A Feast of Good Things.
They talked of things created long,
And things but lately come to pass,
Down from the Swan of Avon's song
To sounds evolved from glass.
With the exception of the Seatons, there was no one at Chayford that
Isabel Carnaby liked so well as the Fords; for she felt--as most
people did who were brought under the spell of its influence--the
fascination of Chayford House. It was a most attractive home, with
its huge stone gateway in front, forming the full-stop to Chayford
High Street; and its beautiful park at the back, studded with fine
old elms and sloping down to the river. And not the least
picturesque feature in one of the prettiest parks in Mershire was
Chayford Cottage, nestling among the trees, and covered with purple
clematis and scarlet virginia-creeper in their season. Chayford
House was equally interesting within and without; it was one of the
delightful houses where the drawing-room is merely an _édition de
luxe_ of the library; and, when all is said and done, there is no
drawing-room paper as effective as vellum and half-calf.
Michael Ford had been, as the Irishman said, a rich man for several
generations; and his home bore the hallmark of a century's refinement
and luxury. He had all the geniality of a man who has never had a
misunderstanding--much less a fight--with circumstances; and there
was not a grain of bitterness in his composition. He was a Wesleyan,
as his fathers had been before him; but he gave as generously to the
Anglicans and the Independents in Chayford as he gave to his own
Church--and his gifts to all were munificent. He was sensible rather
than scholarly, and wise rather than learned. In politics he was a
Whig of the old school; and the only disappointment of his otherwise
successful life was that he had been compelled by business
engagements to abandon his cherished desire for a parliamentary
career. But he intended this for his son in his place; and the
object of his ambition was to see Edgar member for Chayford on the
Liberal side.
Edgar's character, inherited from some far-off Puritan ancestor, was
incomprehensible to his father; but Mr. Ford shared the common and
comfortable parental delusion that the perfect acquiescence of
children in their parents' views is merely a question of time.
It was strange that while Mark Seaton's son made an idol of success,
Michael Ford's son made a Moloch of conscience; yet Mark Seaton's
affections were set entirely on things above, and Michael Ford
possessed common-sense to a degree which almost raised it to the
level of genius. But these things happen.
During Isabel's week at Chayford she saw a great deal of Edgar. He
understood her better than Paul did, and therefore he did not fall in
love with her. Mutual comprehension makes for friendship, and
militates against love; for love--like modern society papers--must
have a "puzzle column" for the mystification of those that take it
in. Isabel's emotional temperament was nearer akin to Edgar's
mysticism than to Paul's dogged determination; so she and Edgar
became good friends, and there was no element of danger in their
friendship.
It was characteristic of Edgar that in the days when he believed that
Paul loved Alice, his conscience forbade him to speak to the girl,
because he wanted to do so; but in the days when Paul loved Isabel,
Edgar talked to her freely, simply because such conversation gave him
no particular pleasure. To make himself miserable was an
irresistible temptation to Edgar Ford.
On the eve of Isabel's return to town, there was a small dinner-party
at Chayford House. In addition to the four Seatons and their guest,
the company included the Reverend Henry Stoneley, Rector of Chayford,
and his popular wife; Mr. Madderley (an artist who was painting Mrs.
Ford's portrait), and Alice Martin.
After the migration into the dining-room, Mr. Ford began:
"Does any one know the result of the Sidbury election?"
"I have heard nothing authentic," replied the rector; "but I have
good reasons for believing that the Conservative has been returned."
"That is what I expected," exclaimed his host; "the Liberals there
are divided into two camps with two separate leaders, namely the
regular Liberal and a Labour candidate; and if our people will
persist in thus splitting up their forces, your people are always
bound to get in."
"That is quite true," said Mrs. Ford, "Conservatives have learnt the
lesson of obedience to their leaders."
"Have you ever noticed," remarked Isabel Carnaby, "that, when it
comes to the point, a Conservative will vote for the worst
Conservative rather than for the best Liberal; while a Liberal will
rather not vote at all than support a candidate who does not share
his every prejudice?"
Mr. Stoneley smiled. "Our people certainly know how to pull
together."
"And our people don't," added Mr. Ford, "that is the weakness of the
Liberal party; each individual is too fond of thinking out things for
himself, and judging from his own limited observation, rather than
from the experience of wiser men."
"I beg your pardon, father," said Edgar, "but I should call that the
strength of the Liberal party. Surely conscientious and reasonable
support is better than blind and unreasoning obedience."
"More gratifying to the individual perhaps," replied his father, "but
disastrous to the party."
"Moreover," added the rector, "it does not do for every man to be a
law unto himself. Liberty carried too far degenerates into anarchy."
"If every man does what is right in his own eyes, what becomes of law
and order?" suggested Mr. Seaton. "Strength is shown by
self-suppression rather than by self-glorification."
"Precisely," agreed the rector. "The whole crux of civilization
seems to me to lie in the fact that the savage does what is best for
himself, and the civilized man what is best for the community at
large."
"And government is but a great mutual insurance society against human
selfishness," added Mr. Seaton.
"I quite agree with that," said Mrs. Ford, "the suppression of self
is the end and aim of civilization as well as of Christianity."
"Just so, my dear madam, just so. Nevertheless I should not say that
Conservatives do not think out matters for themselves," objected the
rector, "for they do."
"Oh! don't say that," cried Isabel, "do not, at one fell swoop, take
away the one virtue of the Conservative party."
The rector smiled. "Loyal old Tory as I am, I should not wish to
recommend my party to alien eyes by assuming virtues when it has them
not, my dear young lady."
"But," persisted Edgar, "I never can understand why what is wrong for
an individual can be right for a party or a State."
"That is beside the mark," interpolated Mr. Ford.
Edgar looked puzzled. Things were always so clear to his father, and
they were hardly ever clear to him. He groped after the truth, but
he often failed to grasp it.
"Obedience is right in all men," said Mr. Seaton, "whether they be
taken as individuals or as communities. To submit to authority is
one of man's highest and most important duties."
"Quite so, quite so," agreed the rector; "yet now-a-days people are
in sad danger of forgetting this."
"Do you think so?" said Paul Seaton. "For my part I consider that
the modern enthusiasm for games and athletics of all kinds is a
powerful antidote to individualism and faddism and their attendant
follies. Therefore, if I had my way, I would insist on every man's
taking up a game of some kind, and becoming proficient in it."
"And a very good plan," cried the rector heartily; "a very good plan,
indeed!"
"You see," continued Paul, "as long as England had to fight for her
existence among the nations, there was no talk about each particular
Englishman's special prejudices and crotchets; this is one of the
evils following in the train of peace and plenty. But by teaching
our boys to go in for games, we in a measure obviate this. A man who
is good at rowing or cricket or football has had to some extent a
soldier's training, and so will probably possess a soldier's virtues."
"My son," said Mr. Seaton, "never say a word in favour of war. It is
an invention of the devil, and no good can ever come of it."
"Still, good has come of it," persisted Paul; "the full-grown sons of
a warlike State are neither women nor children--they are essentially
manly."
"Our idea of manliness is not the true one," said Mr. Seaton;
"physical courage has done so much for man that it has won undue
admiration from both barbarism and civilization. Yet it is but a
savage's virtue at the best."
"That is quite true!" exclaimed Edgar Ford.
Mr. Seaton continued: "My son has just pointed out that war makes men
the very opposite of women and children. There I agree with him.
But I cannot forget that it is written: 'Except ye become as little
children ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven'."
"War is a terrible thing!" sighed Mrs. Ford, "I never can understand
how Wordsworth could write a poem in favour of it."
"I expect he was sick of behaving prettily, and writing about
primroses and pet lambs and weathercocks, and felt he should like to
have a regular flare-up just for once and shock every one," suggested
Isabel, "I have often felt like that myself."
Everybody laughed, and then the rector said to Paul: "You are quite
right in what you say about athletics being a good antidote against
fads."
"Fads being the ruin of any political party," added Mr. Ford.
"But a man's duty to his own conscience comes before his duty to the
State," said Edgar; "and I cannot see that any one is justified in
defending a course of action which he considers wrong, simply because
his party is pledged to that course."
"In politics, as in scene-painting," murmured Mr. Madderley, "I
suppose one has to consider general effects rather than minute
details."
"And the pre-Raphaelite school would not be effective from a
political standpoint," added Mr. Ford.
The artist shrugged his shoulders. "I am not sure that it is from an
artistic one."
"Are you not? Then I am afraid I shall have to quarrel with you, Mr.
Madderley," said his hostess.
"Then you will have to quarrel with the rector too, and I will help
you," remarked Mrs. Stoneley, "although I have been a devoted wife to
him for forty years, he quarrels regularly with me every Academy
because I like looking at pictures that he says are without
perspective."
"I know the sort," cried Isabel, "dear little scriptural things, like
tame and domestic church-windows."
"It is just like men to bother about perspective," added Mrs.
Stoneley, "they are so literal, poor dears! that it is not safe to
leave anything to their imaginations. Besides you cannot leave
anything to something which does not exist."
The rector smiled. "Pardon me, my love, this consideration never
hinders me from leaving many things to your discretion."
"Well, Henry, you never heard me fussing about perspective, whatever
else I may have done."
"Certainly not, my love; a desire for perspective presupposes a sense
of proportion."
"Never mind him, Miss Carnaby," said his wife; "you and I will go to
the Academy together, and leave him at home to study perspective from
the rectory windows."
The rector turned to Edgar. "I think that the idea of duty to one's
own conscience is growing to abnormal proportions, and is in great
danger of degenerating into a morbid and unhealthy egotism. As far
as my experience goes, if a man fulfils his duty towards God and his
duty towards his neighbour, he will not have much time left for works
of supererogation."
"But are not one's duty towards God and one's duty towards one's own
conscience synonymous?" asked Edgar.
Mr. Stoneley thought for a moment. "Not necessarily, I should say.
One's duty towards God is clearly defined in our good old Church
catechism; but one's duty towards one's own conscience is an elastic
term, which may include anything from religious persecution to
anti-vaccination."
Mr. Ford chuckled approvingly. "Quite true!"
"As a distinguished politician once said: 'Politics is the science of
the second best,'" remarked Paul, "therefore we must recognize the
truth that in political strife we can only approximately approach an
ideal."
"Precisely," agreed his host, "everything in this world is a matter
of compromise."
"I cannot admit that," cried Edgar with eagerness; "to me, compromise
is a detestable word. It is our business to aim at perfection, and
to be satisfied with nothing less. The fact that we may fail in our
endeavour to attain our ideal, in no way lessens our obligation to
follow after it."
"But the danger is," said his mother, "that if we go in for
perfection or nothing, we shall in all probability get nothing."
"I am afraid we must all be content with the second best in this
world," remarked Mrs. Seaton.
"Yes," added Isabel, "like the man who said that as perfection in
female beauty did not exist, he was looking out for a wife who could
cook a potato properly."
"Certainly half a loaf is better than no bread," suggested Paul.
Edgar shook his head. "As long as people are content with half
loaves they will never get whole ones."
"First let them be sure that they want whole ones," suggested Mr.
Madderley.
"Exactly," cried Mrs. Stoneley. "People spend half their lives
crying for things which would make them cry still more if they got
them."
"Whole loaves would be very fattening, in the first place," continued
the artist, "nothing would induce me to take one."
"Are you afraid of getting fat?" inquired Isabel, "I never think of
it."
"This dread is the one cloud on my horizon, dear lady, the one
discord in my life's harmony. You happy thin people do not know what
troubles flesh is heir to, nor what fears."
"Do you think bread so dangerous?" asked Isabel.
"The most fattening thing in the world. I had a friend who said he
once inadvertently asked for bread, and he gained a stone in a week."
Isabel laughed. "Then let us be content with only half a loaf; and,
if we value our figures, we had better have that toasted."
"Contentment is often only a euphemism for cowardice," said Edgar.
"I am afraid S. Paul did not agree with you," remarked Mr. Seaton.
Edgar smiled; one of the reasons why he was so lovable was that he
never lost his temper nor turned rusty in an argument. "S. Paul
added godliness to the prescription, however, before he recommended
it for general use," he said pleasantly.
Mr. Seaton laughed.
"It seems to me," continued Edgar, "that to bind oneself down to
follow any particular party through thick and thin, is to do despite
to one's own individuality."
"You know nothing at all about it," exclaimed his father.
The rector looked serious. "Individualism carried to excess soon
becomes rebellion."
"Nevertheless," persisted Edgar, "it is one's duty to do what we
think right, regardless of results. We know what was said of them
who did evil that good might come; now we are afraid to do good lest
evil may come, and I think that our condemnation is as just as
theirs."
"I should be sorry to lead a party composed entirely of Edgars," Paul
remarked, "there would be a regular Giants' Causeway of rocks ahead."
Mr. Ford nodded. Paul's straightforward common sense always appealed
to him.
"There you go again!" cried Edgar. "Caution is your watchword, and
it is a word I hate."
"So do I," agreed Isabel; "all the mistakes of my life have arisen
out of caution."
"So have all the successes of mine," added Mr. Ford drily.
Mrs. Ford looked anxiously at Isabel. "I trust that your horror of
caution does not extend to matters affecting your health, my dear; it
is never safe for any one to run risks, and you do not look at all
strong."
Isabel laughed, and Paul felt a sudden tightening of the muscles
round his heart, and a moment's unreasoning hatred of Mrs. Ford. Who
does not know the bitter loathing that we all feel when some one
suggests to us that our nearest and dearest are not looking well?
Such speakers are probably kind, or, at worst, only careless; but we
hate them more than we hate the foes who wish to injure us.
"Mrs. Ford has been looking after my health too," said the artist.
His hostess smiled. "I only said I would not allow him to work too
hard while he was here, and I advised him to take a glass of new milk
at tea-time."
"The new milk is making a new man of me," said Mr. Madderley, looking
gratefully at Mrs. Ford for all his quizzing.
"Now milk really is a fattening thing," Isabel said, shaking her
head, "so is water."
"Is it, dear lady? I never take it."
"Then you ought to; I always do."
"The fairest flowers demand their dew," murmured the artist, bowing
to Isabel.
"And artists--like poets and muses and people of that sort--live upon
nectar, I presume," she retorted.
"Certainly," replied Mr. Madderley, "it is always a case of nectar or
nothing with us."
"I know it is ignorant of me," said Joanna, "but I always confuse
nectar with manna."
"So do I," echoed Alice.
"I don't believe that people would be satisfied with manna
now-a-days," said Isabel, "they would want something more spicy than
angels' food."
"Other times, other mannas," murmured the artist.
Isabel laughed again; and Paul wondered how any man could be such an
idiot as to make puns. He did not quite realize that he would have
laughed himself if Isabel had not done so, and would have thought
Madderley an amusing fellow; but he did not like Isabel's evident
amusement at all.
The conversation flowed on pleasantly all through dinner, and
everybody was happy except Alice; but the sight of Paul's obvious
devotion to Isabel proved a large fly in her ointment. It did not
make her wild with jealousy as it would have made some women, nor
hard and bitter as it would have made others; it merely reduced her
to a humble and pitiful condition of mind, in which she wanted her
mother to comfort her--or else another man to make love to her as
Paul was making love to Isabel.
It is so easy for a woman to create a new heaven and a new earth for
herself--especially the former--out of whatever she may have at hand.
She must have a heaven of some kind, however scanty may be the
materials wherewith she has to build; just as a little girl must have
a doll, if it be only a bundle of rags tied round with a string. But
men do not understand this. To them the manufacture of the new
heaven and the new earth is not so simple; they cannot so easily
sweep away the historical ruins of their past, and erect a fresh
fabric upon the old foundations; for men are strong to do--and (still
harder task!) to do without. They can live--after a fashion--without
a heaven at all; and would rather do so than have a jerry-built
edifice made up out of scraps they have not themselves chosen. But
to women, poor souls! a heaven of some kind is a necessity of their
being; and though the new one may not be formed after their ideal
pattern like the old, it is better than nothing, and will probably in
the end make them quite as happy.
Therefore Alice, feeling herself left out in the cold when she saw
Paul and Isabel together, was in the state of mind that she would
have accepted--and actually fallen in love with--Edgar, had he
availed himself of these circumstances to propose to her. But poor
Edgar had never learnt the art of making slaves out of circumstances.
He was a good man and chivalrous, and he always did the right
thing--but he invariably chose the wrong time for doing it. Just
then he felt particularly tender towards Alice. He saw that she saw
how Paul's face softened at the sight of Isabel; and he realized that
every sign of affection shown towards Isabel by Paul was a fresh
thorn in Alice's path. Edgar argued that if he lost Alice, no other
woman could comfort him; and that therefore, Alice having lost Paul,
no other man could comfort her. He forgot that love to a man is like
health--he can exist after a fashion without it, though he cannot
attain to a high standard of happiness; but that love to a woman is
like life--she must have it, in some form or another, or else she
will die.
It is interesting to notice that the men who happen to be in love,
always join the ladies in advance of the others; consequently Paul
and Edgar did not sit long over their wine. Paul went straight up to
Isabel; and Edgar--with his ready instinct to help anybody who was
hurt--asked Alice to come and see a new and rare orchid that was in
the conservatory. After they had duly admired the orchid, they sat
down beside the cool marble fountain. Edgar longed to take Alice in
his arms and kiss her, she looked so pretty and so sorrowful; but
instead of that he began to talk about the Sidbury election.
"I shall be sorry if the Tory has got in," he said, "it will vex my
father, and I cannot bear to see him disappointed. He spoke at
Sidbury last week, and made such a capital speech."
"Did he?" said Alice. She was wondering whether Paul would have
loved her if she had been as clever as Isabel.
"But though it grieves me to see him disappointed," continued Edgar,
"I am afraid it will some day be my duty to disappoint him more than
any one. It will nearly break my heart, and yet I fear I shall be
obliged to do it."
"How dreadfully sad!" murmured Alice. She was thinking that after
all Isabel was not nearly as good-looking as she was, and that most
men consider beauty far more important than brains in a woman.
"It is cruel work, Alice, when one's duty and one's affections clash!
I sometimes wonder if my duty to my father is not more binding than
my duty to my own conscience; yet if I acted as I thought wrongly, in
order not to vex my father, I fancy such a course would be the doing
of evil that good might come."
Alice sighed. "I expect it would." She was wishing she had been
clever instead of pretty; it seemed to pay better in the long run
after all.
Edgar went on: "I cannot help feeling that political life in a
measure blunts one's finer perceptions and lowers one's ideals. Of
course I see, with my father, that from the party point of view a
certain amount of unanimity is imperative; but from the personal
point of view I cannot see that a man is justified in sacrificing his
own principles--and the expression of them--to any consideration
whatever."
"Of course not," said Alice. She was wondering if Paul talked to
Isabel about political and personal points of view, and if Isabel had
any idea what it all meant.
"You see, Alice, the Sermon on the Mount is as binding now as it was
eighteen centuries ago; yet who now gives his cloak to them that take
his coat; or who strives to be meek and merciful and poor in spirit?"
Alice looked at Edgar. He was a handsomer man than Paul and much
more religious; she wondered she did not like him as well.
"It is very difficult for me to talk about the things I really care
for," he continued, his eyes bright with excitement. "I never do it
to anybody except you, but you are different from everybody else. I
cannot reconcile to my conscience the present attitude of the rich
towards the poor--that is what troubles me so much."
"Does it? I am so sorry," said Alice gently. She was grieved for
Edgar to be unhappy, but she wondered that he let a trifle such as
this make him so.
"Yes; I cannot get it out of my mind. When the charge is brought
against us, 'I was a stranger and ye took Me not in,' do you think it
will be enough to answer: 'Lord, there were the workhouses and the
poor rates; and indiscriminate charity was supposed to pauperize the
lower classes'?"
Alice shook her head. "Of course not."
"Then what ought we to do?--or rather, what ought I to do? For it is
my own beam that I must be looking after, and not my brother's mote.
Oh! Alice, I think of this night and day, and yet I come to no
satisfactory conclusion."
"Poor Edgar!" Alice was really sympathetic now. Conversation about
politics did not interest her; it was completely over her head. But
here was a man in trouble, crying out for help and comfort; this she
understood well enough, and her woman's heart longed to comfort him.
"I cannot bear to grieve my father," sighed Edgar; "he has always
been such a good father to me."
"And you have always been such a good son to him."
"I have tried to be; but that is not enough. The young man in the
gospels had evidently been a good son, as he had kept all the
commandments. Nevertheless he was called upon to sell all that he
had and give to the poor."
"But there are lots of good men who don't sell all they have to give
to the poor," suggested Alice, "and yet there is no doubt that they
are quite as religious as you are, and quite as conscientious."
"I see that," agreed Edgar, "but every one is not called upon to make
the same sacrifice. A man who is called to preach the gospel, has no
right to disregard that call because some other man has not received
it. We are each appointed to our separate work; and each man has got
to do his own work, and not somebody else's because he thinks that
would suit him better."
"Alice," called Mrs. Ford from the drawing-room; "come and give us
some of your charming music, my dear."
So Alice went to the piano and sang "Robin Adair," in a voice to
which Nature had given sweetness, and Sorrow had added expression.
While she sang, Edgar felt a lump in his throat, and again longed to
take her in his arms and console her; and Isabel's eyes filled with
tears as she realized that what made London balls so fine and crowded
assemblies so brilliant, was the presence of Paul Seaton; while Paul
himself hoped that Alice's song would soon be over, so that he might
go on talking to Isabel.