As it was in the Beginning.
Sometimes mortals find the portals
Of the fairy-land;
And they straightway through the gateway
Enter, hand in hand.
There was a long silence; then Joanna said gently, "And you doubted
if he loved you after this?"
Isabel only sobbed.
"My dear, I am very glad you have told me," Joanna continued, as she
softly stroked Isabel's hair; "it is an unspeakable joy to me to find
that Paul never really fell below himself after all. But you mustn't
tell any one else; it is now Paul's secret and not yours."
"Oh! I must; I must tell the whole world how good Paul has been, and
how vilely and cruelly it has misjudged him."
"You must do nothing of the kind. If Paul has jeopardized his
literary reputation to keep a secret, no one has a right to tell that
secret without his permission. Don't you see how it is? He has
thought nothing in the whole world of so much importance as the
screening of you; therefore it would be cruel indeed of you to undo
his life-work in a fit of hysterical conscientiousness."
"But it would serve me right for people to know how horrid and
selfish and cowardly I have been," cried Isabel.
"Probably it would; but now I am considering what is due to Paul, and
not what is due to you, my dear."
"Oh, Joanna, can you ever forgive me?"
"I am afraid I couldn't have done so when I was strong and well; but,
as I told you, things are different with me now. Yes, I forgive you,
Isabel; though I confess it isn't in me to forgive as Paul forgives,
nor to love as Paul loves; but I cannot in the least understand how
either of you did what you have done--you are both incomprehensible
to me. Tell me how it happened."
"After I had quarrelled with Paul, I was in an awfully bitter mood,
because I thought he was hard and cold and did not love me as I loved
him. I was ashamed of caring for a man more than he cared for me,
don't you see?"
"I am afraid I don't see, but never mind."
"Don't you see that if a man gives his love unrequited, he
establishes at once a claim upon one woman's gratitude and all
women's sympathy; while if a woman does the same thing, she is
despised by one man and derided by the rest?"
"It wouldn't strike me in that light, but go on."
"Then it occurred to me that I would write a book which should
convince Paul that I was a shallow, heartless woman of the world, and
that I was incapable of really loving him or any other man. It was
agony to my pride to feel that perhaps Paul had only cared for me
because I was considered a good match; and I meant to turn the tables
on him, and wound his pride, by making him believe that I had only
been playing with him all the time just to amuse myself."
"A severe punishment on Paul for the freaks of your own imagination,
my child!"
"All the time I was writing the book, I thought only of him and of
how I could manage to hurt him. I did not care a straw whether the
novel were a success or not, or whether anybody read it except Paul.
But when it came out it made a hit, as you know, and everybody was
talking about it."
"Yes; I remember."
"Though people thought it clever they did not really like it, and
they said nasty things about the author."
Joanna nodded. Nobody knew better than she did the nasty things that
had been said; yet she did not remove her caressing hand from the
bent head.
"And then," continued Isabel, "I was in a perfect frenzy of fear lest
they should find out that I had written it, and should begin to look
shy at me. I cared so much for approval and admiration, that I
thought it would kill me to be disapproved of as society disapproved
of the author of _Shams and Shadows_. I used to lie awake at night
wondering whatever I could do to put people off the scent."
"Well, and what happened then?"
"One day, when my terror was at its height, I heard that Paul had
told Lord Robert Thistletown that he had taken the name of Angus
Grey. I saw in a flash what that meant; it meant that the man, whom
I had wounded and insulted, understood better even than I did what a
disadvantage the authorship of _Shams and Shadows_ would be to me;
and had therefore shielded me at the expense of his own literary
reputation, and had taken my punishment upon himself."
Joanna's eyes were shining. "It was a fine thing to do; for Paul's
literary reputation was no light matter to him."
"I know it wasn't; it was the best thing he had, and he gave it up to
save me."
That night Joanna lay awake, thinking over the strange story she had
heard. "It must be wonderful to be loved like that!" she said to
herself. And because nothing this side heaven can quite stifle the
cry of the human heart for human love (if the human heart happen to
be a woman's) there were tears on Joanna's lashes when at last she
fell asleep.
Isabel also lay awake that night, torn by the conflicting emotions of
love and pride. And because, when these two come into conflict, the
result is a foregone conclusion, she wrote the next day to Paul:--
"MY DEAR PAUL,
"Will you forgive me? Not because I deserve it, but because I love
you.
"Yours as you would,
"ISABEL CARNABY."
Then followed a season of great anguish of mind on Isabel's part.
She now felt absolutely certain that Paul no longer loved her, and
would therefore humiliate her by refusing his forgiveness; and she
decided that she should at once hide herself from the world in a
sisterhood, and spend the remainder of her disappointed days in
conventual seclusion. She even went so far as to decide that she
should call herself "Sister Marah," because life had proved so bitter
to her. Isabel was nothing if not dramatic.
The answer to her letter came by telegraph:--
"Expect me Thursday.--PAUL."
Isabel was alone when this telegram was brought to her, and as she
read it she flushed with joy.
"He hasn't wasted a minute," she said to herself. "He must have
started as soon as he had my letter, and be travelling night and day
without stopping."
Then she looked at her reflection in a mirror and laughed softly,
because she was still young and a man loved her. She was very human,
even at her best.
But when Thursday came she was dreadfully frightened. It was one
thing to feel conscious of her power over Paul while half a continent
divided them, and quite another to feel conscious of his power over
her when she was expecting to see him face to face every minute.
When at last he did arrive, Joanna went into the hall to meet him;
but Isabel was stricken with that paralyzing form of shyness which so
often seizes us when our heart's desire is within our grasp, and
makes us wish, for one mad moment, to throw it away because we have
longed for it so passionately. So she remained alone in the salon
and looked out of the window, and her knees felt as if they were made
of muslin, like the knees of dolls. Then some one opened the door
and shut it behind him; and at that her heart beat so violently that
the very snow-clad mountains outside began to tremble and shake as
she looked at them. With a supreme effort she turned round, and
tried to repeat the appeal for forgiveness which she had prepared;
but she could not utter a word, because Paul's arms were holding her
fast; and there was no need to utter a word, because she had seen
Paul's face.
Life's attar-of-roses is as rare as it is precious, and it takes the
sunshine of many summers and the braving of many thorns to produce a
single drop. But that drop, when produced, is worth all that it
cost, and the perfume of it will last for ever. So Paul and Isabel
thought during the next half-hour.
After the lovers had returned to earth, Isabel said: "I shall now
tell the whole world that I wrote that horrid book, and that it has
misjudged you all along; and then every one will know how splendidly
you have behaved."
"You shall do nothing of the kind, sweetheart." And Paul kissed her
again.
"But I must. I could not bear for you to bear the blame any longer."
"Still, you will have to bear it, my darling. I could not bear any
one to have it in his power to blame you, and I must have my own way
this time."
"But it isn't fair."
"I can't help that I can stand it very well when people say things
against me, but I could not stand it at all if people said things
against you; so I am acting from purely selfish motives when I say
that the secret must always be kept for my sake."
"But, Paul, how can I show my gratitude to you, and my penitence?"
"Simply by doing what I ask, and by giving no one any excuse for
finding fault with my wife."
"It was a horrid book," said Isabel sadly.
"I know it was, dear heart, but you did not mean a word of it, you
know."
"I wrote it in a temper--a vile, hateful, disgusting temper."
"I know you did; but the world might not understand this as well as I
do, and therefore might misjudge you; and the world shall not have
the chance."
"I really was frightfully angry with you," said Isabel, now revelling
in the contemplation of dangers past, "I used to rack my brains for
things that I could write to vex you."
"When did you begin to love me again?" queried Paul.
Isabel pondered for a moment. "I think I really must have loved you
all the time, or else I could not have hated you so."
Paul laughed. Life had been so serious to him of late that it was
delightful to hear a woman talk nonsense again.
"And will you go on loving me always?" he asked.
"I shan't be able to help it; when I once care for any one I am like
a five-pound note on Sundays--there is no possibility of changing me."
"My dear one, how sweet you are!"
"How did you find out that I was the author?" asked Isabel, trying to
tie a knot in Paul's watch-chain.
"I knew it at once; I also knew that you had written it to hurt me;
and, what is more, that you had succeeded beyond your wildest
expectations."
"Poor old Paul! Did it make you very angry?"
"Not angry; but I confess it hurt me more than I had believed I was
capable of being hurt. But I soon forgot this in my fear of the
secret's coming out as to who was the author, and my knowledge of how
much the disclosure of this secret would hurt you."
"And then you decided to pretend that you had written it?"
"It seemed to me the only thing to do to ensure your permanent
safety; as, when people once know a thing, they naturally cease to
speculate about it; and they had already come to the conclusion that
the book must have been written by some one in your set. Of course I
knew that your publishers any day might show up my false pretences
and disgrace me in the eyes of the world, which would never believe
in the purity of my motives, but would condemn me as an arrant
impostor to the end of the chapter. But I also knew that your
publishers would not do this without permission from you; and, angry
as you were with me, I did not think you would deal me this final and
irrevocable blow, because I felt sure you would understand my
reasons, and would know that I had done this somewhat doubtful action
solely out of consideration for you."
"I understood this at once."
"I knew you would," Paul continued, "but, you see, dear, other people
might not have done so; and they might have fancied I was no better
than a literary thief, trading upon a reputation which really was not
mine."
Isabel was silent for a moment; then she said: "I told Joanna; I
could not help it."
Paul's face fell; he could not bear to feel that even his sister
should have the right to sit in judgment upon Isabel.
"And you must also tell your father and mother," persisted Isabel, "I
could not be happy if I felt that they still misunderstood you."
"I don't know about that."
"But I do. If you will give way to me just in this, I will do what
you want about everything else; and no one but your own people shall
ever know that I wrote _Shams and Shadows_."
And Paul reluctantly consented.
"_Shams and Shadows_ made a lot of money," said Isabel, "but I could
not touch a penny of it. I hated it so much that I gave it all to
charity."
Paul could not help laughing. "A somewhat strange reason, dear
heart, but by no means an uncommon one," he said.
Then followed a very happy week. Paul and Isabel were naturally in a
state of bliss; and Joanna rejoiced too--and on her own account--for
the doctors told her that the air of Davos had done for her all that
they had hoped and far more than they had expected; and assured her
that she would get quite strong and well again. And this fact
doubled the happiness of the other two: for Paul loved his sister
very dearly; and Isabel's heart was filled with thanksgiving to feel
that she had been allowed to be, in a measure, the means of Joanna's
recovery, and so had done something for Paul in return for all that
he had done for her.
But Paul could not stay with them for more than a week, so he went
back to his work, promising to return for Joanna and Isabel when
spring returned to England.
When he had been back in London for about three weeks his father
wrote to tell him that Miss Dallicot was very ill, and had expressed
a great wish to see the minister's son once more. So Paul ran down
home for a day or two.
Things were brighter at the Cottage than they had been for some time,
for Mrs. Seaton began to gain strength as soon as she heard that all
was well with her children, and that health had returned to Joanna
and happiness to Paul; and her husband felt better and younger
because she did.
Paul had written to tell his mother that all was right again between
himself and Isabel. He gave no explanations, nor did Mrs. Seaton
require any: for she was wise enough to know that if people love each
other, explanations are never needed; and if they don't love each
other, no explanations will mend matters.
When Paul went to see Miss Dallicot he found her extremely weak, and
shrivelled up into a little raisin of a woman. But her diction was
as choice as ever.
"It is unspeakably gratifying to me to see your countenance once
again, my dear young friend," she began, "and excessively kind of you
to snatch a brief moment from the busy round of your incessant and
onerous duties, to give such pleasure to an infirm and aged woman,
who perhaps overstepped the rights of friendship in putting you to
such trouble."
"Not at all, Miss Drusilla. I am awfully glad to see you again, and
I only wish that I could see you looking better."
"That, my dear Paul, is a wish which can never be fulfilled in this
world. But the young should not be made gloomy by the contemplation
of sombre and serious subjects; therefore let us divert our thoughts
into a more invigorating and cheering channel."
So Paul told the old lady about Isabel and Joanna and their life at
Davos, and about his work in London, and his hope that he and Isabel
would be married some time during the year then beginning; while Miss
Drusilla listened with the greatest interest, and made her usual
long-winded comments.
At last she said, "I feel that I owe it to you, my dear young friend,
to offer some explanation of the fact of my so specially desiring to
see your face once more, and of my venturing to put you to the
trouble and fatigue of a journey from London, by the oracular
expression of this desire on my part."
"It is a pleasure rather than a trouble," said Paul kindly, "it was
very good of you to want to see me and I was very pleased to come."
But all the same he really was surprised, as naturally Miss Dallicot
had never been a special friend of his.
"The fact of the matter is," continued the little spinster, "you bear
a strong facial resemblance to some one for whom I entertained a warm
regard a considerable number of years ago. I daresay to your sound
and vigorous judgment an accidental physical likeness appears a
somewhat unsound basis for interest or attachment; but the fact
remains that it does form such a basis in my case, though I should
agree with you that from an intellectual standpoint the position is
untenable."
"Oh! I can understand as much as that; for actually I once held a
poor woman's baby for her while she scrambled up to the top of a
London omnibus--and an extremely unattractive and unfanciable little
brat it was--simply because the woman looked tired, and her eyes
reminded me of Isabel's."
"Dear me, how very interesting! I trust that you informed Miss
Carnaby of this somewhat romantic incident, as it would surely have
proved most gratifying to her."
"Oh! no, it wouldn't; she would have been dreadfully hurt at being
considered to resemble the middle-aged wife of an impecunious
artisan. Women are never pleased at being thought like anybody who
isn't well dressed, I have discovered. I remember Isabel was quite
angry once when I showed her a peasant girl by Greuze, and said it
reminded me of her; and she told me that if I'd said she was like a
fashion-plate she should have been far better pleased--and she really
would," added Paul, laughing at the remembrance.
"The feminine mind has certainly some strange inconsistencies,"
murmured Miss Drusilla, unconsciously straightening her cap.
"Of course it has; that is why it is so fascinating. I would not
give a fig for a woman who had no bewitching little vanities. And
the funny thing is that they are not vain of the things which really
are a credit to them, but of the things which are a credit to their
dressmakers. Now, take Isabel; she is awfully pleased with herself
when she has got a new frock on, but she never knows that it is her
figure which makes the frock look so well; and she thinks far more
about the colour of her gowns than about the colour of her eyes."
(But here Paul was mistaken.)
"I should have imagined that men, with their robuster minds and
sounder common sense, would have despised such small vanities as
these," remarked Miss Dallicot.
"Not we; we like them."
"I always used to think that a profound and scholarly mind would not
find happiness apart from profound and scholarly companionship, and
would experience an extreme distaste for what I might call foolish
and frivolous society. But I learnt afterwards that these views of
mine were incorrect."
"I am afraid they were."
A far-away look came into Miss Drusilla's faded eyes; her thoughts
had gone back to the long-ago.
"When I was comparatively young," she said dreamily, "I was honoured
by the friendship of a most cultured and accomplished man. He was a
great scholar; and under his tuition I made myself proficient in both
Greek and Latin. It is true that I loved learning for its own sake,
but I loved it still better for his; and I worked long and late in
order to render myself more fit for his companionship and more
congenial to his taste. As you will perceive, I felt it only natural
that so profound a mind should shrink from the society of the
flippant and the unlearned."
"I see," said Paul, and his voice was very tender.
"My friend's profession was tutorial," continued Miss Dallicot, "and
in later life he became the headmaster of one of our great public
schools. He and I were so intimately acquainted that I speculated
much as to his future; and I felt sure that--if he ever did enter the
holy estate of matrimony--he would naturally require a helpmeet who
could assist him in the fulfilment of his scholastic duties, and
accompany him in his ceaseless pursuit after knowledge."
Paul felt very pitiful; the world is so full of sad little mistakes
like this, which are too pathetic to be comedies and too commonplace
to be tragedies.
"Did you study very hard?" he asked.
"Indeed I did. I overcame the difficulties of the Greek and Latin
tongues with amazing rapidity--at least so my dear master said; and
he counted me his most successful pupil."
"And then?" said Paul.
"Then it happened that a young lady came to pay a lengthy visit to
friends in our neighbourhood. She was well born, and possessed
considerable personal charm; but her ignorance was something
appalling. I recall that she once asked, before a room full of
people, whether Homer wrote Greek or Latin, and if Cæsar were a
poet." And Miss Dallicot fairly shuddered.
Paul could not forbear smiling, Miss Drusilla was so intensely
shocked at the mere memory of these atrocities.
"Yet in spite of all this," continued Miss Dallicot, "my friend
married her. Why he did so was always incomprehensible to me, as
they two could not have had a single idea or interest in common. Yet
he did it. I shall never forget a visit I once paid to them not long
after their marriage. She endeavoured to make use of a Latin
quotation, and actually--yes, actually, my dear Paul--she made a
false quantity; and she the wife of a headmaster!"
"Good gracious!" said Paul; "what ever did the bridegroom do?"
"It was then that he showed the marvellous nobility and patience
which always struck me so much in my contemplation of his character.
I realized what he must have suffered, as a false quantity was always
torture to his cultivated and sensitive ear; if one of his boys were
guilty of such a thing, he straightway chastised the offender; when I
made a false quantity, he blamed me severely, and said that his
nerves could not stand it."
"Then what did he do to his bride?"
"My dear, his amiability was something marvellous. I was so grieved
for him--so ashamed--that I could scarcely look up; but he rose to
the occasion. He said not one single word of reproof--though I knew
that many were burning upon his tongue--but he just laughed, and went
up to his wife and kissed her. Did you ever hear of an instance of
more heroic self-restraint?"
Paul thought that he had, but he did not say so. He sympathized with
Miss Drusilla; but he also sympathized with the headmaster.
"Did she seem very much ashamed?" he asked.
"Not at all. That was the most painful part of that most painful
scene. The careless young thing was as callous as she was
illiterate. She merely laughed, as if it were nothing more than a
joke, and called my dear friend 'a silly boy'. It struck me, and it
strikes me still, as a most unseemly epithet for any right-minded
woman to apply to her husband, especially when he was a man of
between thirty and forty years of age, and one of the greatest Greek
scholars of his day."
"Where is your friend now?"
Miss Dallicot sighed. "I grieve to say that his earthly career was
closed some years ago. His wife was taken first, and he survived her
only for the space of a few months. Some persons, not intimately
acquainted with the parties concerned, said that his death was due to
sorrow for hers; but I think this statement must have been incorrect,
as so uneducated and frivolous a woman could never have been a
thoroughly congenial companion to so erudite and wise a man.
Therefore I conjecture that the approximation in the respective dates
of his and her demise was merely a coincidence."
Paul did not feel so sure of this; he could imagine that a world
depopulated of Isabel would be quite too desolate for human
habitation. But all he said was: "It is an interesting little story."
So it was; but the interesting part of it was the part that poor
little Miss Dallicot was incapable of seeing. People who tell us a
story often tell far more than they intend, and, in fact, far more
than they themselves know. They open the door that we may have a
peep into their back-garden, and they have no idea that to us that
peep includes a distant and extensive view, which their shortsighted
eyes have never beheld.
"My friend was a most fascinating individual," continued Miss
Drusilla dreamily, "endowed with unusual natural gifts, which were
perfected by most assiduous study. He was withal the most modest man
I have ever met. In person, my dear Paul, you strongly resemble him;
it seems, perchance, strange for so trifling a detail to remain in
one's mind for a period of over forty years, yet I can still vividly
recall the colour of his hair, which was precisely of the same shade
as yours."
Then Paul said good-bye to the little spinster, as she was growing
too tired to talk any more. And he never saw her again.
A fortnight after his visit to Chayford Miss Drusilla died, and when
her will came to be read it was found that she had left her entire
fortune--amounting to some thirty thousand pounds--to Paul Seaton.