Vernacre Park.
Trim the shrubs and mow the grass,
Roll the alleys shady,
Make the ways where she will pass
Fitter for my lady.
There was a large house-party at Vernacre Park at Easter, to meet
Miss Carnaby, who had just become engaged to the host, Lord Wrexham.
Old Lady Wrexham played the part of hostess--a most stately and
chilly dame, whom Isabel could not endure; and, in addition to the
party from Elton, the company included the Esdailes, Lord Robert
Thistletown and Mr. Madderley, besides sundry, uneventful persons,
whom nobody took the trouble to differentiate.
Isabel had been in a most reckless mood ever since she accepted Lord
Wrexham; she had definitely decided to stifle the romantic, and to
develop the worldly, side of her character; and--having made up her
mind to permanently adopt the _rôle_ of a shallow smart woman--she
almost overdid her part in her anxiety to do herself injustice. It
certainly was a triumphal procession for her, this visit to Vernacre
as its future mistress; for Vernacre was one of the finest residences
in the Midlands.
As they were sitting at lunch on Good Friday, Lady Esdaile remarked:
"Isn't it funny how hungry going to church always makes one?"
"I never have recourse to those artificial aids to appetite,"
murmured Madderley.
"I'm always ravenous on Sundays," continued Lady Esdaile, "and my
appetite has evidently mistaken to-day for a Sunday."
"A pardonable error," replied the artist, "for my intellectual powers
have fallen into it, too."
"I am glad that you are hungry, Lady Esdaile," said the hostess, "but
not surprised, for Vernacre is always considered a peculiarly
invigorating place; the situation is salubrious, and the subsoil old
red sandstone. I never feel so well anywhere as I do at Vernacre."
"I am always hungry in the country and thirsty in London," continued
Lady Esdaile, "and that is why I am so much sorrier for poor people
in the country than in town; it must be so horrid to feel hungry and
have nothing to eat, don't you know?"
"It must indeed," agreed Lord Wrexham; "and I have often wondered
that the health of the lower classes is not even more seriously
impaired than it is, considering that they must frequently be
compelled to leave their hunger only partially satisfied, if at all."
"I daresay they enjoy it," exclaimed Isabel, "I remember that Aunt
Caroline and I were once kept stuck on a journey for hours, far away
from any station, and we had nothing to eat or drink save a small
bottle of cough-syrup she happened to have in her dressing-bag. We
had to take occasional nips at that; and because it was scarce we
thought it delicious. I never was addicted to cough-syrup before,
but since then I have preferred it to champagne."
"Perhaps it was made palatable on purpose," suggested Lord Wrexham,
"some of those patent medicines are often far from repulsive to the
taste."
"Oh! no; it was nasty enough really," replied Isabel; "but poverty
made it sweet. And I believe poor people get lots of treats like
that."
Lord Wrexham shook his head. "I fear you are right, and that the
poor are too fond of taking quack doses not recommended by the
faculty. It is a bad habit, but I presume that economy is their
motive."
"I didn't mean that; I only meant that when you are poor, life must
be like one everlasting picnic. I once wanted to be poor myself, I
thought it would be such fun."
"I once was poor," said Madderley, "and I am bound to admit that the
joke fell short of your expectations, Miss Carnaby."
Isabel helped herself to plovers' eggs. "I felt I was foolish at the
time, and I prayed for more wisdom."
"It is always safe to pray for the inevitable," said the artist, "it
strengthens faith without incommoding Providence."
"Having got wisdom, I now pray for the rest of life's good things,
like Solomon--riches and honours and fine clothes, and horses and
carriages _en suite_."
"I never pray for what I see in the shop-windows," said Madderley; "I
choose what I think will suit me, and know that it will be put down
in my bill."
Isabel's lip curled. "You are very _bourgeois_ in your ideas."
"I don't think so; I am merely honest with myself, and do not call
transactions providential which are merely commercial. The temple
and the money-changers should be kept far apart."
"I think, Madderley, that you misunderstand Miss Carnaby," said Lord
Wrexham, in his slow, kind way as he smiled indulgently upon Isabel,
"she does not really mean that she would ask Providence for things
with which her tradesman could supply her."
"Of course I shouldn't pray for what I could pay for," added Isabel.
The artist bowed. "If I have misunderstood Miss Carnaby I humbly beg
her pardon. By the way," he continued, "I once heard a story of a
very devout Cornish wrecker, who never retired to rest, without
praying for a storm. That always appeals to my sense of humour."
"Were his prayers answered?" asked Isabel.
"There were always plenty of wrecks, if that is what you mean."
"The wreckers were a terrible people," said Lord Wrexham, "and it was
a terrible state of society which made such things possible."
"It is a comfort to think that these customs were confined to
Cornwall and the last century," said Isabel.
"Were they?" asked Madderley.
"I think so," replied Lord Wrexham, "of course one has heard of
wrecks and salvage on other shores; but I believe that the custom of
deliberately causing wrecks by means of false lights was peculiar to
Cornwall."
"I hope you are right," said the artist, "I cannot, of course, give
names or dates, but I have an idea that I have heard of cases of
cruel and avoidable wrecks in other counties than Cornwall, and
considerably later than the last century."
"Indeed! I had believed that such savagery was extinct in England.
I suppose, however, that the love of gain was the motive now as
then?" And his lordship looked quite distressed.
"And the love of excitement."
"Dear me, how shocking!"
"Such things are shocking," agreed Madderley; "and doubly shocking to
those who have witnessed their effects."
Isabel laughed a hard little laugh. "Perhaps Mr. Madderley will make
use of his artistic power to describe some of these harrowing
spectacles."
"I shall do nothing of the kind, dear lady; such descriptions would
not be fit for pretty ears. I believe even the wreckers themselves
would rather not see the consequences of their cruelty; therefore
such things should be kept from the knowledge of refined and
tender-hearted women, whose nature it is to be kind and pitiful."
"You are quite right, Madderley," said Lord Wrexham approvingly,
"descriptions of horrors and cruelties are most unfit for women's
ears, in my opinion."
But Isabel still looked defiant. "Perhaps, then, Mr. Madderley will
tell us where these modern and fiendish wreckers are to be found."
The artist strolled to the sideboard to cut himself some ham. "On
the sea-coast of Bohemia, and thereabouts."
"Don't take any notice of him, Wrexham," said Isabel petulantly; "he
is only making up, just to irritate me."
Lord Wrexham was surprised. "Why, Isabel, what is the matter with
you? You and Madderley used to be such friends."
"I know we used; but friendships don't wear for ever, any more than
clothes."
"I have always noticed," remarked Madderley, "that the untried
friendships are those which last the longest."
"What is that you are saying about friendships?" cried Lord Bobby
from the other end of the table. The place of honour, to which his
rank entitled him, was a grievous burden to this irrepressible youth.
"I can give you no end of information on the subject, as Platonic
friendship is the line in which I excel."
"I do not believe in Platonic friendships," said Lady Farley, "the
woman is all right; but the man always cares too much or too little
for the arrangement to be a success."
"You are wrong," cried Lord Bobby, "I have scores in good working
order just now, so I speak with authority on the subject. They are
all most successful, and I start a new one every other week."
"Which I suppose you call a neo-Platonic friendship," suggested the
artist.
"Don't be so horribly clever," replied Lord Bobby, "it gives me the
headache, and will undermine your constitution in time."
"My experience of Platonic friendships is that they generally end in
the woman's losing her head," remarked Madderley.
"Mine is that they invariably end in the man's losing his temper,"
added Isabel.
"I notice that, as a rule, the man is either bored to death by the
whole thing," said Lady Farley, "or else overdraws his account on the
bank of friendship, and is surprised when, in consequence, the bank
will not cash his cheques."
"That latter case is more often true of the woman than of the man, I
think," replied Madderley.
Lady Farley shook her head. "No; men are much more exacting than
women in their friendships--that is to say, if they really care. It
seems to me that men either care a great deal about things, or not at
all; while women have a regular thermometer of degrees of affection
and interest."
"I think you are right there," agreed Lord Wrexham, "men are so much
simpler and less complex than women."
"Oh! we are grander altogether," agreed Lord Bobby; "simpler and yet
more sublime, don't you know? One cannot help admiring us.
Though on our corns the little spitfires tread,
Tobacco-smoke unruffled crowns our head."
Everybody laughed, and Lady Farley continued: "I have studied men
carefully for many years, and I feel that I am now qualified to carry
on a satisfactory Platonic friendship. But of course, being married,
I have not time or inclination for the thing; soldiers don't run out
of a battle to try their skill at a shooting-range--they have heavier
work on hand."
Sir Benjamin chuckled with delight. "Still, my dear, you can give
these young and single persons some of the benefit of your superior
wisdom, can't you?"
"Tell us how you would carry on a Platonic friendship, Aunt
Caroline," said Violet Esdaile.
"Well, in the first place, I should never argue with a man; men hate
it so, and it does no earthly good. In my young days I naturally
used to endeavour to prove I was right when I knew I was; but now,
when a man puts me straight as to facts of which he is absolutely
ignorant, I merely accept his correction, and say I must have been
misinformed. Of course I know all the time that I am right and he is
wrong, but what does that matter? It is a woman's duty to be
socially attractive--not statistically correct."
"And what else should you do, Lady Farley?" asked her host.
"I should never attempt to amend his anecdotes. This is an
unpardonable sin. I have known homes broken up and lifelong
friendships destroyed, by one person's saying that a thing happened
on Thursday, when the _raconteur_ had said Friday; while quarrels to
which there could be no reconciliation have ensued from a difference
of opinion as to whether A. met B. by the 10.20 or the 10.45 train."
"Lady Farley has studied men to some purpose," said Madderley.
The lady smiled. "There is such a thing as compulsory education."
"Caroline is quite right," agreed Lady Esdaile, "it is never any use
arguing with a man. In the first place he is always sure to know
better than you do."
"That was not my reason for objecting to the habit," murmured Lady
Farley.
"But he always is--that is, if it is anything out of books or
newspapers. Of course clothes are a different thing, and there I
should be very careful about trusting a man's taste too far. At
least their taste is right enough, but they seem to have no proper
regard for fashion."
"Perhaps now that Aunt Caroline has taught us how to adapt ourselves
to men, Mr. Madderley will teach us how to adapt ourselves to women,"
suggested Isabel; "for I believe he prides himself on his profound
knowledge of, and contempt for, the sex."
"With pleasure. Whenever I am dealing with ladies I take as my guide
and watchword the legend painted upon the racks of railway carriages:
'These racks are suited for light articles only, and must not be used
for heavy luggage;' and I find this is a most successful
prescription. For 'light articles' one must read, pleasure, luxury,
admiration, amusement, etc.; and for 'heavy luggage,' sickness,
sorrow, love, poverty, and every other adversity."
"I see," said Isabel.
"I once knew a man who put his heavy luggage in the rack, in spite of
the printed warning," said the artist, "and it fell through and broke
his head; I knew another man who made a similar mistake in dealing
with a lady; the consequences were practically the same, only it was
his heart instead of his head that was broken."
Isabel's eyes flashed. "I am afraid your friends are not as wise as
you are."
"Perhaps not; but I am hoping that they will learn wisdom by
experience."
"Now where I find men so difficult as friends," said Isabel, "is that
they never will tell you why they are vexed. When a man is out of
temper there is no secret about it--he who runs may read, and she who
reads had better run away; but the reason for this vexation is kept a
profound secret."
"You are quite right there," agreed Lady Farley; "it is an
interesting but inexplicable fact. A woman is different; she will
probably not show at all that she is annoyed, but if she shows it she
will tell you the why and the wherefore."
"That is quite true; my experience of the sex is that when they are
angry they do not err on the side of want of frankness," sighed Lord
Robert.
"And then men are so jealous and exacting," continued Isabel, "that
is where they disgust me."
The artist looked at Isabel curiously, as if by the outward eye he
could discover whether she were as heartless as she pretended to be;
but her appearance afforded him no clue to the problem. "A man who
irritates a woman by showing his jealousy, and destroys her pleasure
by such evil tempers, is a fool--and worse than a fool," he said.
"Oh! not worse than a fool."
"You are pleased to be merciful, Miss Carnaby."
"Because there is nothing worse," she added.
"I quite agree with you," said Madderley, "but some men seem to
regard all things as patent or copyright, which is manifestly absurd;
and men in love are worse in this respect than Platonic friends."
Isabel went on with her lunch while the artist continued: "If a
clergyman or a doctor is not able--owing to absence or illness--to do
his work, he supplies a _locum tenens_ to take his place. And he is
grateful to--instead of offended with--the latter for so doing. Then
why cannot a lover pursue the same course, and with the same 'sweet
reasonableness,' I want to know?"
"The cases hardly seem to me parallel," said Lord Wrexham, looking
puzzled.
"Of course it doesn't do to press a metaphor too far," assented
Madderley.
"Another absurd thing about men," Isabel went on, "is that they
expect you to like them because they are kind to you, and do what you
want; while what you really like them for is the trick of their
manner or the colour of their hair."
"I think you are in a minority there, my dear Isabel," said Lady
Farley, "as a rule kindness appeals more to a woman than anything. I
believe any man could make any woman love him, if he were only kind
enough long enough."
"People like us for what we do, and love us for what we are,"
interpolated Sir Benjamin; "that is my experience."
"I know," agreed Isabel, "therefore we can make people like us but we
cannot make them love us."
"That is true of a woman," said Lady Farley, helping herself to
strawberries, "but hardly of a man. I still hold that any man can
win a woman's love through kindness; and I also hold that external
roughness of manner will--in a woman's eyes--counteract the effect of
any amount of secret devotion. When all is said and done, we like
the men who will dance with us better than the men who would die for
us; such is the constitution of the normal female mind."
Isabel tossed her head. "I do not think so."
"But surely you like the people who are kind to you, don't you?"
asked her host.
"No; I like people because they are attractive, not because they are
kind. I always pity children when they have to kiss grown-ups who
have given them presents. If I were a child, I should not want to
kiss the lady who had given me the prettiest present, but the lady
who had the prettiest face."
"But children are taught to show forth their gratitude not only in
their lives but with their lips," suggested the artist.
"It is a senseless plan all the same," laughed Isabel; "I couldn't
bear to think that my friends liked me only because I was kind to
them."
"I do not think you need distress yourself on that score, dear lady."
"I want people to like me because I am attractive in myself--not
because I am amiable."
Mr. Madderley shook his head. "I cannot commend your prudence; for
you will probably cease to be attractive when you are about
five-and-forty, while you can go on being amiable until you are
eighty-nine."
"I don't see that; hundreds of women are attractive long after they
are five-and-forty."
"Of course they are; but they generally belong to the plump and
amiable school. Tongue is not a dish which improves by keeping, my
dear Lady Disdain."
"Wrexham, turn him out of the room, at once," cried Isabel; "he is
becoming insufferable!"
"What did he say? I did not hear," inquired the host, who was
feeding his dogs at that particular moment.
"He says my tongue is too sharp."
"And he isn't far wrong," sang out Lord Bobby; "if you don't take
care you'll be stung to death by your own tongue, like the crocodile
or the scorpion or some other old chappie. You should have seen a
girl I took in to dinner last week; all through dinner she kept
saying, 'Oh, Lord Bobby, how clever you are!' And she never said
anything else. Now that is the sort of conversation that men like;
it is far better than the dizzying, fizzying stuff that brilliant
women treat us to."
"Don't you like the girls whom you think clever?" asked Violet.
"I like the girls who think me clever a long sight better; and I
don't believe that this is by any means a peculiar taste."
"Young people think and talk too much about what they like and
dislike," said Lady Wrexham, rising from the table, "when I was a
girl I knew what people were related to each other, and which
families were old and which new; but I did not bother my head about
who was attractive and who was amiable and who was neither."
"If you have nothing special to do this afternoon, Thistletown," said
Lord Wrexham, "I wish you would drive Madderley in the dog-cart to
Sunny Hill; I particularly want him to see the view from there, it is
such a fine one and also so typical of this part of the country."
"I could have better shared a better plan," replied Bobby; "but my
obliging nature cannot say him nay."
"You can upset him and break all his bones for being so rude to me at
lunch," suggested Isabel.
"That would do him no good. You may break, you may shatter his bones
if you will, but the outward signs of an overweening vanity and a
most unlovable disposition will cling to him still."
Then the party dispersed, and Isabel went with her lover to see some
model cottages which he had just built, and which he was particularly
anxious to show to her. She listened patiently while he explained
all the improvements, and then she said: "I wonder if happiness is to
be found in such things as subsoils and artesian wells."
Lord Wrexham looked at his cottages with satisfaction. "Health is to
be found in them, and health is a constituent part of happiness."
"Perhaps; of course you couldn't be happy without being healthy; but
it doesn't follow that you couldn't be healthy without being happy.
I wonder in what happiness really does lie."
"I don't know; I never thought about it."
"But you should think about such things, my dear Wrexham; it is
stupid of you not to, you know."
"But I cannot analyze my feelings, as you do; I am not an
introspective person."
"I find nothing so interesting as the study of myself," said Isabel.
"That is very likely; but you are an interesting person and I am not;
so the analysis of me would prove a most wearisome experiment."
"That has nothing to do with it. The analysis of me is instructive
only so far as I am normal, and therefore uninteresting. It shows
what human nature is like. When I am original I cease to be
interesting from a scientific point of view."
"I am afraid I don't quite follow you."
"Can't you see that in vivisecting a frog, the more common the frog
the more instructive is the experiment?"
"Yes; I can see that."
"Then the same principle applies to a woman. But do you mean to tell
me you never think about your feelings?" asked Isabel.
"No; I feel them, and that is enough for me."
"That is very tame!"
"You see," explained Lord Wrexham, "I have so many other things to
think about. An estate like this requires a good deal of management,
and I am so anxious to do my duty by all my tenants and workpeople."
"Do you get really interested in the people about the place, and want
to know what they are all thinking and feeling and caring about?"
"Of course not, my dear young lady; but I want them to be comfortable
and prosperous, and to regard me as a satisfactory landowner."
They walked on in silence for a short time, and then Isabel said:
"Isn't it funny how some people make everything into a treat by just
being there?"
"I don't quite understand what you mean, my dearest."
"Don't you know how the mere presence of some people will turn a
stuffy little parlour into a fairy palace, and a dusty street into a
byway of Paradise?"
"Surely that is somewhat extravagant language," replied Lord Wrexham,
"of course I know that some sorts of society are much more congenial
than others, but everybody can see that."
"Do you know what it is to feel that life is made up of a lot of
strange questions and problems and desires, and that one person is
the answer to them all?" persisted Isabel.
"My dearest child, what funny ideas you have! I am afraid that you
read too much poetry and fiction, and that it overexcites your brain."
"Oh! I don't read all that in books," replied Isabel scornfully. "I
know it of myself; and, by the way, how many selves have you got?"
"How many selves? Why, only one, of course."
"Well, that is very one-sided of you! Now there are five of me, all
neatly labelled and scheduled."
"Which are they, I should like to know?" inquired Lord Wrexham.
"Oh! there is my very best ideal self, and my brilliant society self,
and my jolly every-day self, and my ill and unhappy self, and the
demon."
"What ever do you mean by the demon?"
"I mean me, when I am shallow and selfish and worldly, and say nasty,
sharp things, and care for nothing but admiration, and am a regular
wretch all round."
"What is the best self like?"
"She learned that the wisdom of this world is foolishness," replied
Isabel dreamily, "and she found the key to life's Holy of Holies.
Therefore I killed her, because she knew too much. You never met
her, and I have forgotten her, for it is nearly two years since she
died."
"Really, Isabel, you are a little too prone to let your imagination
run away with you. But now I want you to look at this rustic
fencing; it is an idea of my own, and is, I think, most effective."
"Oh! it is pretty enough," replied Isabel indifferently.
Lord Wrexham's face fell. "I am so sorry you are not more pleased
with it, my darling; I designed it for you, and I did so hope that it
would give you pleasure. Is there anything about it you would like
different?"
"Oh! no; it is all right."
"You see, all my delight now in improving Vernacre is in making it
fitter for you. It could never be worthy of such a mistress as it
will have; but I hardly let a day pass without doing something to
make it a little more meet for your acceptance."
"It is very good of you," said Isabel gently, as they turned away.
"Not at all; it is mere selfishness on my part, as my greatest
pleasure lies in pleasing you. I trust you will not hesitate to
mention anything that you would like different, either in my home or
in myself; and, if alteration is possible, it shall be made."
"Do you mean you would let me tell you of your faults?"
"Of course I would," replied Lord Wrexham; "and, what is more, I
would try to correct them."
"I once invented a game where every member of the company was told of
one fault by the rest of the party unanimously, on condition he or
she promised to amend it and not to be offended."
Lord Wrexham opened a gate leading into the park. "Was it a
successful pastime?"
"It ought to have been, but somehow it wasn't. It led to strained
relations all round, and yet nobody seemed to have a fault the less
in consequence. Now, I played it in the proper spirit, and I cured
two bad faults of my own."
"It was very impertinent of anybody to dare to tell you of your
faults, Isabel; and if I had been there I would have told them so."
"No; it wasn't at all impertinent; it was only part of the game. I
forget what my faults were," continued Isabel musingly, "but I know I
cured them both."
"I wish you would play that game with me, and tell me where you would
like me to be different," said Lord Wrexham rather wistfully. "I
know I am stupid, and not quick at understanding things, but that
seems more a misfortune than a fault; at any rate I don't get over
it, and no one but myself knows how hard I try. But anything that I
could alter, I gladly would, to make life with me less dull for you,
my dear."
"You haven't any faults, Wrexham; not a single one."
Lord Wrexham smiled with pleasure.
"But your virtues are rather overcrowded, like the shrubs at Elton,"
continued Isabel, "and would be all the better for a little thinning
out."
Lord Wrexham's smile faded. Isabel had a nasty trick of wiping the
smiles clean off the faces of those that loved her too much.
However, when she saw that she had hurt her lover, she was seized
with compunction, and began to make amends.
"I say, Wrexham, what is that funny little windmill for at the foot
of the hill?" She knew well enough what it was for before she asked,
but she also knew that Lord Wrexham would delight in explaining it.
His face brightened at once. "It is a new arrangement for pumping
water up to the house. You see, Isabel, we have hitherto drunk the
water from a well in the courtyard, which did quite nicely for us.
But when I found that you were coming to live at Vernacre I had it
analyzed; and discovered that, although there was nothing much amiss
with it, it was not quite so pure as the water from a spring at the
foot of that hill. So, by means of a most ingenious arrangement, the
wind pumps all the drinking water for the house up from that one
spring, which I have proved is the purest water on the estate."
"How good you are to me, my dear old boy!"
"I want you to have the best of everything, and I mean to give it you
as far as I can. But I should like to explain the mechanism of this
arrangement to you, Isabel. It is a most clever contrivance, I
think, and repays examination."
So Isabel listened patiently while her lover expounded to her how the
wind turned the wheel which pumped the water up to the house, so that
much work was accomplished by means of a very little outlay.
"You are so awfully clever at things of this kind," she said, as they
strolled homewards, "I am sure you have literally more brains in your
little finger than most men have in their stupid heads."
"I have not many brains anywhere, I am afraid; but as I am always
thinking about you and wondering what I can do for your comfort and
pleasure, I should indeed be a poor fool if I did not hit upon the
right thing sometimes." And Lord Wrexham sighed.
"You very often hit upon the right thing. I don't think you have any
idea what a comfort you are to me, Wrexham. When my head and heart
are tired out they always come back to you, as if you were a patent
soothing syrup or a provision for old age. I call you my 'rest
cure'."
"I am thankful if I bring you any happiness, my child, in return for
the abundant measure you have bestowed upon me in promising to be my
wife; yet I am but a dull companion for such a brilliant young
creature as yourself. However, when you come to Vernacre for good,
we will always have the house full of young people, so that you will
never have time to be bored by your slow old coach of a husband."
"You are not a slow old coach," cried Isabel indignantly, "you are
the best and dearest man in the whole world!"
"Am I?--well, it is heaven to me to hear you say so, whether you
really think it or not. Not that I mean you would ever say what you
did not know to be true; but you are sometimes carried away by your
warm feelings to say things which exceed the convictions of your
cooler moments."
"I know I am," replied Isabel, "but I always try to be frank and
truthful."
Her lover smiled rather sadly. "My dear, it is very noble of you to
be so transparent, and never to pretend you care more for me than you
really do; and my rational side commends and admires this
uprightness. But now and then I am weak enough to wish that you
would let me deceive myself a little, and not be so conscientious in
your desire to enlighten me. A fool's paradise may be a poor thing;
but it is better than no paradise at all."
Isabel's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Wrexham, how horrid I must
have been to you!"
"Never horrid to me, Isabel--never anything but charming and
fascinating and altogether delightful. It is I who am to blame for
being somewhat tiresome and exacting. Oh! my dear, do you think I
don't know how dull and stupid I am, and how tired you must sometimes
feel of my society? Yet I am such an old fool that I like to pretend
to myself that I am to you in some measure what you are to me, though
I know perfectly well all the time that such an idea is absurd and
impossible in the extreme."
"What is it in me that makes you like me so much?" asked Isabel
abruptly, as they were watching the sun set behind the distant hills.
"No special thing; I love the whole of you, and your faults as well
as your virtues."
"But don't you like me better in some moods than in others?"
"I don't think so; I always love you just the same; whatever you do
or say, you are you, and that is enough for me."
"But doesn't it make any difference when I am nasty to you?"
persisted Isabel.
"It makes all the difference between happiness and misery, but it
does not make any difference in my love for you."
"You are a good man, Wrexham!"
"My dear, there is no goodness or badness in it. I am simply made
like that, and I cannot help it."
"Nevertheless, you are perfect, whether it is your own doing or
Nature's."
"If I were ten times better than I am, I should still not be half
good enough for you."
"You'd always take my part, whoever I quarrelled with, wouldn't you?"
coaxed Isabel, sticking a primrose, she had just gathered, into her
lover's button-hole.
"Always."
"Even if I were wrong?"
"Exactly the same whether you were wrong or whether you were right;
the merits of the case would have no effect upon me."
Isabel patted his arm. "Now that is what I call real justice. It is
qualities such as this that make women love and respect men."
Lord Wrexham laughed, and then said: "Here we are at the peach-house.
I want you to come and see some improvements I have just carried out
in the stove, which I think will ensure our getting twice as many
peaches as we have ever had out of this house before."
Whereupon his lordship plunged into a minute description of the
methods whereby his peaches were to be prematurely ripened, and
Isabel gave him her most satisfying attention.
When the walk was over, Isabel went to her own room and looked at
herself in the glass. "Miss Carnaby," she said, "you are not really
a handsome woman, and Fate has given you far more than you deserve.
In exchange for a pretty wit and an indifferent face and a most
admirable figure, you will receive a coronet and twenty thousand a
year, with the best husband in the world thrown in as a perquisite,
like a present of books with so many pounds of tea. So the least you
can do for the next forty years is to talk pleasantly and
intelligently about windmills and peach-houses and such like
interesting subjects, remembering that--if you'd had your own foolish
way--you might instead have been living upon a few paltry hundreds a
year, with a jealous and bad-tempered young man who couldn't keep a
civil tongue in his head for two days together."
For the rest of the Easter recess Isabel made herself specially
charming to her host. She was flattered and petted on all sides, and
he was the cause of it, so she felt accordingly grateful. The praise
which is always accorded to the woman who doeth well to herself was
hers in full measure just then; and it put her in a good humour with
herself and with her world. She tried her utmost not to be bored
when Wrexham talked to her about the things in which he was
interested, and she succeeded, in so far as she hid her boredom from
everybody in the house except herself and him; but, clever as she
was, she was not quite clever enough for that.