Two Kings in Brentford.
I'll take your part when you are wrong;
I'll fight your battles to the end;
I'll listen when you sing a song,
And never count your tales too long;
Because you are my friend.
It has a very pretty effect in dancing the Lancers when the dancers
"set to corners"; but when our hearts, and the affections thereof,
take it upon themselves to perform this particular figure, the effect
is not so satisfactory. Yet it is a figure towards the dancing of
which these members much incline. Therefore it happened that while
Alice Martin was breaking her heart for love of Paul Seaton, Edgar
Ford was breaking his for love of Alice Martin.
Surely Fate--when Fate is pleased to be ironical--displays a most
ingenious and whimsical sense of humour. And it happened that Fate
was just now sharpening this particular sense at the expense of Mr.
and Mrs. Martin. This worthy couple generally liked things to be
done at their expense, it sounded so lavish and princely; but this
was carrying matters a little too far.
Paul, being poor, was anathema to Mr. and Mrs. Martin; and Edgar,
being rich, was their hearts' desire; and yet Alice loved Paul and
was indifferent to Edgar; and in consequence there appeared that
disturbing little hollow in Alice's pretty cheek.
The Fords were the most important people in Chayford, and had been
rich merchants there for several generations. Edgar's
great-grandfather was a friend of John Wesley's; and the great little
man had preached the gospel under the huge cedar on the lawn of
Chayford House. Consequently at Chayford Chapel the Fords sat in the
farthest-back pew, this being ever considered the most august
seat--the Woolsack in fact--of Methodist chapels; and their place in
the sanctuary was rendered yet more glorious by a brazen fence,
wherefrom dangled a sort of short, red moreen petticoat, which ran
all along the top of their pew, and so screened the prayers of the
Ford family from the prying and plebeian eyes of the rest of the
congregation. Mrs. Ford pronounced the "Open Sesame" at all the
Wesleyan bazaars and sales-of-work within a radius of ten miles round
Chayford; and on such occasions she was specially introduced to the
divine notice by the officiating minister under the pseudonym of "an
handmaid". As a child Edgar had no idea what this expression exactly
meant (neither, perhaps, had the officiating minister), but he felt
extremely proud of his mother when he heard her alluded to in this
way; and when the minister's prayer was more than usually embracing,
and included Edgar himself under the title of "her offspring,"
Edgar's spiritual arrogance knew no bounds.
If the Seatons were as the salt of Methodism, the Fords were as the
cream of it. Their social position fitted them for this life, and
their religious fervour for the next. They neither hated the world
as did Mark Seaton, nor worshipped it as did Caleb Martin. On the
whole they very fairly rendered to Cæsar the things that were
Cæsar's, and to God the things that were God's; and to do this, men
must know something about Cæsar and also something about God.
Edgar was now the only child of the house of Ford, two little sisters
having exchanged earth for heaven, and taken their mother's heart
along with them. Like all Nonconformists, Edgar Ford inclined to
overscrupulousness rather than to laxity. He was ready to sacrifice
everything to his principles--which was right; but he sometimes
mistook his prejudices for his principles--which was tiresome.
Looked at in the light of eternity, Edgar's conduct was always
eminently satisfactory; but looked at in the light of earth, it was
sometimes a little trying. A college friend of his once said that
"Ford was suffering from fatty degeneration of the conscience"; and
Edgar's conscience certainly was abnormally enlarged. When great
issues were at stake, this extreme and sensitive conscientiousness
made Edgar Ford a prince among men; but when one was dealing with
less important matters, and lawfulness was not so much the question
to be considered as expediency, Edgar's custom of hair-splitting was
somewhat paralyzing in its effects. He would hardly let himself do
right for fear of doing wrong; which morbid introspection was partly
the result of a Puritan training and ancestry, and partly of a
delicate digestion.
For the rest, Edgar was "a proper man as one shall see in a summer's
day". He was fair and slight and good-looking; and the shyness and
sensitiveness which caused his own feelings to be so often hurt, made
him specially careful not to hurt other people's. He did not talk
much; but always left one with the impression that he had been
extremely interesting, though one could not recall a word that he had
said. His silence was more interesting than most men's conversation;
and his pride less aggressive than most men's humility. Yet he was
very silent and excessively proud. For people in general he cared
not at all; he was too shy to understand and too sensitive to defy
them; but for the few for whom he did care, his patience was
exhaustless and his love unfailing; nothing that they might do could
estrange them from him.
Martha once remarked, "When Master Edgar dies of old age, Master Paul
will shake in his shoes"; which was her cheerful and picturesque way
of notifying the fact that Edgar was Paul's senior by only a few
months. Owing to this similarity of age and diversity of
temperament, a firm friendship had sprung up between the two boys,
which grew with their growth and strengthened with their strength.
In every respect these two differed from each other. While Paul knew
neither shyness nor self-consciousness, Edgar was a prey to both;
while Paul took out his own feelings and examined them and talked
about them, Edgar kept his shut up in the secret chambers of his
soul. Paul was more sure of himself when he was in the wrong than
Edgar was when he was in the right; and while Paul was inclined to
ride rough-shod over other people, Edgar was as tender as the
tenderest woman. When Paul made up his mind to take a certain path,
he took it all the more determinedly if there were lions in the way,
and regarded the worsting of these interfering beasts as the best
part of the sport; but if there were lions in Edgar's way, he
hesitated about taking that path at all--not because he was afraid of
lions, or of anything else under the sun save sin, but because he
regarded the presence of these "fearful wild-fowl" as a divine
intimation that such a path was not for his treading. Consequently
Paul possessed the elements of success, if by success one means fame
and wealth and the getting of one's own way; while Edgar's was one of
the natures foredoomed to failure, if by failure one means nothing in
this world but knowledge of the truth, and in the world to come life
everlasting. Which are the common interpretations of the words
success and failure as used among men.
With all the intensity of a deep and refined and somewhat narrow
nature, Edgar Ford loved Alice. He did not inwardly examine himself
to see the why and wherefore of this love, as Paul would have done;
he merely knew that Alice Martin was all the world to him, and would
be so, as long as he and the world lasted. It was characteristic of
the two men that Paul analyzed his feelings, but took his motives for
granted; while Edgar carefully weighed and examined his principles,
and left his feelings to take care of themselves--knowing that they
were strong enough to do that, and a good deal more into the bargain.
Edgar always knew what he wanted, but not always what he ought to do;
Paul, on the contrary, always knew what he thought right, but not
always what he thought desirable.
Now if Edgar had been as wise as he was good, he would have carried
on his love-making regardless of Paul, and would then and there have
won Alice for himself. And that plan would have been the best for
everybody concerned; for Alice was not capable of holding Paul, even
if she could win him; and she was not the woman to make Paul happy,
even if he deluded himself into fancying that he loved her; while
Edgar was quite equal to supplanting Paul in Alice's affection, and
making her and himself thereby happy ever after, if only he had
realized that "all is fair in love and war," and had set about things
in the right way. But unfortunately it was not Edgar's habit to set
about things in the right way. First, he reasoned with himself that
Alice's happiness was the great thing to be considered, and that
Alice's happiness was bound up in Paul; for poor Edgar's eye had been
as quick as Mrs. Martin's to discover that telltale little hollow in
Alice's cheek; and that therefore his very love for Alice constrained
him not to come between her and the thing she coveted. Then he
further decided that, as Paul's friend, he was in honour bound not to
stand in Paul's light, should Paul eventually discover how extremely
pretty Alice was. And finally he made up his mind to immolate
himself upon the joint altar of love and friendship; and it never
occurred to him that the flames of this sacrifice were likely to burn
up Paul and Alice's happiness as well as his own.
In Edgar's anxiety to leave Alice quite free, he strove his utmost to
hide from her the fact that he loved her; he had an idea that in so
doing he was taking the most honourable course towards her and
towards Paul. And he pursued this course with such success that
Alice thought him stuck-up and ill-tempered, and confided the same to
Paul, who--with more common sense and equally little
perception--decided that he was only bilious.
As for Paul, he had as yet no more idea that Edgar cared for Alice
than that Alice cared for himself. Such things were as yet unknown
to him, though it was gradually dawning upon him that Alice was
extremely good-looking and very easy to talk to.
But the rest of the world were not so blind as Paul; and even Miss
Drusilla Dallicot, the spinster _par excellence_ of Chayford, had
some inkling as to how matters stood.
Miss Drusilla's "mind to her a kingdom was," and she prided herself
upon the elegance of her diction and the refinement of her style.
She was a very learned little lady, and never used a word of one
syllable it a synonym of three could be found in the dictionary. She
lived entirely in the literature of the past, and resolutely
refused--on any pretext whatever--to come down later than the
eighteenth century.
In addition to the kingdom of her mind, Miss Dallicot ruled over a
nice fortune of her own, and she gave freely to "the cause" at
Chayford. She was extremely particular in her habits; and while her
godliness was indisputable, her cleanliness was virulent. No
visitors were allowed to enter her abode until they had been rubbed
down with a clothes-brush and a duster in the back-hall; and even
then they were rarely admitted into the sanctum of her drawing-room,
lest they should by their presence soil the chintz covers therein.
What was to be seen underneath those chintz covers was an
impenetrable secret. It was rumoured in Chayford that grass-green
satin was the underlying texture, but this was as purely traditional
as the site of the Garden of Eden, or the date of the building of
Babel. No living man or woman had seen Miss Dallicot's drawing-room
furniture face to face.
"My dear young friend," said Miss Drusilla to Joanna Seaton one day,
when the minister's daughter was having tea with her in her spotless
dining-room; preparation for the feast having been made by the
spreading of a serviette all over the visitor's lap, and of a small
floorcloth under the visitor's chair, lest an unwary crumb should
escape from its moorings and rush headlong on to the carpet: "has it
ever presented itself to your imagination that an attachment of a
sentimental character might possibly arise between your gifted and
talented brother and that amiable young creature, Alice Martin?"
"I believe that Alice thinks Paul very clever, and I know that Paul
thinks Alice very pretty," replied Joanna guardedly.
"Perhaps it is scarcely seemly of me to introduce so romantic, though
interesting, a subject to a person as yet as youthful and innocent as
yourself; yet my deep reverence for my spiritual pastor, and my
sincere attachment to his attractive family, cause me to experience
the warmest concern in anything which affects either his interest or
theirs."
"It is very good of you, dear Miss Dallicot, to take so friendly an
interest in all of us; and your kind sympathy is fully appreciated.
Father was saying only yesterday that he counts you among his truest,
as well as his cleverest, friends; for he has never been disappointed
either in your heart or your head. You know how he enjoys a chat
about books with you, and how much good it does him."
"Your words, thus fitly spoken, are indeed as apples of gold in
pictures of silver. The praise of so gifted a man as your father is
too high a tribute to such feeble powers as I may possess; yet the
suffrage of one who combines the noble qualities of a true gentleman
with the high vocation of a minister of religion, is an encouragement
to any thoughtful mind to follow his guidance into the realms of
knowledge."
Now Joanna detested gossip above all things, having already learnt
that no good can come of it, but much evil: so she wisely endeavoured
to drive her hostess still further into the realms of knowledge, so
as to keep her from inquisitively wandering into the fields of
romance.
"Have you been reading anything new lately?" she asked with much
subtlety.
"Nay, my dear Joanna, new books and new writers are alike abhorrent
to my literary taste; and I dislike the one as cordially as I despise
the other. To me my Plato and my Aristotle are ever fresh; and if I
desire to provide my mind with suitable relaxation, are not Walter
Scott and Jane Austen ever at hand to plume my wings for a flight
into the world of fiction?"
"But don't you think that novels of all kinds--provided of course
that they are good ones--help one to understand human nature?"
"You must first prove to me that a fuller understanding of human
nature is a 'consummation devoutly to be wished'; for my own part I
cannot see that it forms a specially interesting or instructive
branch of study. That human nature is in but a sorry condition at
present, is my conviction: that it will some day rise to a height
unmeasured as yet, is my hope; but to watch it in its dilatory and
intermittent ascent--to count its countless failures and to number
its innumerable falls--is a pastime which does not recommend itself
to my intelligence, nor render itself attractive to my fancy."
"Yet human nature is the most interesting thing and the most
important thing in the whole world--except divine nature."
"To me, my dear Joanna, too lively an interest in the thoughts and
emotions of one's fellow-creatures betokens a somewhat frivolous and
unstable mind; and would be in danger of gradually degenerating into
a gossiping habit, not becoming nor seemly in a professor of the
Christian religion."
Joanna looked thoughtful. "Edgar Ford says that Alice and I talk and
think too much about feelings," she said; "and that it is morbid and
unhealthy of us."
"And doubtless, my dear child, there is some truth in the statement;
sufficient, at any rate, to warn you against giving unbridled licence
to a custom which, though innocuous at present, might eventually
develop into a pernicious and dissipating habit of mind. Edgar Ford
is a young man of excellent parts; as a son he is irreproachable, as
a friend unexceptionable. And that reminds me, my love, have you
ever perceived that he evinces a more tender interest than is
consistent with mere friendship in our dear young friend, Alice
Martin?"
Joanna's eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Good gracious, Miss
Drusilla, such an idea never entered my head!"
"Well, take note when next you see the handsome young couple in each
other's company, and I feel certain you will arrive at the conclusion
that my suspicion is not without foundation."
"I am sure you are wrong--quite wrong! Edgar never speaks to Alice
if he can help it. In fact, I don't think he likes her much. Alice
is not at all clever, and Edgar thinks so much of cleverness."
"The ways of men are as a sealed book to me; and I cannot say that it
is my desire ever to have the seals broken. Yet I have been led to
believe that masculine minds are so constituted that mental charms do
not appeal to them as powerfully as do mere physical attractions."
Joanna shook her head. "Edgar is different from other men. Paul
might be taken with a pretty face, he is so impulsive and
impressionable; but Edgar is too good and wise to care for any woman
who would not be a companion to him in all his intellectual interests
and pursuits. And though Alice is very dear and sweet and pretty,
she is extremely stupid, you know."
"Yet I have heard that even good and wise men will condone the
emptiness of a female head on account of the beauty of the face that
appertains to it."
On her way home from Miss Dallicot's, Joanna fell in with Alice, and
the two girls walked on together. After what a chairman would call
"a few preliminary remarks," Joanna blurted out:
"Alice, do you think that Edgar Ford admires you? Miss Drusilla says
he does."
Joanna had yet to learn that truths, like parcels, have to be neatly
wrapped up before their vendors can dispose of them.
Alice stood still, so great was her astonishment. "Oh, dear no! I'm
perfectly certain he doesn't. What an absurd idea for that dear old
thing to get into her head! But she is so busy finding long words
that her wits are apt to go wool-gathering, don't you think?"
"Yes, I do. She was delicious to-day. I did wish that you and Paul
had been there too. It seemed a pity for her sweetness to be wasted
on the desert air of my solitary self."
"Was she really fine?" asked Alice.
"I should just think she was. She was like a penny-a-liner and an
eighteenth-century poet rolled in one.
"That really was an idiotic thing to say about Edgar; because, do you
know, Joanna? he has been positively horrid to me lately."
"Has he?"
"Yes, something awful. I can't make out why, because I've never been
nasty to him, that I know of."
"You never are nasty to anybody, dear."
"I never want to be," said Alice. "I am always so dreadfully anxious
to be liked that I try my best to be nice to people; and when they
don't like me it makes me so wretched that I want to cry."
"I never mind whether people like me or not."
"I wish I didn't," sighed Alice, "but I do, more than anything."
"Well, you are so pretty that you are sure of being liked, whatever
you do. People always like pretty women," said Joanna.
"I don't think so. I'd much rather have been clever. People get
tired of prettiness, but they never do of cleverness."
"Then do you think it is because you are not clever, but only pretty,
that Edgar has got tired of you?" inquired the blunt Joanna, showing
her inexperience of the ways of men by the use of so absurd an
expression as "only pretty".
"I don't think that explains it. Of course I know that Edgar could
not care much for anybody as stupid as I am, but I think it is horrid
of him to positively dislike me for not being clever. It really
isn't my fault. I try awfully hard to be clever, but I find it so
difficult to understand things. And Edgar is generally so just to
people, and so tender to their failings, that it makes it all the
nastier for me."
"But are you sure he positively dislikes you? Perhaps you only bore
him," suggested Joanna.
"Oh! I should not be a bit surprised if I bored him; in fact I
should be surprised if I did anything else. Most people bore Edgar,
you know, and yet he is always kind and courteous to them."
"And isn't he kind and courteous to you?"
Alice's pretty eyes filled with tears. "No, he isn't, and that shows
how much he must hate me. He is more civil to his mother's
housekeeper than he is to me; and I mind it dreadfully, because he
and I used to be such friends."
"What does he do?"
"He won't speak to me if he can help it," replied Alice, fairly
crying by this time, "and when he is obliged to say anything he does
so in such a queer, hard voice that everybody round can see how he
detests me. I often dare not speak to him when other people are
there, for fear he should snub me before them and make me die of
shame."
"Why don't you ask him if he is offended with you?"
"I did; and he said: 'Why should you suppose I am offended with you,
Miss Martin? If my conduct has given rise to this suspicion, I must
have been sadly wanting in courtesy, and I humbly apologize.' Then I
felt ready to sink into the earth."
"How horrid of him!"
"He and I used to be so fond of each other when we were children.
But lately he has put up palings all round himself, as if he were a
tree in a park, and won't let me come near him."
"It really is queer!" agreed Joanna.
"I begin to think the real reason is that he considers us common,"
sobbed Alice. "Of course I know we don't belong to a good old
family, like the Fords; but we are just the same as we always were;
and it is unkind and snobbish of Edgar to throw over his old friends
because he is ashamed of them!"
And all that time Edgar Ford was congratulating himself on behaving
as a man of honour towards Paul and Alice; and he was positively
wearing himself out with his superhuman efforts to hide from the
latter the fact that he cared for her.
Truly the ways of a conscientious man are sometimes difficult to
fathom!