Life in London.
If you will only give me time,
And likewise opportunity,
To earth's high places I will climb
And govern the community.
One summer's day it happened that Mr. Kesterton gave a tea-party on
the terrace of the House of Commons in honour of the Robert
Thistletowns, the Paul Seatons and Lady Farley. It was one of those
broiling afternoons, when all the world longs for shade and a breeze;
and these two luxuries are almost always to be found on the terrace
at Westminster. The latter is sometimes found inside the walls as
well; but this "indoor relief" cannot be depended upon. Everybody
knows that when the two Houses of Parliament agree, there are few
things that they cannot compass; so when they combine to cast a
pleasant shade--and get the river Thames to help them with a cool
breeze or two--they naturally succeed in producing the most
refreshing atmosphere that is to be found in London in July.
Isabel loved going to the House now; for to her "inward eye" St.
Stephen's had suddenly developed--from being a mere uninteresting
historical antiquity and dry political fact--into an effective and
suitable background for the figure of her husband. Therefore the
place was worth seeing as often as she had time to see it; and she
was absorbingly interested in everything that she saw. But to her
this afternoon was a special occasion; for Paul had made his first
great speech in a full-dress debate (and his reputation at the same
time), and was receiving congratulations on all sides. Isabel and
her aunt had heard the speech from behind the gilt lattice of the
ladies' gallery; while it was being delivered, the former felt that
here at last was the ideal statesman for whom England had waited
through the ages; while the latter decided that Paul spoke like a man
and looked like a gentleman, and that Isabel might have done worse.
When it was tea-time Mr. Kesterton came to fetch them down to the
terrace; and their progress was punctuated by compliments on Paul's
success from all the members that they met.
Isabel knew what admiration of herself was like; she had lived on it
all her life, and had thought that there was nothing better. Now she
found that there was.
"How many members are killed every year from tumbling down this
pitch-dark staircase?" she inquired of her host as they proceeded to
the terrace.
"That, my dear lady, is a State secret which I am not at liberty to
divulge. We never talk about it. We just hide them under the
stairs, like the princes in the Tower, and no one asks any questions."
"I suppose it would be unconstitutional for public men to see which
way they were going?" suggested Isabel.
"Most unconstitutional," answered the Cabinet Minister; "and most
detrimental to anything in the shape of a forward policy. Besides,
if it were not for that dark staircase, what should we leaders do
with the private members who have private opinions? We should have
to dissemble our love so far as to kick them downstairs; and that
also would be unconstitutional."
Isabel nodded. "I see; you recommend the Amy Robsart cure."
"_Laisser faire_ is a most successful course of treatment," added
Lady Farley; "I have spent my life in allowing people sufficient
rope, and the victims of my indulgence hang in rows, like the tails
of Little Bo-peep's flock."
Then Paul met them, and was patted on the back by Mr. Kesterton and
praised by Lady Farley. Isabel felt she could not speak to him about
his speech before all these people--it would be like saying one's
prayers at a ball; so she just looked into his eyes and smiled; and
Paul understood.
"Here are the Thistletowns," said Mr. Kesterton, going forward to
receive his guests.
Lord Bobby still limped, though he was limping along the road to
complete recovery; and as he had won his V.C.--and Violet--his cup of
happiness was full. As for his wife, she was lovelier than ever; she
had got what she wanted, and there is nothing so becoming to a woman
as that.
"Very glad to see you, Lady Robert," exclaimed her host, "I hope your
husband is getting all right again, though with such a nurse as he
now has I cannot blame him if he lengthens out the long-drawn
sweetness of his convalescence to its fullest extent."
Violet held out a daintily gloved hand. "Oh! he is much better,
thank you: aren't you, Bobby?"
"Indeed I am," agreed the invalid; "I'm nearly fit again now, but
I've had a narrow shave of it with that silly old leg of mine. Those
Johnnies of doctors wanted to chop it off at one time, and then my
wife and I would only have had three legs between us, like the Isle
of Man. Shouldn't we, Vi?"
"Oh! don't dear," pleaded Violet, with a pretty little shudder. "I
cannot bear to hear you talk like that."
It was a very merry tea-party; they all liked each other, and the
weather was fine--two most important ingredients in a social success.
Isabel especially was delightfully happy and important; she felt that
Paul was standing on his own ground at last, and that it was very
creditable ground to be standing upon; and she took therefore a
proprietary interest in the House of Commons, and all that
appertained to it.
"What would happen if I were to walk on the part of the terrace
reserved for members?" she asked.
"The shade of Cromwell would exclaim, 'Remove that bauble!' and then
you would be removed by the officials of the House, and burnt in
effigy every 5th of November," Lord Robert hastened to assure her.
"Should I, Mr. Kesterton?"
"That is the usual punishment for such an offence."
"But I am an M.P.-ress myself, you see."
"Then in that case you might only be named by the Speaker," replied
Mr. Kesterton, "that is the next worst thing."
"I hope that my husband shows no signs of becoming an independent
member," said Isabel; "because I don't approve of independent
members."
"Not at all," answered her host, "he is a credit alike to the woman
who trained him and the party that owns him."
"I am thankful for that; I think that people who make their own
opinions are almost as bad as people who make their own clothes."
The front-bench man nodded his approval of this sentiment, as he
dispensed the strawberries and cream.
"What is done to members who have opinions of their own and are
troublesome to their leaders?" Mrs. Paul Seaton further inquired.
Mr. Kesterton's eyes twinkled. "The correct thing is for them to be
hanged, drawn and quartered; but, if they happen to have charming
wives, the sentence is generally commuted to transportation for life
to the House of Lords."
"I see. Well, I am glad to hear that my husband behaves himself
prettily, and that you approve of him."
"He certainly behaves himself prettily, my dear lady; and I always
approve of and nearly always agree with him. The only difference
between us is that he is still young enough to aim at perfection,
whilst I have learnt to be satisfied with success."
"You see, my wife is anxious to learn the customs of the House," said
Paul.
"Then, my dear Isabel, let me give you one piece of valuable
information," chimed in Lord Bobby, "do not for a moment imagine that
because our old friend Guy Fawkes was reprimanded for trying to blow
up the Houses of Parliament, there is anything to prevent you from
blowing up the members separately. This custom is not only lawful,
but frequently expedient; and in certain cases--such as your own for
instance--not only expedient, but absolutely necessary."
"You know nothing at all about it," replied Isabel with dignity.
"Pardon me; my father is a member of the Upper House, and--until my
marriage--I resided principally at home."
Every one laughed, and Paul said: "You must not go about telling the
secrets of the Upper House in that way, Thistletown."
Bobby shook his head reprovingly. "Don't crush all the spirit out of
that poor little thing. She has a right to know that she may bully
you if she wants to do so, and that nobody can stop her. You
shouldn't take advantage of your dear wife's well-known meekness and
submission, Seaton; you really shouldn't. If you had married a woman
who could speak up for herself, it would have been different. But I
cannot bear to see cruelty to dumb animals."
"I wonder if a meek wife would have suited Paul," remarked Lady
Farley, leisurely sipping her tea.
"I expect so," Bobby answered, "because he has chosen the other sort;
just like gouty men always drink champagne and port (when their wives
aren't looking)."
"I have often noticed," said Mr. Kesterton, "that men, as a rule,
fall in love with the exact opposite of the type that they
theoretically approve of."
"I have noticed more than that," added Lady Farley; "having selected,
as you say, the exact opposite, they set about transforming the
object selected into their ideal type. This seems to my ignorant
mind a waste of time and trouble, when the market is overstocked with
their ideal types already."
"I know what you mean," agreed Isabel, "the man who admires silent
women, loses his heart to a chatterbox, and spends the rest of his
mortal life in teaching her to hold her tongue."
Lady Farley nodded. "In the same way, a man who applauds female
brains, is carried off his feet by a pretty fool, and then wears her
and himself out by trying to educate her."
"It is stupid of men to behave like that," said Violet Thistletown.
"Not at all," argued her aunt, "it is stupid of the women not to
adapt themselves."
"I don't know about that. How should you like to have to pretend to
a man that you were not clever, Aunt Caroline?" inquired Isabel, who,
having been married for only a few months, naturally imagined that
she knew all there was to be known concerning the management of Man.
"I have already done so, my dear, for thirty years, with the utmost
success. To this day my husband always insists upon fighting my
battles for me."
"With what results?" asked Mr. Kesterton.
"The battles, of course, are lost; but what does that matter? The
process stimulates his chivalrous instincts, and so increases his
attachment to me. It is far more important that a woman's husband
should think that he knows better than she does, than that the world
should see that he doesn't."
The three men fully agreed with Lady Farley.
"The sole duty of woman is to be charming," she continued in her
pretty drawl, "and if only the women of to-day would do their hair
properly instead of letting their heads run upon their wrongs, and
would study how to amuse men instead of how to solve life-problems,
there would soon be no wrongs and no life problems left."
"Also women would not talk about Art with a capital A," agreed Paul,
"Art with a capital A always bores me."
"My experience is that a woman's heart has no _he_ in it when she
spells it with a capital A," said Isabel wisely.
"I don't know how it is," mused Lady Farley, putting down her
tea-cup, "but women, who spell abstract nouns with capital letters,
generally seem independent of such artificial aids to beauty as soap
and water and hair brushes."
Mr. Kesterton smiled; Lady Farley amused him extremely. "Then
doesn't Milady claim equal rights with men?" he asked.
Milady raised her delicate eyebrows in well-bred surprise. "Of
course not; why should I? The cleverest woman should be ready to
knock under to the stupidest man if necessary--or at any rate to make
him think that she does."
"I am shocked, Lady Farley, to hear you inculcating deceitfulness."
"I am not inculcating deceitfulness--I am preaching wisdom. When I
was young I used to treat men as I treated women, and tell them the
whole truth about everything. But it didn't answer; they couldn't
stand it."
"So now you tell them stories, I presume?"
"No; I still give them the truth, but I offer it to them in a
peptonized form, so that they can digest it without discomfort."
"But what are the pretty, stupid women to do when the men try to
educate them?" asked Violet, who was generally conversationally left
a long way behind the rest of the field.
Her aunt gently instructed her. "Their course is even simpler than
that of the clever ones. They have merely to listen to their
husband's opinions, and repeat them verbatim as their own. A man
always thinks a woman clever whose thoughts are identical with
his--but when her expression of them is also identical, he considers
her absolutely brilliant."
Mr. Kesterton laughed heartily. "You have learnt a great many
things, my dear lady."
"I have lived a long time and I have kept my eyes open. Nevertheless
there are two things which I have never been able to find out;
namely, why people fall in love, and why Punch is published on a
Wednesday."
"Then Paul is even cleverer than you are, Aunt Caroline,"
interpolated Paul's admiring wife, "because there is nothing that he
doesn't know."
"Oh! yes there is," said Paul modestly; "I never know what to talk to
young girls about, or what seven times eight are."
"I am with you there, Seaton," remarked the host; "the only things in
which I take no interest are young girls and bimetallism."
"What is bimetallism?" asked Lady Robert.
Her husband looked appealingly round the table. "Think what my
married life will be if she begins asking questions like that
already!" Then he turned to his wife. "Bimetallism, my dear Violet,
is the opposite of monometallism; let that suffice you."
"But what is monometallism?" persisted Violet.
"Monometallism is the opposite of monomania," replied Isabel; but
Paul endeavoured--though of course vainly--to explain the terms to
his wife's pretty cousin.
"I cannot stand young girls myself," agreed Lady Farley, "they are
afraid of me, and I have no mercy on them."
"Then you ought to have," said Lord Bobby.
"I do not see the compulsion."
"Ah! Lady Farley," he continued, "you must remember that the quality
of mercy should not be measured out by teaspoonfuls in a
medicine-glass, but should be sent round in a watering-cart by the
County Council."
"I know that," replied Lady Farley laughing, "nevertheless young
girls are simple, and I never can stand simplicity."
"Neither can I," agreed Mr. Kesterton, "simple dinners and simple
women are alike abhorrent to me, because they both always agree with
me and that is so tiresome."
"By the way, it will be interesting when Seaton begins to teach you
to hold your tongue," remarked Bobby to Isabel, "if he can accomplish
that, he will be able to unite the offices of Prime Minister,
Commander-in-Chief and Archbishop of Canterbury in his own person, as
he will have proved that the impossible is mere play to him."
"He will never try to teach me, you see, because he enjoys my
conversation more than anything."
"Does he?" said Bobby softly. "Do you know I once went on a
switchback railway with a man who said he enjoyed the motion more
than anything? the next thing he said was that he wished he was dead."
The talk rippled on till tea was over, and then they all got up and
walked about. As Paul and Isabel were leaning over the parapet and
looking down into the water, Mr. Kesterton and Lady Farley passed
within earshot, and the Cabinet Minister was saying: "I feel certain
that he will be in the Government before long; there is no doubt he
has a great future before him. It is a pity that he ever wrote that
silly book, _Shams and Shadows_; but this clever niece of yours will
keep him straight now. The men with clever wives are not the men who
make mistakes, Lady Farley."
Paul looked down upon his wife and smiled; but the eyes that Isabel
raised to his were full of tears.
Not long after the tea-party on the terrace, Edgar Ford dined at the
Paul Seatons' pretty little house in Kensington. Mr. Madderley was
there; also Mr. Seaton, who was spending a few days with his son, and
was very much enjoying a sight of London under Isabel's auspices.
Edgar and Alice were to be married in the autumn; and the former had
already taken a house close to the Stepney Settlement, and was making
ready for his bride.
The conversation at dinner ran upon Edgar's work among the poor; and
he made the others both laugh and cry at the mingled humour and
pathos of his stories. Mr. Seaton especially was interested in the
doings of the Settlement, and gave Edgar some valuable hints from out
of the stores of his own wisdom and experience.
"The thing that strikes me most forcibly," said Edgar, when the
servants had left the room, "is the kindness of the poor to one
another. Underneath all the squalor and sordidness of poverty, there
is something beautiful after all."
"You are right there," agreed Mr. Seaton. "I have, of course, worked
much among the poor in my time, and this phase of their character has
never failed to impress me."
"It is what I have always told you," cried Paul; "human nature is a
grand thing spoiled, but it is a grand thing still."
"But human nature must not be taken in the aggregate," said Edgar,
playing with his empty wine-glass; "masses always represent their
lowest component parts. It is only when you deal with men and women
individually, that you discover the underlying beauty of their
characters. I hate to hear classes condemned wholesale, whether it
be the frivolity of the rich or the brutality of the poor that is
held up to scorn."
"So do I," added Mr. Seaton; "there are frivolous poor and brutal
rich; and likewise there are saints to be found equally in both
classes, and more of them than we any of us dream."
"It seems to me," remarked Isabel, "that love is the leaven that
leavens the whole lump. It is only when people begin to care for
each other that the fineness of human nature is seen. I was horribly
selfish myself till I really cared for somebody, and then I gradually
became quite nice."
Mr. Madderley smiled, as he peeled a peach for his hostess; he had
watched Isabel's development with much interest, and he perceived
that she displayed wonderful accuracy in diagnosing her own case.
"As long as you don't love anybody much, your character is like a
garden in winter," she continued; "one virtue is under a glass shade,
and another is covered over with straw, and all of them are
dreadfully pinched and sickly. Then love comes by, and it is summer;
and your garden rejoices and blossoms like the rose, without your
bothering about it at all."
"Nevertheless," said Madderley, "I think that love, though admirable
as a pastime, is a little too flimsy to be designated an underlying
principle."
Isabel tossed her head. Madderley's cynicism always irritated her.
"I suppose you would say," she replied, "that there is no more
ennobling influence than beauty."
"Exactly," rejoined the artist, serious for once in his life, "what
you call art, is the worship of beauty by the human mind; what you
call love, is the worship of beauty by the human heart; and what you
call religion, is the worship of beauty by the human soul."
Isabel was silent.
"You are right in thinking that love for the beautiful is to be found
in strange places," said Edgar; "last month a lot of children were
sent down from Hampden House into the country for a week; and one of
the poorest and most ragged of them said afterwards to one of our
Sisters: 'Oh! Sister, it was all so beautiful that it made me cry
for you'. That simply meant, as you say, that the sight of natural
beauty stimulated that child's highest feelings, and made her long
for the person for whom she cared the most."
Isabel fully entered into the feelings of the little ragged girl; she
had felt exactly the same herself at the State Concert.
"If the child hadn't loved the Sister first, the beauty of the
country would not have had power to touch her," she said, "love is
the _Open Sesame_ that lets in beauty, and gives us eyes to see."
"I should put it just the other way," said Madderley; "and say that
beauty is the cause of love."
"It seems to me that there is something deeper even than that,"
argued Paul, "some innate fineness, proper to human nature itself,
which makes all these things possible to it."
"It is often surprising," remarked his wife, "how people are nearly
always nice when one gets to know them, and pierces through the outer
husk of artificiality which they wear before the world. I detest
heaps of people that I have only met at dinner; but I think I like
everybody that I have ever had breakfast with."
The others laughed.
"Which simply means that the better one knows one's fellow-creatures
the better one thinks of them," added Paul.
"I cannot offer an opinion," said Madderley, "I have never been down
to breakfast."
Paul turned to his father. "You have not given us your idea yet as
to what is really the name of the underlying power which leavens the
whole lump of humanity, and which Isabel calls love, and Madderley
calls beauty, and Edgar calls individualism, and I call human nature."
"I should call it by none of these names," replied Mr. Seaton, "these
are but the branches of a root which goes deeper and is stronger than
any of them, or than all of them put together."
"Then what should you say is the name of this underlying and yet
exalting power?" asked Edgar.
The minister smiled. "I am an old-fashioned man and I use
old-fashioned phrases," he said, "I should call it the grace of our
Lord Jesus Christ."
THE END