BEATRICE REDWING
Midway in breakfast next morning, at a moment when Mrs. Rossall was
describing certain originalities of drawing-room decoration observed on
the previous day at a house in town, the half-open door admitted a young
lady who had time to glance round the assembled family before her
presence was observed. In appearance she was very interesting. The tints
of her fine complexion were warmed by exercise in the morning air, and
her dark eyes brightened by pleasurable excitement; she carried her hat
in her hand, and seemed to have been walking bare-headed, for there were
signs of wind-play in her abundant black hair. But neither face nor
attire suggested rusticity: the former was handsome, spirited, with a
hint of uncommon things in its changeful radiance; the latter was the
result of perfect taste choosing at will among the season's costumes. At
her throat were fastened two blossoms of wild rose, with the dew still
on them, and the hand which held her lace-trimmed sunshade carried also
a spray of meadow-sweet.
Mr. Athel, looking up from the end of the table, was the first to
perceive her.
'_Guardami ben: ben son, ben son Beatrice_!' he exclaimed, rising and
moving from his place. 'But how in the world has she got here?'
'Beatrice!' cried Mrs. Rossall, following the general direction of eyes.
'Here already! But you surely haven't come from town this morning?'
'But indeed I have,' was the reply, in a joyous voice, whose full, rich
quality took the ear captive. 'Will you let me sit down just as I am?
Patty, here's a rose for you, and, Minnie, another for you.' She took
them from her dress. 'How do you do, Mr. Wilfrid?'
The governess was mentioned to her by name; Beatrice looked at her
steadfastly for a moment.
'But how have you got here?' inquired Mrs. Rossall. 'You must have left
London at an unheard-of hour; and how have yen come from Dealing?'
'Clearly she has walked,' said Mr. Athel. 'Don't you see the spoils of
her progress?'
'Oh yes, I have walked,' replied the girl. 'I suppose I'm in a dreadful
state; towards the end I almost ran. I was so afraid lest I should miss
breakfast, and you can't imagine how hungry I am. Is that oatmeal
porridge you are eating, Mr. Wilfrid? Oh, do let me have some; how
delicious it will be!'
'Nonsense, Beatrice,' interposed Mrs. Rossall. 'Let Mr. Athel give you
some of that pate, or will you have--'
'I've been a vegetarian for a month,' was the reply.
'You don't mean it?'
'Most strictly. No--eggs are not permitted; only the feebler school
allows them. You can't think how much better I have been in body and
mind since I adopted the new diet.'
'But whatever train did you start by?' pressed Mrs. Rossall.
'Half-past six. I never can sleep these short summer nights. I was up
about five o'clock, and just as I was going to read I saw the railway
time-table. I looked for the first train and determined to come by it. I
wrote a short note to let mother know what had become of me, then in a
minute or two I got my things packed, and last of all stole out of the
house to find a cab. Luckily, a policeman was just passing the door; he
found one for me in no time. Not a soul was up, so I dragged the trunk
out on to the landing, and then made the cabman creep upstairs like a
burglar to fetch it. Of course he thought I was running away; he enjoyed
the joke wonderfully; you should have seen his smile when I paid him at
the station. Perhaps you'll let them fetch my luggage before lunch?'
'But won't your mother be alarmed?' asked Mrs. Rossall.
'Why should she? She knows I am very capable of taking care of myself. I
wouldn't have missed this walk for anything. I only lost my way once,
and then, luckily, a farmer came driving along: he told me I had half a
mile more. I trebled his distance, which made it about right.'
'It's a good four miles from the station,' remarked Mr. Athel.
'Is it? If I hadn't been so hungry I shouldn't have minded as much
again. You're not angry with me, Mrs. Rossall, for coming before I was
expected?'
A curious note of irresponsible childishness came out now and then in
her talk, as in this last question; it was the more noticeable for the
air of maturity and self-possession which on the whole characterised
her. She continued to talk with much vivacity, making at the same time a
hearty meal. Her place at the table was between Wilfrid and Patty; on
the opposite side sat Miss Hood and Minnie. As often as her eyes fell
upon the governess's face, they rested there for a moment, searchingly,
as if with endeavour to recall some memory.
'Who is responsible for your vegetarianism?' Wilfrid asked. 'Is Mr.
Cresset preaching the doctrine?'
'No, Mr. Cresset is not preaching the doctrine,' was the reply, in a
tone which evidently contained reference to previous dissensions.
'Surely there is nothing offensive in the suggestion?' remarked the
young man mildly.
'Yes, there is something offensive. Your references to Mr. Cresset are
always offensive.'
'You do me injustice. Aunt, I take you to witness, didn't I praise
ungrudgingly a sermon of his we heard last Christmas?'
'I remember quite well,' said Beatrice; 'you regarded it as
extraordinary that anything good could come from that source, Mr. Athel,
I take you to witness, wasn't that his tone?'
'Patty,' interposed Mrs. Rossall, 'do change your place and sit between
those two; they never can be next each other without quarrelling.'
Breakfast drew out to unusual length. Miss Redwing was full of the
season's news, and Mrs. Rossall's reviving interest in such vanities
scarcely affected concealment. Mr. Athel, too, though he supported a
jesting tone, clearly enjoyed listening to the girl's vivacious comments
on the world which amuses itself. Wilfrid talked less than usual.
He and his father strolled together into the garden an hour later, and
found Beatrice reclining in a hammock which had recently been suspended
in a convenient spot. She had one hand beneath her head, the other held
a large fan, with which she warded off stray flakes of sunlight falling
between the leaves.
'Isn't this exquisite?' she cried. 'Let no one hint to me of stirring
before lunch-time. I am going to enjoy absolute laziness.'
'I thought you would have preferred a gallop over the downs,' said Mr.
Athel.
'Oh, we'll have that this afternoon; you may talk of it now, and I shall
relish it in anticipation. Or, better still, sit down and tell us old
stories about Egypt, and let us forget the age we live in.'
'What is amiss with the age?' inquired Mr. Athel, who stood smoking a
cigar and was in his wonted state of satisfaction with himself and the
universe.
'Everything is amiss. If you had been with me yesterday in a street I
was visiting, not a quarter of a mile from home--But I'm going to forget
all that now. How deliciously warm it is here in the shade! I must have
a hammock in our garden at Cowes.'
'When do you go back?' Mr. Athel asked.
'In about a fortnight. It has done mother no end of good; don't you
think she looks remarkably well, Mrs. Rossall? I'm afraid she finds it a
little dull though.'
When his father had returned to the house, Wilfrid sat in the grass and
rested his head against the arm of the low garden chair in which Mrs.
Rossall was reclining. The sound of a grass-cutter alone mingled with
the light rustling of the trees. It was one of those perfect summer
mornings when the sun's rays, though streaming from a cloudless sky, are
tempered by a gentle haze in the upper regions of the air, when the
zenith has a tinge of violet and on the horizon broods a reddish mist.
From this part of the garden only a glimpse of the house was visible; an
upper window with white curtains, cool, peaceful. All else on every side
was verdure and bloom.
'Is it possible,' Beatrice asked, when there had been silence for a few
moments, 'that I can have met Miss Hood anywhere before to-day? Her face
is strangely familiar to me.'
'She has never been in London before she came to us,' said Mrs. Rossall.
'But you have relatives in Dunfield, I think?' remarked Wilfrid.
'To be sure,' said his aunt; 'she comes from Dunfield, in Yorkshire. Do
you think you can have met her there?'
'Ah, that explains it,' Beatrice cried eagerly. 'I knew I had seen her,
and I know now where it was. She gave lessons to my uncle's children. I
saw her when I was staying there the last time, three--no, four years
ago. I can't recall her by her name, but her face, oh, I remember it as
clearly as possible.'
'What a memory you have, Beatrice!' said Mrs. Rossall.
'I never forget a face that strikes me.'
'In what way did Miss Hood's face strike you?' Wilfrid asked, as if in
idle curiosity, and with some of the banter which always marked his tone
to Beatrice.
'You would like some deep, metaphysical reason, but I am not advanced
enough for that. I don't suppose I thought much about her at the time,
but the face has stayed in my mind. But how old is she?'
'Two-and-twenty,' said Mrs. Rossall, smiling.
'A year older than myself; my impression was that she was more than
that. I think I only saw her once; she was with us at lunch one day. We
spoke of her shyness, I remember; she scarcely said a word all the
time.'
'Yes, she is very shy,' assented Mrs. Rossall.
'That's a mistake, I think, aunt,' said Wilfrid; 'shyness is quite a
different thing from reticence.'
'Reticent, then,' conceded the lady, with a smile to Beatrice. 'At all
events, she is very quiet and agreeable and well-bred. It is such a good
thing to have a governess who really seems well-bred; it does make it so
much easier to treat her with consideration.'
'Do the children like her?' Beatrice asked.
'Very much indeed. And it's wonderful how she controls them; they are
scatter-brained little creatures.'
'Will she go abroad with you?'
'Oh, no, I don't think that necessary.'
Wilfrid presently left the two to their gossip. The conversation
naturally turned to him.
'How is his health?' Beatrice asked.
'He seems quite recovered. I don't think there was ever anything to
occasion much alarm, but his father got frightened. I expect we shall
bring him back from Switzerland as well as ever he was.'
'What ever has he done with himself the last two months?' mused the
girl.
'Well, it has been rather hard to keep him occupied away from books. He
has been riding a good deal, and smoking a good deal.'
'And talking a good deal?'
'Well, yes, Wilf is fond of talking,' admitted Mrs. Rossall, 'but I
don't think he's anything like as positive as he was. He does now and
then admit that other people may have an opinion which is worth
entertaining. Celia Dawlish was with us a fortnight ago; she declared
him vastly improved.'
'She told him so?'
'No, that was in private to me.'
'But I think Celia and he always got on well together,' said Beatrice in
an idly meditative tone, moving the edge of her fan backwards and
forwards a few inches above her face.
A few minutes later, after a silence, she said--
'Do you know what I am thinking?'
'What?' asked Mrs. Rossall, with an air of interest.
'That if I were to close my eyes and keep quiet I should very soon be
fast asleep.'
The other laughed at the unexpected reply.
'Then why not do so, dear? It's warm enough; you couldn't take any
harm.'
'I suppose the walk has tired me.'
'But if you had no sleep last night? How is it you can't sleep, I
wonder? Is it the same when you are at Cowes?'
'No, only in London. Something troubles me; I feel that I have neglected
duties. I hear voices, as distinct as yours now, reproving me for my
idle, frivolous life.'
'Nonsense! I am sure you are neither idle nor frivolous. Do doze off, if
you can, dear; I'll go and get something to read.'
'You won't be angry with me?' the girl asked, in the tone of an
affectionate weary child.
'I shall if you use ceremony with me.'
Beatrice sighed, folded her hands upon the fan, and closed her lids.
When Mrs. Rossall returned from the house with a magazine and a light
shawl, the occupant of the hammock was already sound asleep. She threw
the shawl with womanly skill and gentleness over the shapely body. When
she had resumed her seat, she caught a glimpse of Wilfrid at a little
distance; her beckoned summons brought him near.
'Look,' she whispered, pointing to the hammock. 'When did you see a
prettier picture?'
The young man gazed with a free smile, the expression of critical
appreciativeness. The girl's beauty stirred in him no mood but that. She
slept with complete calm of feature the half-lights that came through
the foliage made an exquisite pallor on her face, contrasting with the
dark masses of her hair. Her bosom rose and fell in the softest sighing;
her pure throat was like marble, and her just parted lips seemed to need
a protector from the bees....
While she sleeps, let us learn a little more of her history. Some
five-and-twenty years previously, Alfred Redwing was a lecturer on Greek
and Latin at a small college in the North of England, making shift to
live on a beggarly stipend. Handsome, pleasing, not quite thirty, he was
well received in such semblance of society as his town offered, and, in
spite of his defects as a suitor, he won for his wife a certain Miss
Baxendale, the daughter of a well-to-do manufacturer. She brought him at
once a few hundreds a year, and he pursued his college work in improved
spirits. His wife had two brothers; one had early gone to America, the
other was thriving as a man of business in the town of Dunfield. With
Laurence Baxendale, who dated his very occasional letters from various
parts of the United States, the family might be said to have parted for
good; before leaving England he had got on ill terms with his father and
brother, and it was only a persistent affection for his sister that
caused him to give any sign of himself year after year. When this sister
had been Mrs. Redwing for about two years, she one day received an
intimation from solicitors that Laurence was dead and had left her the
whole of a very considerable fortune, the product, mainly, of dealings
in lumber. Mr. and Mrs. Redwing in fact found themselves possessed of
nearly fourteen thousand a year, proceeding from most orderly
investments. This would naturally involve a change in their mode of
life. In the first place they paid a visit to America; then they settled
in London, where, about the same time, their only child, Beatrice was
born. A month after the child's coming into the world, the father
withdrew from it--into a private lunatic asylum. He had not been himself
from the day when he heard of the fortune that had come to him; such an
access of blessedness was not provided for in the constitution of his
mind. Probably few men of his imaginative temperament and hard
antecedents could have borne the change without some little unsettling
of mental balance; we are framed to endure any amount of ill, but have
to take our chance in the improbable event of vast joy befalling us.
Poor Redwing conceived a suspicion that his wife desired to murder him;
one night as she was following him into their bedroom, he suddenly
turned round, caught hold of her with violence, and flung her to the
ground, demanding the knife which he protested he had seen gleam in her
hand. It was no longer safe to live with him; he was put under
restraint, and never again knew freedom. In less than a year he died, a
moping maniac.
Mrs. Redwing was an invalid thenceforth; probably it was only the
existence of her child that saved her life. An affection of the heart in
course of time declared itself, but, though her existence was believed
to hang on a thread, she lived on and on, lived to see Beatrice grow to
womanhood. She kept a small house in London, but spent the greater part
of the year at home or foreign health-resorts. Her relatives had
supposed that she would return to her own country, but Mrs. Redwing had
tastes which lacked gratification in a provincial manufacturing town.
Without having achieved much positive culture, she had received from her
husband an impulse towards the development of certain higher
possibilities in her nature, and she liked the society of mentally
active people. The state of her health alone withheld her from a second
marriage; she was not a very patient invalid, and suffered keenly in the
sense of missing the happiness which life had offered her. In the matter
of her daughter's education she exercised much care. Doctrinal religion
had a strong hold upon her, and it was her solicitude that Beatrice
should walk from the first in the ways of Anglican salvation. She
dreaded the 'spirit of the age.' With a better judgment in pure
literature than falls to the lot of most women--or men either--she yet
banished from her abode, wherever it might be anything that remotely
savoured of intellectual emancipation; her aesthetic leanings she deemed
the great temptation of her life, for she frankly owned to her friends
that many things powerfully attracted her, which her conscience bade
her shun as dangerous. Her generosity made her a shining light in the
world which busies itself in the dispensing or receiving of
ecclesiastical charity. The clerical element was very strong in the
circle that surrounded her. At the same time her worldly tastes did not
go altogether ungratified. She was very fond of music, and her unlimited
powers in the provision of first-rate musical entertainment brought to
her house acquaintances of a kind that would not otherwise have been
found there. The theatre she tabooed, regarding this severity as an
acceptable sacrifice, and not troubling to reflect what share her
ill-health had in rendering it a fairly easy one. In brief, she was a
woman of a genial nature, whose inconsistencies were largely due to her
inability to outgrow early conditions.
Beatrice inherited her mother's mental restrictions, but was endowed
with a subtlety of nature, which, aided by her circumstances, made her
yet more a being of inconsistencies and contradictions. In religion it
was not enough for her to conform; zeal drove her into the extremest
forms of ritualistic observance. Nor did care for her personal salvation
suffice; the logic of a compassionate nature led her on to various forms
of missionary activity; she haunted vile localities, ministering alike
to soul and body. At the same time she relished keenly the delights of
the masquerading sphere, where her wealth and her beauty made her doubly
welcome. From praying by the bedside of a costermonger's wife, she would
speed away to shine among the brightest in phantasmagoric drawing-rooms;
her mother could seldom accompany her, but there was always some one
ready to chaperon Beatrice Redwing. Once in the world from which thought
is banished, she seemed as thoughtless as any. Her spiritual convictions
put no veto even upon dancing. Yet her mood at such times was not the
entire self-abandonment of the girl who is born but to waltz. In spite
of the sanction of custom, she could not wholly suppress her virginal
instincts, and, however unconsciously, something in her nature held
itself aloof. She led a life of indecision. Combining in herself such
contradictory elements, she was unable to make close friendships. Her
intimacy with Mrs. Rossall, which dated from her late childhood, was not
the perfect accord which may subsist between women of very different
characters, yet here she gave and received more sympathy than elsewhere.
It was her frequent saying that she came to Mrs. Rossall's house when
she wanted to rest. Here she could be herself, could pass without
interval from pietistic argument to chatter about her neighbours, could
indulge in impulses of confession as with no one else, could put off the
strain of existence which was the result of her conflicting impulses.
But it was only during a portion of the year that she could have Mrs.
Rossall's society at other times, though no one suspected it, she
suffered much from loneliness. With her mother she was in accord on the
subjects of religion and music, but even natural affection, blending
with these sympathies, could not bring about complete unity in her home
there was the same lack that she experienced in the outer world. For all
her versatility, she was not in appearance emotional; no one seemed less
likely to be overcome by passion. Her enthusiasms fell short of the last
note of sincerity. Perhaps it was on this account that she produced no
strong impression, in spite of her beauty. Her personality suffered on
acquaintance from defect of charm. Was it a half-consciousness of this
that led her now and then into the curious affectation of childishness
already remarked? Did she feel unable to rely for pleasing upon those
genuine possessions which for sonic reason could never advantageously
display themselves?....
For more than an hour she slept. At her waking she found Minnie standing
by her side.
'Are your lessons over?' she asked, passing at once into full
consciousness, without sign of having slept.
The child replied that they were.
'Where is Miss Hood?'
'In the summer-house.'
Beatrice rose, and they walked towards the summer-house together. It was
in a corner of the garden, hidden among acacias and laurels, a circular
hut in the ordinary style. Patty and the governess were seated within.
Beatrice entered, and took a scat with them.
'Is your memory as good as my own, Miss Hood?' she said pleasantly. 'Do
you remember our meeting four years ago?'
The other regarded her with quiet surprise, and said she had no
recollection of the meeting.
'Not at Mr. Baxendale's, my uncle's, one day that you lunched with us
when I was staying there?'
Miss Hood had wholly forgotten the circumstance. It served, however, for
the commencement of a conversation, which went en till Mrs. Rossall,
finding the hammock deserted, was guided by the sound of voices to where
the two girls and the children sat.
In the afternoon there was a setting forth into the country. Mr. Athel
drove his sister and the children; Wilfrid and Beatrice accompanied them
on horseback. The course to be pursued having been determined, the
riders were not at pains to keep the carriage always within sight.
'Why did Miss Hood decline to come?' Mr. Athel inquired, shortly after
they had started.
She gave no reason, Mrs. Rossall replied. 'It was her choice to stay at
home.'
'Of course you asked her in a proper way?'
'Why, Philip, of course I did.'
'Miss Hood never alters her mind,' remarked Patty.
'Never,' exclaimed the other twin with decision.
'An admirable characteristic,' commented their uncle, 'provided her
decision is right to begin with.'
Beatrice had just led off at a gallop; Wilfrid necessarily followed her.
When the pace slackened they began to talk of Indifferent things. On the
crest of a hill, whence the carriage could be seen far away on the white
road, the girl reined in, and, turning to her companion, asked
abruptly--
'What is your opinion of Miss Hood?'
'Why do you ask such a question?'
'Because I should like to know. She interests me, and you must have had
opportunities enough lately of studying her character?'
'Why does she interest you?'
'I can't say. I thought you might help me to discover the reason. You
have often said that you liked women of strongly marked character.'
'How do you conclude that she is one?'
'I feel it; we were talking together before lunch. I don't think I like
her; I don't think she has principles.'
Wilfrid laughed.
'Principles! The word is vague. You mean, no doubt, that she doesn't
seem to have commonplace prejudices.'
'That's just what I wanted you to say.'
She let her horse move on. The young man followed, his eyes gazing
absently before him, a smile fixed upon his lips.
Beatrice looked over her shoulder.
'Does she read the same kind of books that you do?'
'Unfortunately I read no books at all.'
She paused again to let him get to her side.
'What a pity it can't continue!'
'What?'
'Your inability to read.'
'That is the kindest remark I have heard for a long time!' exclaimed
Wilfrid with a good-natured laugh.
'Very likely it is, though you don't mean it. When you read, you only
poison your mind. It is your reading that has made you what you are,
without faith, without feeling. You dissect everything, you calculate
motives cynically, you have learnt to despise everyone who believes what
you refuse to, you make your own intellect the centre of the world. You
are dangerous.'
'What a character! To whom am I dangerous?'
'To anyone whom it pleases you to tempt, in whom you find the beginnings
of disbelief.'
'In brief, I have no principles?'
'Of course you have none.'
'In other words, I am selfish?'
'Intensely so.'
It was hard to discover whether she were in earnest. Wilfrid examined
her for a moment, and concluded that she must be. Her eyes were gleaming
with no mock seriousness, and there was even a slight quiver about her
lips. In all their exchanges of banter he had never known her look and
speak quite as she did now. As he regarded her there came a flush to her
cheek. She turned her head away and rode on.
'And what moves you to visit me with this castigation at present, Miss
Redwing?' he asked, still maintaining his jesting tone.
'I don't know,' she answered carelessly. 'I felt all at once able to say
what I thought.'
'Then you do really think all this?'
'Assuredly I do.'
He kept silence a little.
'And you can't see,' he began, rather more seriously, 'that you are
deplorably lacking in the charity which surely should be among _your_
principles?'
'There are some things to which charity must not be extended.'
'Let us say, then, discretion, insight.' He spoke yet more earnestly.
'You judge me, and, in truth, you know as little of me as anyone could.
The attitude of your mind prevents you from understanding me in the
least; it prevents you from understanding any human being. You are
consumed with prejudice, and prejudice of the narrowest, most hopeless
kind. Am I too severe?'
'Not more so than you have often been. Many a time you have told me how
you despised me.'
He was silent, then spoke impulsively.
'Well, perhaps the word is not too strong; though it is not your very
self that I despise, but the ignorance and bigotry which possess you. It
is a pity; I believe you might be a woman of quite a different kind.'
'Of pronounced character?'
'Precisely. You are neither one thing nor another. You have told me what
you think of me; shall I be equally frank and speak as if you were a
college friend? For at all events we _are_ friends.'
'I am not sure of that.'
'Oh, but I am; and we shall be friends none the worse for ingenuousness
on both sides. Look at the position in which you stand. One moment you
arc a woman of the world, the next you run frantic with religious zeal,
another turn and you are almost an artist, at your piano; when you are
tired of all these you become, or try to become, a sort of _ingenue_. In
the name of consistency, be one thing or another. You are quite mistaken
in thinking that I despise religious enthusiasm in itself. Become a
veritable Beatrice, and I will venerate you infinitely. Give up
everything to work in London slums, and you shall have my warmest
admiration. But you are not sincere.'
'I am sincere!' she broke in, with more passion than he had ever
imagined her capable of uttering.
'I cannot call it sincerity. It is impossible that you should be
sincere; you live in the latter end of the nineteenth century; the
conditions of your birth and education forbid sincerity of this kind.'
'I am sincere,' she repeated, but in a low voice, without looking at
him.
'On the other hand,' he proceeded, 'surrender yourself entirely to the
life of society, and I will still respect you. You are a beautiful
woman; you might be inexpressibly charming. Frankly recognise your
capabilities, and cultivate your charm. Make a study of your loveliness;
make it your end to be a queen in drawing-rooms.'
'You insult me.'
'I can't see that I do. There is nothing contemptible in such an aim;
nothing is contemptible that is thorough. Or you have the third course.
Pursue music with seriousness. Become a real artist; a public singer,
let us say. No amateur nonsense; recognise that you have a superb voice,
and that by dint of labour you may attain artistic excellence. You talk
of getting up concerts in low parts of London, of humanising ruffians by
the influence of music. Pshaw! humanise humanity at large by devotion to
an artistic ideal; the other aim is paltry, imbecile, charlatan.'
He tried to see her face; she rode on, holding it averted.
'Follow any one of these courses, and you will make of yourself a true
woman. By trying to be a bit of everything you become insignificant.
Napoleon the Great was a curse to mankind, but one thinks more of him
than of Napoleon the Little, who wasn't quite sure whether to be a curse
or a blessing. There is a self in every one of us; the end of our life
is to discern it, bring it out, make it actual. You don't yet know your
own self; you have not the courage to look into your heart and mind; you
keep over your eyes the bandage of dogmas in which you only half
believe. Your insincerity blights the natural qualities of your
intellect. You have so long tried to persuade yourself of the evil of
every way of thinking save ecclesiastical dogmatism, that you cannot
judge fairly even those to whom you are most friendly. Cannot you see
that the world has outgrown the possibility of one universal religion?
For good or for evil, each of us must find a religion in himself, and
you have no right whatever to condemn before you have understood.'
'You cannot say that you have any religion,' she said, facing him. He
saw to his astonishment that there had been tears in her eyes.
'You cannot say that I have none. The radical fault of your uninstructed
way of looking at things is that you imagine mankind and the world to be
matters of such simple explanation. You learn by heart a few maxims,
half a dozen phrases, and there is your key to every mystery. That is
the child's state of mind. You have never studied, you have never
thought. Your self-confidence is ludicrous; you and such as you do not
hesitate to judge offhand men who have spent a long life in the
passionate pursuit of wisdom. You have no reverence. It is the fault you
attribute to me, but wrongly; if you had ever brought an open mind to
our conversations, you would have understood that my reverence even for
your ideal is not a wit less than your own; it is only that I see it in
another light. You say that I have no religion: what if I have not? Are
one's final conclusions to be achieved in a year or two of early
manhood? I have my inner voices, and I try to understand them. Often
enough they are ambiguous, contradictory; I live in hope that their
bidding will become clearer. I search for meanings, try to understand
myself, strive after knowledge.'
'You might as well have been born a pagan. One voice has spoken; its
bidding is the sufficient and only guide.'
'Say rather that so it seems to you. Your inheritance of conviction is
not mine; your mode of reasoning and my own have nothing in common. We
inhabit different worlds.'
Beatrice let her eyes turn slowly to his face. The smile with which he
met her found no reflection on her countenance; her look was that of one
who realises a fatality.
'Shall we join them?' she asked in a moment, nodding towards the far-off
carriage which was about to hide itself among trees.
Wilfrid mused instead of answering. She began to ride on.
'Stay one minute,' he said. 'I have been anything but courteous in my
way of speaking to you, but it was better to put off idle forms, was it
not?'
'Yes; I shall know henceforth what you think of me.'
'Not from this one conversation, if you mean that.'
'Well, it does not matter.'
'Perhaps not. Difference of opinion has fortunately little to do with
old-standing kindness.'
'I am not sure that you are right, at all events when it has expressed
itself in words of contempt.'
It was not resentment that her voice conveyed, but some thing which
Wilfrid found it harder to bear. Her drooped eyelids and subdued tone
indicated a humble pride, which the protest of her beauty made pathetic.
'We will never speak of such things again,' he said gently. 'Let me have
your forgiveness. When we join them down there, they will laugh at us
and say we have been quarrelling as usual; in future I think we mustn't
quarrel, we are both of us getting too old for the amusement. When you
sing to us to-night, I shall remember how foolish I was even to pretend
contempt.'
'You will be thinking,' she said, 'that I am a mere amateur.'
'If I do, I shall be an ungrateful wretch--and an insensible one, to
boot.'
She rode down the hill without replying.