IN THE CRUCIBLE
Despite the squire's protests I remained in my own cottage until the
Monday when Mother Hubbard's frail body was laid to rest in the little
graveyard. There was nothing to fear, and I felt that I could not
leave her there alone. She would have rebuked me, I know, and would
have read me the lesson of the cocoon and the butterfly; but I am most
contented when I trust implicitly to my instincts, and my Inner Self
bade me stay.
Practically all the village turned out to the funeral, and the chapel
was crowded to its utmost capacity. It was a cheerful service, too, in
spite of our tears, for the ministers and members had caught her
spirit, and "Lydia" was sung with a vigour and heartiness which I
should have liked the dear old lady to witness. Perhaps she did: who
knows?
The squire and I occupied the position of chief mourners, but the
entire village sorrowed, as those only sorrow who have lost a friend
that cannot be replaced. There is no other Mother Hubbard here, and
how much she will be missed when trouble sits by the hearths of the
people only time can make known.
When all was over I went straight to my new home at the Hall, and
entered into possession of the lovely room which had been prepared for
me. Every morning and afternoon I go to my work at the studio, but
without the zest which makes duty a delight. The squire would like me
to abandon the studio altogether and do my regular work at the Hall,
but I cannot quite reconcile myself to the idea. After all, the studio
is there, and as the weeks go by I shall lose the sense of desolation
which is now associated with the place, and which hangs like lead upon
the wings of my spirit.
Yet what cause for gratitude is mine! Though I have lost one true
friend another is here to comfort and cheer me with never-failing
insight and sympathy. How I enjoy these long evenings in the library,
the quiet talks in the firelight, the hour which follows the lighting
of the lamp, when I read aloud from the squire's favourite authors or
the learned quarterlies; and best of all, the comments and discussions
which enable me to plumb the depths of his mind and make me marvel at
the extent of his knowledge. He likes me to sit on a stool at his feet
as I did, ages ago, at Zermatt, resting my arm or book upon his knee
and within easy reach of his caressing hand. Whatever I may have lost
by coming to Windyridge I have certainly found affection, and I am
woman enough to value it above all my losses.
So far, Mr. Derwent has come down each week-end and has remained at the
Hall over the Sunday. For some reason which he does not explain the
squire seems rather amused with him just now, and indulges occasionally
in a mild form of banter which leaves the younger man quite unruffled.
He asks him how he can possibly tear himself away so often from the
attractions and duties of the metropolis; and I cannot help thinking
that he suspects the existence of an attractive force there. I wonder
if the Cynic has told him anything of Rose. For myself, I am not
surprised that he comes to Broadbeck for the week-ends, because the
habit is ingrained in him, and bachelors of his age do not readily
abandon old customs.
We had a very interesting evening on Saturday. The vicar is away on a
stone-hunt of some kind, so his wife came to dinner, and gave spice to
the conversation, as she invariably does. I am always delighted when
she forms one of the company that includes the Cynic, for she is
refreshingly blunt and frank with him, and he does not get all his own
way. And at the same time he seems to enjoy drawing her out--I suppose
he would say "pulling her leg," if she were not a lady.
On this particular occasion she attacked him the moment we were
comfortably settled in the library, and for a long time the battle was
a mere duel of wits. She was extremely scornful because he had chosen
to remain a bachelor, and he defended himself with more than his usual
cynicism.
Something had been said about the growing spirit of brotherhood, when
she broke in:
"Bah! don't talk to me about your altruism or any other 'ism. In these
days you men make high-sounding phrases take the place of principle.
If I know anything of the meaning of words altruism is the very
opposite of selfishness--and who is more selfish than your bachelor?"
The Cynic blew a thin column of smoke towards the ceiling and spoke
languidly:
"Stevenson says--I mean R. L., of course--that if you wish the pick of
men and women you must take a good bachelor and a good wife."
"Stuff and nonsense!" replied the vicar's wife; "if there were such a
thing as a good bachelor I should say that he got amongst the pick of
men only when he took to himself a good wife. But who ever yet saw or
knew a 'good' bachelor? It's a contradiction of terms. Mind you, I
don't call boys bachelors; bachelors are men who might be married if
they would, but they won't. Good men are unselfish, and bachelors are
brazenly self-centred, and usually unbearably conceited. And you are
as bad as any of them, Philip."
"Veritatis simplex oratio est," muttered the Cynic.
"Didn't I say so?" ejaculated the vicar's wife triumphantly. "It is a
sure sign of conceit when a man hurls a bit of school Latin at his
ignorant opponent and so scores a paltry advantage." She pursed her
lips in scorn.
"I beg your pardon," replied the Cynic calmly;. "I got the quotation
from a cyclopaedia, but I will substitute a line from an English poet
which accurately expresses the same meaning:
"'How sweet the words of truth, breathed from the lips of love!'
But is there no excuse for me and others in like case? Are we
unmarried men sinners above all the rest? Granted that we are selfish,
conceited, corrupt and vile, is there yet no place for us in the
universe? no lonely corner in the vineyard where we can work with
profit to the State?"
"I suppose you think you work 'with profit to the State,'" returned the
vicar's wife with a curl of the lip, "when you persuade one of His
Majesty's judges to send some poor wretch to gaol, where he will be
provided for at the country's expense whilst his wife and children are
left to starve. You would be of far more use to it, let me tell you,
if you became the father of a family and----"
The Cynic held up his hand: "The prey of some conceited bachelor who
should wickedly persuade one of His Majesty's judges to send me to
gaol, whilst my wife and children were left to starve. The reasoning
does not seem very clear. If I had remained a bachelor I might have
become a wretch, and I might have suffered imprisonment, but at least
my sins would not have been visited upon the innocent heads of wife and
children. And then it occurs to me that I have known bachelors to be
sent to gaol at the instance of married men who persuaded the judges to
send them there. No, no, madam, you are too deep for me! I give it
up!"
"Rubbish!" snorted the vicar's wife, "you evade the issue, which is
simple enough. Are--bachelors--selfish--or--are--they--not?"
The Cynic shook his head mournfully. "They are more to be pitied than
blamed, believe me. They are too often the sport of cruel Fate--tossed
here and there upon the wave of Circumstance--unable, alas! and not
unwilling to find safety in the Harbour of Matrimony. Their lot is
indeed a sad one. Don't call them hard names, but drop for them--and
me--the silent tear of sympathy."
"Oh, of course," broke in the vicar's wife, "I knew that dodge was sure
to be employed sooner or later. I was on the watch for it. It is the
old excuse that there is nobody to marry. The wave of Circumstance
does not toss you into the arms of some captivating nymph, and so you
remain all at sea--more ornamental, perhaps, but hardly more useful
than a cork on the ocean. If you really wanted to get into the Harbour
of Matrimony, let me tell you, you would turn about and swim there,
instead of blaming Fate for not rolling you in on the crest of a wave."
We laughed, and the Cynic said: "After all, madam, selfishness is not
confined to those who have no intention of marrying. When your good
husband took to himself the most charming of her sex he doubtless
grudged every smile that was thrown to his rivals. Altruism, as you
very sagaciously remarked a moment or two ago, is the very antithesis
of selfishness, and hence it is unpopular except as an ideal for
others. The popular altruist is he who denies himself to minister to
my selfishness. We are all selfish, with certain rare exceptions--to
be found, fortunately, within the circle of my friends."
"I am sure I am selfish," I interjected; "I wonder if that is because I
am unmarried."
"My dear," said the vicar's wife, "your case is not on all fours with
Philip's and other bachelors'. _You_ are the sport of Fate, and not
these men who can easily find some woman silly enough to have them, but
who prefer their own selfish ease and comfort, and then entreat
sympathy, forsooth! When women are unmarried it is rarely their own
fault."
"All this is very puzzling," drawled the Cynic. "I am groping in the
darkness with a sincere desire to find light, and no success rewards my
patient efforts. I hear that it is silliness on the women's part to
accept our offers, and still we are blamed for saving them from
themselves. No doubt you are right, but to me it seems inconsistent."
"Bother your casuistry!" replied the vicar's wife, dismissing him with
a wave of the hand. "Philip, you make me tired. What makes you sure
you are selfish, dear? I have seen no signs of it."
The question was addressed to me, and I answered: "I am beginning to
think it was selfishness that brought me here, and I am not sure that
it is not selfishness which keeps me here. At the same time I have no
wish to leave, and the question arises, Is it only the disagreeable
which is right? Is selfishness never excusable?"
"In other words," remarked the Cynic, whose eyes were closed, "is not
vice, after all, and at any rate sometimes, a modified form of virtue?"
"Listen to him!" exclaimed the vicar's wife; "the embodiment of
selfishness is about to proclaim himself the apostle of morality. The
unfettered lord of creation will expound to a slave of circumstance the
ethical order of the universe, for the instruction of her mind and the
good of her soul."
"The fact is," continued the Cynic, without heeding the interruption,
"Miss Holden, like many other sensitive people of both sexes, has a
faulty conception of what selfishness is. There are many people who
imagine that it is sinful to be happy, and a sign of grace to be
miserable, which is about as sensible as to believe that it is an
indication of good health when you are irritable and out of sorts. To
be selfish is to be careless of the interests of others, and Miss
Holden is certainly not that."
"It is good of you to say so," I said, "but I sometimes wonder if I am
not shirking duty and evading responsibility by enjoying myself here."
The squire gave my hand an affectionate squeeze, but only his eyes
spoke; and the vicar's wife turned to me.
"What brought you up here, dear? I don't think I ever knew."
"I am sure I don't," I replied, and before I had time to continue the
Cynic leaned forward and looked at me.
"I know," he said.
"You once promised to explain me to myself," I said, smiling, "Is this
the day and the hour?"
"That is for you to say," he replied. "You may object to analysis in
public. True, there are some advantages from your point of view. You
will have one of your own sex to hold a brief for you, and a very
partial judge to guarantee fair play."
"I do not mind," I replied; and the squire smiled contentedly.
The Cynic threw his cigarette into the fire and began: "As I understand
the case, before you left London your duties kept your hands busily
employed during working hours, but allowed you ample opportunity for
the consideration of those social problems in which for the previous
year or two you had been deeply interested, and a certain portion of
your leisure was devoted to social and philanthropic work?"
I assented with a nod.
"Very well. Yielding to what appeared to be a sudden impulse, but to
what was in reality the well-considered action of your subconscious
self, you bound your burden of cares upon your back and fled from your
City of Destruction."
"Like a coward," I interposed, "afraid to play the game of life because
of its hazards. I might have remained and faced the problems and
helped to fight the foe I loathed."
"I will come to that shortly," he said, and every trace of irony had
left his voice; "at present I am considering why your subconscious self
decided upon this line of action. The world's sorrows were oppressing
you like a nightmare. Do you know that few of us can meet sorrow face
to face and day by day and retain our strength, and particularly if we
seek to meet it unprepared, unschooled? One of two things usually
happens: we become hardened, or we go mad. From these alternatives it
is sometimes wise to flee, and then flight is not cowardice, but
prudence."
"I certainly obeyed my Inner Self," I said, "but is there not such a
thing as a false conscience?"
"Your 'Inner Self' did not betray you," he continued. "Unwittingly you
sought, not oblivion, but enlightenment and preparation. All earnest
reformers are driven of the Spirit into the wilderness."
"Yes, but for what purpose, Derwent?" interposed the squire; "to be
tempted of the devil?"
"To face the tempter, sir. To test their own armour in private
conflict before they go forth to strike down the public foe. To
discover the devil's strength, his powers and his limitations, before
they match themselves against legions. To discover their own strength
and limitations, too. The first essential in successful warfare is to
know yourself and your enemy, and you gain that knowledge in solitude.
It was so with Jesus, with Paul, with Savonarola, with scores of other
reformers. Miss Holden was driven into the wilderness--if you care to
put it so--for a similar purpose."
"But ought one to avoid opportunities of usefulness?" I urged. "I was
in the fray and I withdrew from it."
"A raw soldier, invalided home, though you did not know it," he
continued, "and sent into the country for rest and renewal, and quiet
preparation for effective service. Here you have gained your
perspective. You survey the field of battle from the heights, and yet
you have come in contact with the enemy at close quarters, too, and you
know his tactics. You will face the problems of sin and suffering and
social injustice again, but with new heart and less of despair."
"You are too generous, I fear. I should like to think that my motives
were so pure, but----"
"What is motive? Motive is what excites to action. Your motive was
not less pure because it was intuitive and unrecognised. But let me
ask you: What idea are you disposed to think you left unaccomplished?
What object ought you to have pursued?"
I thought a moment before I replied: "It seems to me that when there is
so much sin and suffering in the world we should try to alleviate it,
and to remedy the wrongs from which so much of it springs. And from
these things I fled, though I knew that the labourers were few."
"You fled from the devil, did you? And you found Windyridge a Paradise
from which he was barred!"
I remained silent.
"London has no monopoly of sin and suffering. Evil has not a merely
local habitation. If it was a wile of the devil to remove you out of
his way it has been singularly unsuccessful, I conclude, for I
understand you have found him vigorously at work here all the time.
Have you then discovered no opportunities of service and usefulness in
the wilderness?"
"If happiness is gained by administering it to others," said the squire
with some emotion; "if to break up the hard ground of the heart and sow
in it the seed of peace is to defeat the devil and his aims, then has
Miss Holden reached her ideal and earned her happiness. I told her a
year ago that the devil was a familiar presence in this village, but I
thank God, as others do and have done, that she has helped to thwart
him."
Perhaps I ought not to write all this down, for it has the savour of
vanity and conceit, but I do not see how I can well avoid doing so.
There are times when the heart speaks rather than the judgment, and the
squire's heart is very warm towards me; and though I would not doubt
his sincerity it is certain that he is not impartial where I am
concerned.
The Cynic looked pleased. "I quite agree, sir," he said; "Miss Holden
has used her opportunities--not simply those which presented
themselves, but those which she has sought and found, which is higher
service. Hence, I conclude that the policy of her subconscious self
has been justified, and that she is absolved from any charge of
selfishness."
"Really, Philip!" said the vicar's wife, "your eloquence has almost
deprived me of the power of speech, which you will acknowledge is no
mean achievement. I thought I was appointed counsel for the defence
and that you were to prefer the indictment and prove Miss Holden guilty
of some heinous crime. _My_ office has been a sinecure, for a better
piece of special pleading for the defence I have never listened to."
"I must be fair at all costs," he replied; "Miss Holden had no
misgivings, I imagine, when she came here at first. Doubts arose, as
they so often do with the conscientious, when the venture prospered.
The martyr spirit distrusts itself when there is no sign of rack and
faggot. I seek now to reveal Miss Holden to herself."
"You are wonderfully sure of yourself," returned his opponent, "but let
us be fair to our pretensions. If you are for the defence let me be
for the prosecution. Does one serve his country better when he leaves
the thick of the fray to study maps and tactics? If one has the
opportunity to live is it sufficient to vegetate? For every
opportunity of usefulness that Windyridge can offer London can provide
a score, and Miss Holden's lot was cast in London. Is she living her
life? That, I take it, is her problem."
"Yes," I said, "it is something like that."
"I accept your challenge," replied the Cynic, "and I agree that it is
not what we do but what we are capable of doing that counts. But the
most effective workman is not he who undertakes the largest variety of
jobs, but he who puts himself into his work. You speak of vegetating,
and you ask if Miss Holden is living her life. What is life? The man
who rises early and retires late, and spends the intervening hours in
one unceasing rush does not know the meaning of life; whereas the
farmer who goes slowly and steadily along the track of the hours, or
the student who devotes only a portion of his time to his books and
spends the rest in recreation, or the business man who declines to
sacrifice himself upon the altar of Mammon--these men live. And it is
the man who lives who benefits his fellows. To visit the sick, to
clothe the naked, to dole out sympathy and charity to the poor is noble
work, but it is not necessarily the most effective way of helping them.
The man who sits down to study the problem of prevention--the root
causes of misery and injustice--and who discovers and publishes the
remedy, is the truer and more valuable friend, though he never enter a
slum or do volunteer work in a soup kitchen."
"And whilst we are diagnosing the conditions rather than the case the
patient dies," said the vicar's wife. "We stop our sick visiting and
our soup kitchens, and bid the people suffer and starve in patience
whilst we retire into our studies to theorise over causes."
"To refer to your illustration of a moment ago, my dear madam, the
battle need not stop because one or two men of insight retire to serve
their country by studying maps and tactics. We need not chain up the
Good Samaritan, but we shall be of far greater service to humanity if,
instead of forming a league for the supply of oil and wine and
plasters, we inaugurate measures to clear the road of robbers. 'This
ought ye to do and not to leave the other undone.'"
"You admit, then, that some may find their opportunity of service in
work of this baser sort?"
"No work is base which is done with a pure motive and done well. All I
contend for is that when instinct bids any of us withdraw for a time,
or even altogether, it is wise to trust our instincts. If Miss Holden
had devoted herself to a life of pleasure and selfish isolation she
might have been charged with cowardly flight from duty. We all know
she has done nothing of the kind, and therefore I say her intuition was
trustworthy, and she must not accuse herself of selfishness."
"I agree with all my heart," said the vicar's wife; "but the problems
which she left unsolved are no nearer solution."
"How do you know that?" he asked. "The war may be nearer its end
because your unheroic soldier sheathed his sword and put on his
thinking-cap. That unsoldier-like action may have saved the lives of
thousands and brought about an honourable peace. I do not know that
Miss Holden has done much to solve the general problem, but I dare
assert that she views it more clearly, and could face it more
confidently than she could have done a year ago--that is to say, she
has solved her own problem."
"There is some truth in that," I said. "Windyridge has given me
clearer vision, and I am more optimistic on that account. Mr. Evans
told me on the occasion of our first meeting that I should find human
nature the same here as elsewhere, and that is so. But the type is
larger in the village than it is in the town, and I can read and
understand it better. Yet one thing town and country alike have proved
to me, and that is what you, Mr. Evans, asserted so confidently--that
selfishness is the root of sin. How are we to conquer that?"
"Only by patient effort," replied the squire. "Shallow reformers are
eager to try hasty and ill-considered measures. Zealous converts,
whose eyes have been suddenly opened to the anomalies and injustices of
society, are angry and impatient because the wheels of progress revolve
so slowly, and they become rebellious and sometimes anarchical. And
their discontent is a sign of life, and it is good in its way, but
ordinarily it is ineffective. You may blow up the Council House in
Jericho because the councillors have not done their duty, and you may
shoot the robbers because they have wounded the traveller, and the
zealous reformer will commend you and say: 'Now we are beginning to
make things move!' But the man who goes to work to destroy the seeds
of greed and selfishness, so that men will no longer either need or
covet the possessions of others, is the real reformer; but reformation
is a plant of slow growth. Yet everyone who sows the antidote to
selfishness in the heart of his neighbour is to be accounted a
reformer."
The vicar's carriage was announced at that moment and the conversation
was interrupted.
"We will continue it next week, sir," said the Cynic, "if you will
allow me to pay you another visit. I cannot be here until the evening
of Saturday; may I stay the week-end?"
"Certainly," said the squire with a smile, "if your engagements permit.
I think we must all realise that you seek to carry your theory of life
into practice."
That was on Saturday. The Cynic left by the early train this morning,
and he had no sooner gone than the post brought me a letter from Rose.
It was short and sweet--very sweet indeed.
"MY DEAR GRACE,
"Congratulate me! I am engaged to be married to the best of men, _not
excepting your Cynic_. You will blame me for keeping it quiet, but how
can I tell what is going to happen beforehand? Besides, you don't tell
me!
"I am to marry my chief, who is henceforward to be known to you and me
as 'Stephen.' He is two or three years older than I am; good-looking,
of course, or he wouldn't have appealed to me, and over head and ears
in love with
"Your very affectionate and somewhat intoxicated
"ROSE.
"PS.--He has known your Cynic for years, but he (I mean your Cynic) is
too good a sportsman to spoil the fun.
"PPS.--It is a beautiful ring--diamonds!"
I am delighted to think that Rose is so happy, and can excuse the
brevity of the communication under the circumstances. But I _am_
surprised. I never dreamed that her chief was young and unmarried.
Why she should always say "your" Cynic, however, and underline it, too,
I cannot understand. I wish ...