For Conscience' Sake.
I hear a call through the silver night
And across the golden day,
"Go forth and work, for the fields are white!"
And I dare not disobey.
It was during the winter which Joanna spent at Davos, that Edgar Ford
screwed his courage to the sticking point sufficiently to ask Alice
Martin to become his wife.
By this time Alice's views of life had completely changed. She had
not only forgotten that she had ever loved Paul--a comparatively
trifling feat; she had not only fallen in love with some one else--an
accomplishment likewise not difficult of feminine attainment; but she
had succeeded in putting Edgar so completely in Paul's place that the
change was retrospective, and Edgar was actually the richer for
Alice's former devotion to Paul.
She had not blotted out the sum of her old love--she had merely
transferred it from Paul's account to Edgar's; which was a decidedly
wiser plan, as thus no good material was wasted. All the dreams of
her springtime and the romance of her early summer, now went to the
making of a rich harvest of affection for Edgar Ford to reap. Alice
was one of the women who cannot live without loving; the man that
such a woman happens to love is a mere matter of detail.
To an artist his art is everything, and it is born in him; the
masters, under whom he studies, can only teach him style and manner
and the tricks of his craft. In after life the pupil may learn in
other schools, but he will always be a better artist because of the
education which he received from the teachers who first trained him.
Thus it is with women of the type of Alice Martin. The power of
loving is part of themselves, and nothing can crush that out of them.
They may learn technique from the master under whom they first study;
but if in later days they turn to other teachers, that particular
instructor will be forgotten, though they will always be able to love
better because of the education which they received from him.
It may be true that "over the past not heaven itself has power"; but
in this respect, if it be so, certain women have the advantage of
heaven--at least as far as their own feelings are concerned. They
can recolour the past so as to make it a becoming background for the
present, just as we can repaper our drawing-rooms when we buy new
furniture; and they can change the cast of their little dramas, long
after the play has been played and the lights turned out.
The conies are a feeble folk; but their strength lies in their power
to make use of the rock so as to meet their own requirements.
It was a better thing for Alice to love Edgar than it had ever been
to love Paul, because Edgar was suited to her and Paul was not. A
woman can always adapt herself to the man she loves, and be--for as
long as she chooses--the sort of woman that he approves; but, though
it is not difficult for a woman to be somebody else instead of
herself for a time, it becomes fatiguing if kept up for too long.
After a while it feels like walking in boots which are a shade too
short, or biting crusts when one has the toothache.
It was a source of keen delight to Edgar that Alice shared his
socialistic views with respect to the sanctity of the individual and
the wrongfulness of riches; he did not know that she would have
agreed with him just the same had he preached the subjugation of the
masses and the divine right of kings.
"Alice, do you think you could ever love me?" Edgar asked suddenly
one day, when they two were practising duets together.
"I think I have always loved you," she answered softly.
This was no untruth. Alice had always loved the hero of the piece;
that Paul had been for a time Edgar's understudy in the part, had no
practical bearing on the case.
"Then will you be my wife?"
"Yes."
Edgar wanted to kiss Alice, but he refrained for fear of frightening
her. Alice wanted Edgar to kiss her, and could not imagine why he
did not do so. It was in things like this that Edgar made mistakes.
He had never learnt that nine times out of ten other people want the
same things as we do; and if they don't, it doesn't so very much
matter, as long as we get our own way.
"I do not wish to deceive you," he said, "or to win your love under
false pretences, though that love is the desire of my heart. But my
wife will have no luxury, though the world counts me a rich man."
"I don't want luxury," replied Alice, "I only want you."
"Do you mean to say you dare face a life of toil and poverty for my
sake?"
"Of course I do. Don't you understand that I care for nothing but
being with you, and feeling that you are pleased with me?"
Then Edgar took her in his arms and kissed her, and Alice's cup of
bliss was full.
"You know my views about money," Edgar said, "and that I hold it a
sin for any man to live a life of ease and pleasure while his
fellow-men are starving. Well, I simply cannot go on any longer
living my present life, when I know of the sea of sin and suffering
and sorrow all around me. I feel I must go down into the midst of
it, and do something for those weaker brethren for whom Christ died."
Alice's beautiful face was aglow with excitement: "I will come down
with you, and stand by your side. I think it is splendid of you to
give up everything for the sake of the poor; and I am proud to be the
woman you have chosen to help you to bear this burden and to take up
this cross!"
"My darling! do you think you can be quite happy without horses and
carriages and all the external trappings of wealth?"
"I should rather think I could! I don't care a bit about things like
that. Mamma thinks they are important, but they have always bothered
me ever since I was a little girl and used to think it a treat to
walk out to tea instead of having the carriage."
"But you will be a rich woman on your own account, Alice, and you
must do what you will with your own."
"I shall give it all to you to do whatever you like with, and it will
help us to help others all the more."
"Then will you come and live with me down at the Stepney Settlement,
in connection with Hampden House, and take your part in the work
there?" asked Edgar. "It is a grand field for labour, and the
labourers are as yet few."
"Of course I will. I will go anywhere with you and do anything for
you as long as I live."
"My brave little girl!"
Alice slipped her hand into his. "And I will always act as you bid
me and obey you in everything, if only you'll promise never, never to
be cross with me. I think it would kill me if ever you were vexed
with me; so you won't be, will you?"
"I?--vexed with you? My dearest, the thing is unthinkable."
"Then I don't care what happens," said Alice contentedly. "But you
were once awfully cross with me, you know."
"My child, what on earth do you mean?"
"Oh! it was one time--ages and ages ago--when you never would speak
to me if you could help it, and it used to make me so miserable. You
really were cross then." And Alice's disengaged hand wandered idly
over the keys.
"Not cross, dear; only very, very unhappy, because I loved you and I
did not think you would ever love me."
Alice raised her pretty eyebrows. "Well, that was hardly the way to
make me love you, was it? It wasn't likely that I should fall in
love with a man in a temper--at least I mean to say with a man who
looked as if he were in a temper."
"Do you think you would have loved me then, Alice, if you had known
that all my outside sternness was merely the mask I put on to hide my
love for you? Tell me, dear, I want to know."
Alice thought for a moment. "I expect I should, for I have always
adored the shape of your nose."
Edgar laughed, and Alice went on: "I used to be afraid that I bored
you because I wasn't clever; but now you don't mind my not being
clever a bit, do you?"
"My darling, I hate clever women; a woman is meant to be beautiful
and good, and cleverness simply spoils her."
"Then don't you admire Isabel Carnaby?"
(Alice was still a woman, though she was ready to go down and live in
the Stepney Settlement.)
"I couldn't exactly say that I don't admire her; she is so modern and
up-to-date, that I regard her as a sort of national institution that
one ought to feel proud of--a specimen of what the nineteenth century
can produce. But she never attracts me in the least; she is cold and
brilliant and hard, like a diamond, and has nothing lovable about
her, as far as I can see."
Alice drew a little contented sigh. "And she isn't really pretty, is
she?"
"Not at all. I never can bear blue eyes; they are always cold and
unsympathetic, I think."
"What coloured eyes do you like best?"
"Brown--like velvet; and hair to match and a complexion like a
rose-leaf."
Alice laughed a low happy laugh. "I am so glad you don't mind my
being stupid."
"You are not stupid, dear; you are full of tact--which is infinitely
better than cleverness. See how well you can talk to the poor, and
how you can make them love you. You have a happy knack of always
saying the the right thing."
"I am so glad. You don't know how hard I try to be the sort of woman
that you approve of; I am always thinking of you, and of what I can
do or say to please you."
"Dear Alice!" said Edgar tenderly, "you overpower me with the feeling
that I can never do enough to deserve all this love."
"No, Edgar; it is I who ought to be grateful, because whatever
niceness there is in me is all your doing. It is you who have
moulded my character and formed my opinions; so that whatever good I
may do in this world must be put down to your credit and not mine."
Which was quite true; and Edgar had every reason to be proud of his
handiwork.
There was joy at The Cedars because of Alice's engagement to Edgar
Ford. Mrs. Martin fairly beamed. She felt that Providence had had a
hand in the matter--which was perfectly true; nevertheless when
Providence had seemed to be bringing about a union between her
daughter and Paul Seaton, Mrs. Martin, like a troublesome politician,
was not willing to "serve under" the Leader in power. In this
respect she was by no means singular; we are all naturally more
submissive to the decrees of heaven when those decrees are in
accordance with our own desires.
"My dear," she said to her daughter, "I am sure you will be very
happy, because a woman naturally requires one stronger than herself
to lean upon; and, besides, Edgar is an only son, so that whatever
his parents have to leave will come to him."
"I could never have been happy as an old maid, mamma; the feeling
that nobody needed me or cared for me would have killed me."
Mrs. Martin stitched at her bazaar-work with a complacent smile: "I
know it would, love; you have such a very affectionate nature. And
it is difficult for a single woman to take any social position,
unless she is a lady of title."
Alice listened dutifully, and her mother rambled on: "It will be so
nice for you, dear, when Edgar goes into Parliament; for I hear that
members of Parliament and their wives are received in the highest
circles. It is a pity dear Edgar isn't a Conservative--there is
always such refinement about Conservatives--but that cannot be
helped, I suppose."
"Oh! mamma, Edgar would never become a Conservative."
"I am not suggesting that he should, my love; but perhaps in time you
might persuade him to become an old-fashioned Whig; and that, I
believe, is almost as aristocratic. Still I cannot help wishing that
he had been a Conservative in the first instance; you see, a Radical
may be a gentleman, but a Conservative must be one."
"I don't see that."
"Don't you, love? Well, I can hardly explain it to you, but I have a
feeling that it is more correct to be a Conservative."
"But I could not try to make Edgar go against his own convictions,
mamma."
Mrs. Martin paused for a moment while she selected a fresh thread of
silk; then she said: "Ah! my love, if you want to get on in society,
you must think more about conventions than convictions. And since
Edgar persists in remaining a Radical, I would ignore it if I were
you."
"But there is nothing to be ashamed of in one's politics," persisted
Alice; "men have a right to think what they like."
"Still, my dear, if one espoused the cause of the people, it might
lead to the impression that one had risen from the people; and that
would be extremely painful to any one, especially to a person with my
sensitive feelings."
Alice however was obstinate; it was her one fault and she freely
indulged in it. "We are risen from the people," she said; "that is
merely the truth."
Her mother sighed, as she threaded her needle. "When you have lived
as long as I have, my dear, you will find that the truth is generally
vulgar and invariably inexpedient."
"Edgar and I don't mean to behave like rich people, or to go in for
society, but to live among the poor and try to help them."
Mrs. Martin smiled indulgently. "Young men often get strange,
socialistic notions like that into their heads, but a few drops of
nitre on a lump of sugar soon put them all right again."
"But I don't want to put Edgar all right as you call it, mamma; the
reason why I love him so dearly is that he is so good and unworldly
and has such high ideals."
"My dear child, he will be all right when he is married. My
experience is that there is nothing like getting married for curing
young men of ideals and nonsense of that kind. Your dear papa never
bothered his head about ideals after he had married me."
"Edgar says the truth is stronger than everything, and that the
height of good breeding is never to be ashamed of anything,"
persisted Alice, whose "strength was as the strength of ten" when she
had "Edgar says" to back up her opinions.
"My dear child, I am double Edgar's age, and I have learnt that bare
facts, like everything else, require clothing; and that the more
becoming the clothing, the more effective the facts."
Mrs. Martin had learnt a great deal during the last ten years. She
had got on in the world, and the world had taught her much and found
her an apt pupil. It is the world's business to cover its vessels
with the very best electro-plate; this is all that it undertakes to
do, and it never pretends to be a depot for hall-marked articles. If
we give ourselves up to the world's hardening process, and duly
worship rank and wealth and success and all other licensed gods, it
will hide our weaknesses under its elegant electro covering, and we
shall shine for a while like burnished silver. But the real metal is
found elsewhere.
In the spring of the year the long-expected Dissolution was
announced. Excitement ran high all through the country as the
general election approached; and Michael Ford was full of delight to
think that at last he should see his life's ambition realized, and
his son a member of Parliament.
But when he mentioned the subject to that son, Edgar--for the first
time in his life--was not amenable to his father's wishes.
"I am more sorry than I can ever say to disappoint you, but I cannot
stand at this election," he said.
Mr. Ford was dumfounded. "My dear boy, what on earth do you mean?
You have plenty of money, and no business cares to occupy your time
and attention; and at Chayford the thing will be simply a walk-over."
"It isn't that I am afraid of not getting in--it is something quite
different from that. If I thought it right to stand, no amount of
opposition would deter me."
"Then what is it? If you think that your views are too advanced to
please me, you need have no further hesitation on that score. I have
long ago learnt that the ways of old folks are too slow for the
younger generation, and that we must be content to let the stream
flow on as quickly as it will, and not attempt to let or hinder it."
Edgar longed to spare his father the pain which he felt bound to
inflict; but this was impossible. He had dallied long enough, and
now the time had come to speak out.
"I have made up my mind, and nothing now can alter me," he began, and
his face was very white, "for a long time my duty to you has been in
conflict with the duty which I owe to a higher Power; but now a
crisis has come, and I feel I must hesitate no longer."
Mr. Ford did not speak, so Edgar went on: "I do not feel it right for
me to be living in luxury while so many of my fellow-men are
perishing with hunger; I do not feel it right for me to be living in
idleness while so many of my brethren cry out for help. The call has
come for me to go out into the highways and hedges and compel all
that are bidden to come in to the feast; and it is a call which may
not be disobeyed."
"But, my dear Edgar, did it never occur to you that you might serve
God and your generation more effectually as an influential statesman
than as an hysterical socialist?"
Mr. Ford's voice was hard and dry, but Edgar's face was alight with
an enthusiasm which no worldly wisdom could quench.
"My dear father, you know as well as I do that it is not in me to
become a statesman, or even an ordinary politician. I could never
merge myself in my party, or content myself with compromises; I
should always be fighting little battles of my own, and tilting at
windmills which nobody but myself could see. I do not belong to any
party; I have too many fads and scruples to identify myself with any
political school. Therefore I should not be justified in asking any
constituency to return me as its member. It would be unfair to my
constituents and unfair to myself."
Mr. Ford played with a paper-knife, but he did not say anything.
What was the use?
"I do not deny," Edgar continued, "that a politician is called to do
a great and necessary work; I merely say that I am not called upon to
be a politician. Oh! father, do not tempt me. I know all the
arguments that you would use, and I have tried in vain to stifle my
own conscience with them over and over again. I have lived an
upright and honourable life--but that is not enough; I have kept my
heart pure and my hands clean--but that is not enough; through it all
I can hear one Voice speaking: 'Sell all thou hast and give to the
poor'. And dare I turn away because I have great possessions?"
Michael Ford sighed heavily, but still he did not speak. His face
looked ten years older than it had looked ten minutes ago.
"It cuts me to the heart to hurt you like this after all that you
have done for me," continued Edgar, and his voice trembled, "but I
see my way plain before my face, and I dare not turn aside; 'for he
that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me'."
"Then what do you intend to do?" asked Mr. Ford wearily, looking
across his writing-table at the young man standing by the fireplace.
"I intend to join the Hampden House Settlement at Stepney, and to
live with the poor and for the poor; and I hope to spend the rest of
my life in trying to comfort broken hearts and to brighten darkened
homes. I have closed my ears to the cry of suffering humanity long
enough--too long, alas!--but at last they have been opened; and after
_Ephphatha_ has once been pronounced, a man cannot but listen to the
cries of his fellows and to the commands of his God."
"What does Alice say to all this?"
The mention of Alice's name gave her lover fresh courage.
"She agrees with me in all my decisions," he said, "and she is ready
to share in all my efforts; in fact, it is her enthusiasm which has
inspired and sustained me, and has renewed my strength when I felt
ready to fall."
"Are you aware that both you and Alice will each have a very large
fortune of your own some day?" Mr. Ford asked drily.
"Is any fortune too large to give to God?" was Edgar's response.
Michael Ford saw that the case was hopeless; therefore he wasted no
more time in discussing it. He knew that it is possible, by means of
argument, to convince a man's judgment and even to overcome his
prejudices; but arguing against a man's conscience is sorry
work--ninety-nine times out of a hundred it meets with no success;
and the hundredth entails a responsibility which is harder to bear
than failure.
When Edgar left him, Mr. Ford sat for a while buried in thought. "It
is the way of the world," he said to himself; "one man is born to
wealth and power and success, and he flings them all away; another
man has everything against him, and he climbs to the top of the tree.
The son of the rich man serves, while the son of the poor man sits
down to meat; and one man labours, in order that another man's son
may enter into his labours. Certainly Fate has a sense of humour."
Then he took up his pen and wrote to Paul Seaton.