The Country of Conceit.
Safe screened by hills on either hand
From winter storms and summer heat,
There lies a silly little land--
The Country of Conceit.
One afternoon, not long after Isabel's visit to Chayford, Paul was
having tea at the Farleys' house in Prince's Gate; and Lady Esdaile
was there also, looking prettier than ever. Paul was feeling
particularly happy, as he had done ever since Isabel had made herself
at home among his own people; she had fulfilled even his ideal of
her, and consequently he was content. He had yet to learn that the
fact of a woman's being an angel in May, is no ground for supposing
that she will be equally angelic in June--or even angelic at all.
Isabel--with her fatal aptitude for taking her tone from her
surroundings--was as earthly in London as she had been heavenly at
Chayford; that is to say, the outward and visible Isabel was; and
poor Paul, with all his love for her, as yet lacked the wisdom to
understand her thoroughly. It always seems a pity, with regard to
lovemaking, that when people are old enough to have learnt the game
properly, they are generally too old to want to play at it. In this
respect it is inferior to whist.
"Isn't London adorable just now?" exclaimed Isabel. "Everything is
in such a rush that one has not time to think about anything."
"Rather a doubtful advantage, I should say," suggested Paul.
"Not at all. I hate thinking, it makes my head ache," replied Isabel
flippantly.
Paul looked surprised and puzzled; was this the same woman who had
sat beside him in Chayford Chapel and sung "There is a land of pure
delight"? He did not know that Isabel's character was as yet so
unformed that she was frightened at the depth of her own feelings,
and that this was a feeble protest on her part against an emotion
that was threatening to overwhelm her.
Lady Esdaile shook her head. "Mr. Seaton is right; it is shocking
not to have time to think. The other day I was actually putting on a
gown for the Wallingfords' dinner that I had worn there once before,
simply because I was in such a hurry that I had not time to give
proper attention to my wardrobe. Fortunately my maid happened to
remember in time. But think how awful it would have been if I had
worn the same dress at the same house twice in one season!"
"Dreadful!" agreed Isabel. "It is wonderful what an effect clothes
have on one's character. Personally I have not the courage to show
myself if I do not feel I am suitably attired; a characteristic which
I inherit from my first parents."
Lady Farley laughed. "I think our conversation is greatly affected
by our clothes," she remarked. "I can never administer a social snub
properly unless I am wearing either fur or diamonds; and I couldn't
possibly pray in a hat, or without a veil."
"I quite agree with you, Caroline," said Lady Esdaile; "I cannot bear
to see a married woman of my age in church in a hat. And yet the
unmarried ones look all right. Isn't it funny that a little thing
like getting married should make all the difference between wearing a
hat or a bonnet on Sunday?"
"Very funny," replied Lady Farley, "but great effects do result from
small causes, Constance."
"They certainly do; I came upon an instance of that only the other
day. The Featherstonehaughs' cook died suddenly, and so Mabel
Featherstonehaugh was sent off straight to the Ellisons', as anything
of that kind in a house is so unpleasant, you know."
"Of course it is," remarked Lady Farley, with her satirical smile.
Lady Esdaile continued: "Willie Philipson happened to be staying at
the Ellisons' at the same time, and was so taken with Mabel that I
shouldn't be surprised if he made her an offer. It would be an
awfully good match for her; and yet if the Featherstonehaughs' cook
had not happened to die just then, she and Willie might never have
met each other."
Paul laughed; this speech was so exactly like Lady Esdaile and its
flippancy did not irritate him at all. But he was conscious that if
Isabel had said such a thing he would have felt more angry than he
could express. Isabel also was conscious of this, and resented it.
She argued that if Paul really cared for her, he would approve of
everything she said and did; Paul, on the contrary, argued that
because he really cared for her, it was agony to him when she said
and did the things that he did not approve of; consequently (in
speaking of a woman the word consequently is applicable here--had it
been a man that was referred to, such an expression as strange to say
would have been better)--consequently Isabel ran full tilt against
all Paul's prejudices and theories.
"Aunt Caroline is right in saying that our conversation depends upon
our clothes," she said, "mine is entirely guided by them."
"Oh! no, it isn't," ejaculated Paul, "you are talking nonsense."
"Pardon me, my dear sir, I am not; I must know better than you do
what are the sources of my own wit. Have you never noticed that I am
subdued in black, poetical in blue, innocent in green, and brilliant
in yellow?"
"And what in white?" asked Lady Esdaile with interest.
"White I never wear, Aunt Constance, for the dual reason that my
hairs are dark and my years are many."
"But it is so economical," persisted Lady Esdaile; "if you wear
white, people never remember it."
"And they never remember me either," added Isabel, "I look so very
plain in it."
"I am afraid we are shocking Mr. Seaton," said Lady Esdaile sweetly,
"he looks so serious. But that is the worst of men; they despise us
if we try to look nice, and they ignore us if we don't."
"Come, Lady Esdaile, we are not quite as bad as that."
Lady Esdaile sighed. "Yes, you are. And then, again, you hate us
for getting old, and you laugh at us for trying to keep young. You
really are tiresome creatures!"
Paul was amused. "I own we are hard upon you when you tell fibs
about your ages, because such fibbing seems so foolish to us. When
will women learn to be as proud of being old as they are now of being
young?"
"When men admire old women as much as young ones, and not a moment
before," replied Isabel smartly.
Every one laughed.
"I believe men really care as much about their clothes as we do about
ours," continued Lady Esdaile, "only they don't talk about them as
much. But that is because they are so reserved and queer. I've
noticed men never talk about what they are thinking about. Isn't it
funny of them? I expect it is because they are so clever, they can
hide what they feel."
"The fools care about their clothes; but the clever ones are too
clever to see that they are not clever enough to be independent of
trifles," said Isabel, throwing the gauntlet down before Paul.
But he was too wise to pick it up just then, though he knew perfectly
well that it was there.
So she rattled on: "I wonder if it would be possible for a woman to
love a man well enough to condone his excellencies and to pardon his
virtues. Love has accomplished some wonderful parlour-tricks, I
admit; but I don't think it has ever gone so far as to throw a halo
round a man with a conscience."
"Don't you?" said Paul drily, "I fancy you somewhat underrate the
powers of the little blind god, and overrate the folly of your own
sex."
"Don't have too much faith in my own sex," advised Isabel.
"Do not quarrel, my children," murmured Lady Farley; "the weather is
too warm for anything but peace."
Lady Esdaile rose; she always left the room when any signs of a storm
were brewing, and therefore had the character of being a peacemaker.
"I must be going," she said, "I have so many calls to pay this
afternoon. Good-bye, dear people."
Lady Farley went downstairs with her sister-in-law, and left the
lovers to themselves.
There was a moment's silence, and then Paul asked: "Whatever
possessed you to talk such nonsense as you have been doing this
afternoon? You didn't mean a word of it."
Isabel pouted. She did not like to be scolded; she was not
accustomed to it. "I did mean it. I'd as soon talk to a man with a
hobby as a man with a conscience. They are both boring."
"You wouldn't; and you do yourself an injustice when you say things
like that."
Isabel felt really cross; now and then Paul's superiority irritated
her, and she kicked against it. This was one of the occasions.
"I wish a touch of human nature was added to the thousand and one
excellencies which beset you," she said; "it would make you more
amusing in this world, without in the least interfering with your
chances for the next."
"I am human enough, goodness knows!"
"No, no, my dear sir; believe me, you flatter yourself. You are a
_rechauffé_ of King Arthur and Jack the Giant-killer, flavoured to
taste with extracts from the _Fairchild Family_."
Paul smiled somewhat grimly. "Nevertheless you were kind enough to
select me as your future husband."
"Not 'unless I might have another for working-days; your grace is too
costly to wear every day,' but you will be just the thing for
Sundays."
"You are very cross this afternoon," said Paul, trying to be
pleasant, "but now you are coming for a walk with me, and that will
do you good."
"No, I'm not."
Paul looked surprised. "Why not? You said that you were."
"I daresay I did; but I have changed my mind."
"But why? It is such a lovely afternoon, and it is now cool enough
for walking."
Isabel looked at Paul from under her long eyelashes. He had been
disagreeable, and she felt it her duty to punish him; she was a
strict disciplinarian where her lover was concerned, and never let
her own feelings hinder her from giving him such chastisement as she
thought needful. To do them justice, however, it is but fair to add
that her feelings were very accommodating in this respect, and rarely
attempted to stand between Paul and the consequences of his misdeeds;
on the contrary, they rather enjoyed the fulfilment of the decrees of
inexorable justice.
"I don't want to go out this afternoon, because Lord Wrexham said he
might call," she replied.
Inexorable justice was satisfied. The sentence--if out of proportion
to the crime--was exactly suited to the criminal. Isabel was a
connoisseur in punishments.
The victim was silent for a moment, then he said: "You ought not to
have made any engagement for this afternoon, after you had promised
to go out with me; your time was not your own".
"I don't care whose it was; anyhow I mean to take it and use it as I
like."
"But you have no right to."
Isabel laughed. "Bah! who talks about rights now-a-days? Nobody has
really any right to anything, except sufficient earth to bury them.
I shall do what I want."
"Then do you mean to say you want to stay in and see Lord Wrexham?"
Isabel nodded.
"Confound him!" said Paul savagely.
"There! you are human after all," cried Isabel triumphantly.
"I always said I was. It was you that stated the opposite, if you
remember. There is no doubt that the point is now proved beyond
dispute, but it is my statement that you have supported, not your
own."
"I think jealousy is a disgusting fault," said Isabel.
"I think so too, but that doesn't cure it. At any rate you will
admit that it is extremely human."
Isabel shook her head sorrowfully, though she was really enjoying
herself immensely. "It is very wrong and horrid and so like a man.
I believe the reason why Paradise was Paradise to Adam was because he
was the only man on the ground."
"Very probably; and the old Adam is so strong in me--in spite of your
remarks to the contrary--that I mean to be the only man on the
ground, too."
"You've got a horrid temper, Paul; you are like the man who always
quarrelled with people till they liked him. You will never make
anybody do what you want, if you go on in that way."
"Oh! yes, I shall. There is only one person in the world that I wish
to do what I want, and she will do it in twenty minutes from now."
Isabel tossed her head. "Oh! dear no, she won't."
"Oh! dear yes, she will."
"How shall you make her?"
"I shall not _make_ her; she will do what I wish her to do, partly
because it is right, but chiefly because I wish it and she wishes to
please me."
Isabel's face grew very red. "You are simply vile and detestable and
altogether horrid!"
"I am quite aware of that, and therefore it is all the more wonderful
that a woman who is simply delightful and brilliant and altogether
charming should be ready to do as I wish."
Isabel shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing will induce me to go out
this afternoon--nothing!"
Paul smiled and was silent.
Isabel stamped her foot. "I am not going to walk about London with a
nasty disagreeable man, and I tell you so, once for all."
Paul looked at his watch. "Sixteen minutes before we start; I do not
want to hurry you, but I know you like plenty of time to tie your
veil and to see that your hair is all right."
Isabel looked very cross. "You are the most detestable man I ever
met!"
"That may be; but, as I remarked before, your feeling is what the old
hymn terms 'well-dissembled'."
"Well, I do hate you."
"All right. If this is hatred I am well content with it, and I would
not change places with the people whom you love for worlds."
Isabel looked at herself in the glass. "If there is one thing I
despise more than another," she remarked to her reflection, "it is a
woman who does what a man tells her."
Again Paul found refuge in silence and smiles.
Isabel hummed a tune out of _Patience_.
"Twelve minutes before we start," said Paul, _à propos_ of nothing.
Isabel stole a look at him. "What should you do if I didn't go?" she
asked.
Paul pulled his moustache to hide a smile. "You would soon see what
I should do," he said cautiously. He had learned that the terrors of
the Unknown evaporate with fuller knowledge, so he did not enlighten
Isabel; moreover he would have found a difficulty in so doing, as he
did not know himself.
"What should you do?" she persisted.
"Like 'the story of Auld Grouse in the gun-room,' my programme is all
the more effective for not being told."
"I don't believe you know what you would do."
"Don't I though?" And there was laughter in Paul's eyes. "Besides,"
he added; "what is the use of providing for impossible contingencies?"
"It is the impossible that always happens," said Isabel.
"Except when it is the unexpected," corrected Paul.
Isabel pulled a yellow rose out of her belt, and began picking it to
pieces. "Why are you so keen on making me go out with you this
afternoon?" she asked.
"Because I want to enjoy the pleasure of being with you, and because
every man has a right to his own."
"Then you don't care about my pleasure?"
"Pardon me; I care so much about it that if I thought it really was a
greater pleasure to you to stay in and see Lord Wrexham than to go
out with me, I would never ask you to go out with me again. But I
don't think so, and that makes all the difference."
"You are jealous of Lord Wrexham; that is the long and short of it,"
said Isabel.
"Possibly," replied Paul drily.
"I never heard such rubbish!" And Isabel plucked at the rose with
impatient fingers.
Paul looked at his watch again. "Just five minutes," he murmured, as
if to himself.
"I hate you!" cried Isabel stamping her foot.
"I know; you said so a short time ago, and I told you that your
hatred was the best thing in life, if you remember. Repetition is
not argument, my dear Isabel."
Isabel did not answer; but, in spite of her hatred, she ran upstairs
and put her hat and gloves on, and was down again before the twenty
minutes had elapsed. And she did not know that while she was out of
the room Paul picked up the remnants of the rose she had played with,
and kissed them before he slipped them into his pocket-book.
People generally called Paul Seaton a hard man. They would have
changed their opinion if they had seen his face when he kissed
Isabel's shattered rose. But Paul was not the sort of man to kiss
roses when there was any chance of being seen.
When Isabel came downstairs she looked so nice that Paul pursued the
same course of treatment with her that he had pursued with the yellow
rose; and with even greater satisfaction, to judge by the expression
of his face.
"Why do you like me so awfully?" she asked.
"Because you are you, and because you are mine."
"Haven't we been horrid to each other this afternoon?"
Paul smiled. "I have been horrid, but you are never anything but
charming, sweetheart."
"Oh! I know I'm none the less charming for being horrid sometimes;
and--to tell the truth--neither are you. I believe that we are both
nicest when we are nasty, and that when we hate each other we love
each other the most."
Then they both laughed and went out and walked along the unfrequented
and grassy ways of the park.
"Are you going to the Fulfords' to-night?" asked Isabel.
"No; they haven't asked me. Are you?"
"Not if you are not; I hate the parties that you don't go to. To
adapt an old bull, you spoil half the parties by not being asked to
them."
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "It is my misfortune and not my fault;
for I am green with jealousy of every living soul who is invited to a
party where there is a chance of meeting you."
"Isn't it funny," said Isabel meditatively, "how one person can make
such a lot of difference? Paul Seaton goes away for a day or two,
and London becomes as sparsely populated as the steppes of Russia and
as desolate as the Great Sahara; Paul Seaton comes back again, and
the place is as crowded as if it were the scene of a Jubilee
procession or a royal wedding."
"Thank you," said Paul simply.
"I am going to bring out a new arithmetic book," continued Isabel,
"with problems such as these: Take one from five millions and only
one remains--and that one is yourself and very lonely."
Paul laughed, and Isabel rattled on: "Add one to two, and the result
is still two; for the one is sadly _de trop_, and so is shaken off as
soon as possible".
"What a clever mathematician it is!" said Paul fondly.
"You are rather a swell at mathematics yourself, aren't you?" asked
Isabel.
"I wasn't bad at them when I was at Oxford."
"Yet, my dear Paul, you are very slow at putting two and two
together. I have often noticed it."
"Because that is a higher branch than those in which I was
proficient. But wherein have I failed lately to satisfy the
examiners on this score?"
"You don't always understand women--me, I mean."
"Do not blame Oxford for that; there was nothing in the least like
you in the mathematics that I studied at the 'Varsity. They were
dull, stupid things, with reason in them."
"How horrid!"
"And when you put two and two together they invariably came to four,"
continued Paul, "can you imagine anything more tame and
uninteresting?"
"Nothing. Now what is the result of putting two and two together
when you are dealing with me?"
Paul thought for a moment; then he said: "Sometimes five and
sometimes a million; one can never tell; all one can tell for certain
is that the result never will be four. The only conclusion it is
never safe to arrive at in dealing with a woman is the only logical
one."
"Which do you like best--me or mathematics?"
"My dear child, what an absurd question!"
"Which do you?" persisted Isabel.
Paul grew serious. "When I was at Oxford I liked classics better
than mathematics, and rowing better than both of them; after I left
the 'Varsity, I began to care about power and success and fame more
than about rowing; now I love you more than power and success and
fame put together, with all the kingdoms of the world thrown in."
"My dear old boy!"
"I only want to succeed now, in order that I may have the more to
offer to you," continued Paul, "I feel that money is worth getting
because it will give you ease; power, because it will give you rank;
and fame, because it will give you pleasure. I used to care for
these things for their own sake, now I only care for them for yours;
and consequently I care ten times more for them than I used to do,
and am ten times more keen on winning them. By Jove! if only I had
Edgar Ford's chances, wouldn't I make my wife one of the most envied
women in London!"
"Yet Edgar will never do much," said Isabel.
"I know he won't; that is the pity of it. If I were in Edgar's
place, with all his advantages, I would be in the Government before I
was forty. As for him, he will either not go into Parliament at all,
or else throw up all chance of office by figuring as an independent
member. As if a great empire could be governed by a bundle of fads!"
"Edgar is really an ascetic," said Isabel.
"Edgar is really an ass," said Paul.
Isabel shook her head. "He is a perfect angel in some things."
"And a perfect ass in others," repeated her lover.
"It is not always easy to tell the difference between an ass and an
angel," remarked Isabel; "it confused Balaam a good deal, don't you
remember? When he thought that it was only an ass that was hindering
him on his journey, it turned out to be really the angel of the Lord.
And Balaam's is not an uncommon mistake."
"Sweetheart, you are ingenious."
"I was only trying to keep you from repeating Balaam's blunder."
Paul sighed. "It is the sort of blunder to which I am prone; I
should have been irritated with the creature, if I had been Balaam."
"I know you would; you are always so sure of yourself, and you cannot
bear to be thwarted."
"But you shall be my angel, dear, and always stand in the way when
you think I am wrong. You could turn me back from anything, Isabel."
"But you like Edgar, don't you?" Isabel asked.
"Like him? I should think I do. I consider he is one of the best
fellows under the sun, and I have the greatest respect as well as
affection for him. But I cannot help thinking that he uses the
microscope too much and the telescope too little, figuratively
speaking."
"I know what you mean."
Paul went on: "He so strains his moral eyesight with splitting hairs,
that he is incapable of taking in a large general effect; and he is
apt to confuse prejudices with principles, and crotchets with creeds.
He is not content with conforming to the spirit of the law; he will
obey it in the letter as well."
"I do not think you are just to Edgar," said Isabel.
"Possibly not. I am so much impressed by the necessity of attaining
what is good, and the impossibility of rising to what is perfect,
that it irritates me to see men neglecting an obvious duty for the
sake of an impracticable dream."
"Do you think there is any danger of this in theoretical people?"
"I do," replied Paul. "Of course I know that it is better to build a
cathedral than to make a boot; but I think it is better to actually
make a boot, than only to dream about building a cathedral. It is
far nobler to do great things than small things, I admit; but it is
nobler to do small things than to waste all one's time in wanting to
do great ones, and to end by doing nothing at all."
"Edgar certainly is a theorist."
"Edgar was born several centuries too late," continued Paul, "in the
early days of Christianity he would have been an heroic martyr; in
the middle ages, a cloistered saint; just after the Reformation, a
consistent Puritan; at the time of the evangelical revival, an ideal
early Methodist; but in the nineteenth century--as the intellectual
son of a wealthy merchant--there seems no place for him."
"You and I, on the contrary, are very modern, aren't we, Paul?
Old-fashioned things--such as wigs and cowls and martyrdoms--would
not have been at all becoming to us."
And then the lovers fell to talking about themselves, and forgot
Edgar and everybody else in their absorption in the subject under
discussion.