think of the
consequences if we all did so. Society would dissolve itself into its
component parts and every man's hand would be against his neighbor. I do
not say that people should say what they do not think, but I am sure
that the world would not be so pleasant as it is by a long way if every
one was to say exactly what he did think. Just imagine what the
sensation of authors or artists would be if critics were to state their
opinions with absolute candor!"
"I think it were better if they did so, Mr. Hartington; in that case
there would be fewer idiotic books written and fewer men wasting their
lives in trying vainly to produce good paintings."
"That is true enough," Cuthbert laughed, "but you must remember that
critics do not buy either books or paintings, and that there are plenty
of people who buy the idiotic books and are perfectly content with
pictures without a particle of artistic merit."
"I suppose so," she admitted, reluctantly, "but so much the worse, for
it causes mediocrity!"
"But we are most of us mediocre--authors like Dickens, Thackeray, and
George Eliot are the exception--and so are artists like Millais and
Landseer, but when books and paintings give pleasure they fulfil their
purpose, don't they?"
"If their purpose is to afford a livelihood to those that make them, I
suppose they do, Mr. Hartington; but they do not fulfil what ought to be
their purpose--which should, of course, be to elevate the mind or to
improve the taste."
He shook his head.
"That is too lofty an ideal altogether for me," he said. "I doubt
whether men are much happier for their minds being improved or their
tastes elevated, unless they are fortunate enough to have sufficient
means to gratify those tastes. If a man is happy and contented with the
street he lives in, the house he inhabits, the pictures on his walls,
and the books he gets from a library, is he better off when you teach
him that the street is mean and ugly, the house an outrage on
architectural taste, the wall-papers revolting, the pictures daubs, and
the books trash? Upon my word I don't think so. I am afraid I am a
Philistine."
"But you are an artist, are you not, Mr. Hartington," Miss Treadwyn
said, looking at the sketch which had already made considerable
progress.
"Unfortunately, no; I have a taste for art, but that is all. I should be
better off if I had not, for then I should be contented with doing
things like this; as it is I am in a perpetual state of grumble because
I can do no better."
"You know the Latin proverb _meliora video_, and so on, Mr. Hartington,
does it apply?"
"That is the first time I have had Latin quoted against me by a young
lady," Cuthbert said, smilingly, but with a slight flush that showed the
shaft had gone home. "I will not deny that the quotation exactly hits my
case. I can only plead that nature, which gave me the love for art, did
not give me the amount of energy and the capacity for hard work that are
requisite to its successful cultivation, and has not even given me the
stimulus of necessity, which is, I fancy, the greatest human motor."
"I should be quite content to paint as well as you do, Mr. Hartington,"
Anna Treadwyn said. "It must add immensely to the pleasure of travelling
to be able to carry home such remembrances of places one has seen."
"Yes, it does so, Miss Treadwyn. I have done a good deal of wandering
about in a small way, and have quite a pile of portfolios by whose aid I
can travel over the ground again and recall not only the scenery but
almost every incident, however slight, that occurred in connection
therewith."
"Well, Anna, I think we had better be continuing our walk."
"I suppose we had. May I ask, Mr. Hartington, where you are staying? I
am sure my mother will be very pleased if you will call upon us at
Porthalloc. There is a glorious view from the garden. I suppose you will
be at work all day, but you are sure to find us in of an evening."
"Yes, I fancy I shall live in the open air as long as there is light
enough to sketch by, Miss Treadwyn, but if your mother will be good
enough to allow me to waive ceremony, I will come up some evening after
dinner; in the meantime may I say that I shall always be found somewhere
along the shore, and will be glad to receive with due humility any
chidings that my old playmate, if she will allow me to call her so, may
choose to bestow upon me."
Anna Treadwyn nodded. "I expect we shall be here every day; the sea is
new to Mary, and at present she is wild about it."
"How could you go on so, Mary," she went on, as they continued their
walk.
"How could I?" the girl replied. "Have we not agreed that one of the
chief objects of women's lives should not only be to raise their own sex
to the level of man, but generally to urge men to higher aims, and yet
because I have very mildly shown my disapproval of Cuthbert Hartington's
laziness and waste of his talents, you ask me how I can do it!"
"Well, you see, Mary, it is one thing for us to form all sorts of
resolutions when we were sitting eight or ten of us together in your
rooms at Girton; but when it comes to putting them into execution one
sees things in rather a different light. I quite agree with our theories
and I hope to live up to them, as far as I can, but it seems to me much
easier to put the theories into practice in a general way than in
individual cases. A clergyman can denounce faults from the pulpit
without giving offence to anyone, but if he were to take one of his
congregation aside and rebuke him, I don't think the experiment would be
successful."
"Nathan said unto David, thou art the man."
"Yes, my dear, but you will excuse my saying that at present you have
scarcely attained the position of Nathan."
Mary Brander laughed.
"Well, no, but you see Cuthbert Hartington is not a stranger. I have
known him ever since I can remember, and used to like him very much,
though he did delight in teasing me; but I have been angry with him for
a long time, and though I had forgotten it, I remember I did tell him my
mind last time I saw him. You see his father is a dear old man, quite
the beau-ideal of a country squire, and there he is all alone in his big
house while his son chooses to live up in London. I have heard my father
and mother say over and over again that he ought to be at home taking
his place in the county instead of going on his own way, and I have
heard other ladies say the same."
"Perhaps mothers with marriageable daughters, Mary," Anna Treadwyn said
with a smile, "but I don't really see why you should be so severe on him
for going his own way. You are yourself doing so without, I fancy, much
deference to your parents' opinions, and besides I have heard you many a
time rail against the soullessness of the conversation and the gossip
and tittle-tattle of society in country towns, meaning in your case in
Abchester, and should, therefore, be the last to blame him for revolting
against it."
"You forget, Anna," Mary said, calmly, "that the cases are altogether
different. He goes his way with the mere selfish desire to amuse
himself. I have set, what I believe to be a great and necessary aim
before me. I don't pretend that there is any sacrifice in it, on the
contrary it is a source of pleasure and satisfaction to devote myself to
the mission of helping my sex to regain its independence, and to take up
the position which it has a right to."
"Of course we are both agreed on that, my dear, we only differ in the
best way of setting about it."
"I don't suppose Mr. Hartington will take what I said to heart," Mary
replied serenely, "and if he does it is a matter of entire indifference
to me."
The subject of their conversation certainly showed no signs of taking
the matter to heart. He smiled as he resumed his work.
"She is just what she used to be," he said to himself. "She was always
terribly in earnest. My father was saying last time I was down that he
had learned from Brander that she had taken up all sorts of Utopian
notions about women's rights and so on, and was going to spend two
years abroad, to get up her case, I suppose. She has grown very pretty.
She was very pretty as a child, though of course last time I saw her she
was at the gawky age. She is certainly turning the tables on me, and she
hit me hard with that stale old Latin quotation. I must admit it was
wonderfully apt. She has a good eye for dress; it is not many girls that
can stand those severely plain lines, but they suit her figure and face
admirably. I must get her and her friend to sit on a rock and let me put
them into the foreground of one of my sketches; funny meeting her here,
however, it will be an amusement."
After that it became a regular custom for the two girls to stop as they
came along the shore for a chat with Cuthbert, sometimes sitting down on
the rocks for an hour; their stay, however, being not unfrequently cut
short by Mary getting up with heightened color and going off abruptly.
It was Cuthbert's chief amusement to draw her out on her favorite
subject, and although over and over again she told herself angrily that
she would not discuss it with him, she never could resist falling into
the snares Cuthbert laid for her. She would not have minded had he
argued seriously with her, but this was just what he did not do, either
laughing at her theory, or replying to her arguments with a mock
seriousness that irritated her far more than his open laughter.
Anna Treadwyn took little part in the discussions, but sat an amused
listener. Mary had been the recognized leader of her set at Girton; her
real earnestness and the fact that she intended to go abroad to fit
herself the better to carry out her theories, but making her a power
among the others. Much as Anna liked and admired her, it amused her
greatly to see her entangled in the dilemma, into which Cuthbert led
her, occasionally completely posing her by his laughing objections. Of
an evening Cuthbert often went up to Porthalloc, where he was warmly
welcomed by Anna's mother, whose heart he won by the gentle and
deferential manner that rendered him universally popular among the
ladies of the families of his artist friends. She would sit smilingly by
when the conflicts of the morning were sometimes renewed, for she saw
with satisfaction that Anna at least was certainly impressed with
Cuthbert's arguments and banter, and afforded very feeble aid to Mary
Brander in her defence of their opinions.
"I feel really obliged to you, Mr. Hartington," she said one evening,
when the two girls happened to be both out of the room when he arrived,
"for laughing Anna out of some of the ideas she brought back from
Girton. At one time these gave me a great deal of concern, for my ideas
are old-fashioned, and I consider a woman's mission is to cheer and
brighten her husband's home, to be a good wife and a good mother, and to
be content with the position God has assigned to her as being her right
and proper one. However, I have always hoped and believed that she would
grow out of her new-fangled ideas, which I am bound to say she never
carried to the extreme that her friend does. The fact that I am somewhat
of an invalid and that it is altogether impossible for her to carry out
such a plan as Miss Brander has sketched for herself, and that there is
no opportunity whatever for her to get up a propaganda in this quiet
little Cornish town, has encouraged that hope; she herself has said but
little on the subject since she came home, and I think your fights with
Miss Brander will go far to complete her cure."
"It is ridiculous from beginning to end," Cuthbert said, "but it is
natural enough. It is in just the same way that some young fellows start
in life with all sorts of wild radical notions, and settle down in
middle age into moderate Liberals, if not into contented Conservatives.
The world is good enough in its way and at any rate if it is to get
better it will be by gradual progress and not by individual effort.
There is much that is very true in Miss Brander's views that things
might be better than they are, it is only with her idea that she has a
mission to set them right that I quarrel. Earnestness is no doubt a good
thing, but too much of it is a misfortune rather than an advantage. No
doubt I am prejudiced," he laughed, "because I am afraid that I have no
particle of it in my composition. Circumstances have been against its
growth, and there is no saying what I might be if they were to change.
At present, at any rate, I have never felt the want of it, but I can
admire it among others even though I laugh at it."
A month passed, and Wilson and his two companions moved further along
the coast in search of fresh subjects, but Cuthbert declined to
accompany them, declaring that he found himself perfectly comfortable
where he was, at which his companions all laughed, but made no attempt
to persuade him further.
"Do you know, Mary," Anna said, a few days later, "you and Mr.
Hartington remind me strongly of Beatrice and Benedict."
"What do you mean, Anna?" Mary asked, indignantly.
"Nothing, my dear," Anna replied, demurely, "except that you are
perpetually quarrelling."
"We may be that," Mary said, shortly, "but we certainly shall not arrive
at the same kind of conclusion to our quarrel."
"You might do worse, Mary; Mr. Hartington is charming. My mother, who is
not given to general admiration, says he is one of the most delightful
men that she ever met. He is heir to a good estate, and unless I am
greatly mistaken, the idea has occurred to him if not to you. I thought
so before, but have been convinced of it since he determined to remain
here while those men he was with have all gone away."
"You will make me downright angry with you, Anna, if you talk such
nonsense," Mary said, severely. "You know very well that I have always
made up mind that nothing shall induce me to marry and give up my
freedom, at any rate for a great many years, and then only to a man who
will see life as I do, become my co-worker and allow me my independence.
Mr. Hartington is the last man I should choose; he has no aim or purpose
whatever, and he would ruin my life as well as his own. No, thank you.
However, I am convinced that you are altogether mistaken, and Cuthbert
Hartington would no more dream of asking me to be his wife than I should
of taking him for a husband--the idea is altogether preposterous."
However, a week later, Cuthbert, on going up to Porthalloc one morning,
and catching sight of Mary Brander in the garden by herself, joined her
there and astonished her by showing that Anna was not mistaken in her
view. He commenced abruptly--
"Do you know, Miss Brander, I have been thinking over your arguments,
and I have come to the conclusion that woman has really a mission in
life. Its object is not precisely that which you have set yourself, but
it is closely allied to it, my view being that her mission is to
contribute to the sum of human happiness by making one individual man
happy!"
"Do you mean, is it possible that you can mean, that you think woman's
mission is to marry?" she asked, with scorn, "are you going back to
that?"
"That is entirely what I meant, but it is a particular case I was
thinking of, rather than a general one. I was thinking of your case and
mine. I do not say that you might not do something towards adding to the
happiness of mankind, but mankind are not yearning for it. On the other
hand I am sure that you could make me happy, and I am yearning for that
kind of happiness."
"Are you really in earnest, Mr. Hartington?"
"Quite in earnest, very much so; in the six weeks that I have been here
I have learnt to love you, and to desire, more earnestly certainly than
I have ever desired anything before, that you should be my wife. I know
that you do not credit me with any great earnestness of purpose, but I
am quite earnest in this. I do love you, Mary."
"I am sorry to hear it, and am surprised, really and truly surprised. I
thought you disapproved of me altogether, but I did think you gave me
credit for being sincere. It is clear you did not, or you could not
suppose that I would give up all my plans before even commencing them. I
like you very much, Cuthbert, though I disapprove of you as much as I
thought you disapproved of me; but if ever I do marry, and I hope I
shall never be weak enough to do so, it must be to someone who has the
same views of life that I have; but I feel sure that I shall never love
anyone if love is really what one reads of in books, where woman is
always ready to sacrifice her whole life and her whole plans to a man
who graciously accepts the sacrifice as a matter of course."
"I was afraid that that would be your answer," he said gravely. "And yet
I was not disposed to let the chance of happiness go without at least
knowing that it was so. I can quite understand that you do not even feel
that I am really in earnest. So small did I feel my chances were, that I
should have waited for a time before I risked almost certain refusal,
had it not been that you are on the point of going abroad for two years.
And two years is a long time to wait when one feels that one's chance is
very small at the end of that time. Well, it is of no use saying
anything more about it. I may as well say good-bye at once, for I shall
pack up and go. Good-bye, dear; I hope that you are wrong, and that some
day you will make some man worthy of you happy, but when the time comes
remember that I prophesy that he will not in the slightest degree
resemble the man you picture to yourself now. I think that the saying
that extremes meet is truer than those that assert that like meets like;
but whoever he is I hope that he will be someone who will make you as
happy as I should have tried to do."
"Good-bye, Cuthbert," she said, frankly, "I think this has all been very
silly, and I hope that by the time we meet again you will have forgotten
all about it."
There was something in his face, as she looked up into it, that told her
what she had before doubted somewhat, that he had been really in earnest
for once in his life, and she added, "I do hope we shall be quite good
friends when we meet again, and that you will then see I am quite right
about this."
He smiled, gave her a little nod, and then dropping her hand sauntered
into the house.
"It is the most foolish thing I have ever heard of," she said to
herself, pettishly, as she looked after him. "I can't think how such an
idea ever occurred to him. He must have known that even if I had not
determined as I have done to devote myself to our cause, he was the last
sort of man I should ever have thought of marrying. Of course he is nice
and I always thought so, but what is niceness when he has no aims, no
ambitions in life, and he is content to waste it as he is doing."
Five minutes later Anna Treadwyn joined her in the garden.
"So I was right after all, Mary?"
"How do you know, do you mean to say that he has told you?"
"Not exactly, but one can use one's eyes, I suppose. He said nothing
last night about going away, and now he is leaving by this afternoon's
coach; besides, although he laughed and talked as usual one could see
with half an eye that it was forced. So you have actually refused him?"
"Of course I have, how can you ask such a question? It was the most
perfectly absurd idea I ever heard of."
"Well, I hope that you will never be sorry for it, Mary."
"There is not much fear of that," Mary said, with a toss of her head,
"and let me say that it is not very polite, either of you or him, to
think that I should be ready to give up all my plans in life, the first
time I am asked, and that by a gentleman who has not the slightest
sympathy with them. It is a very silly and tiresome affair altogether,
and I do hope I shall never hear anything of it again."