Part 22 (1/2)
”And yet you were right. It seems to me that you are always right, Chris.”
”No--not always; but more often than you are, perhaps,” replied Christopher, in rather a husky voice, but with a very kindly smile. ”I am older, you see, for one thing; and I have had a harder time of it for another, and some of the idealism has been knocked out of me.”
”But the nice thing about you is that though you always know when I am wrong or foolish, you never seem to despise me for it.”
Despise her? Christopher laughed at the word; and yet women were supposed to have such keen perceptions.
”I don't care whether you are wise or foolish,” he said, ”as long as you are you. That is all that matters to me.”
”And you really think I am nice?”
”I don't see how you could well be nicer.”
”Oh! you don't know what I could do if I tried. You underrate my powers; you always did. But you are a very restful person, Chris; when my mind gets tired with worrying over things and trying to understand them, I find it a perfect holiday to talk to you. You seem to take things as they are.”
”Well, I have to, you see; and what must be must.”
”Simple natures like yours are very soothing to complex natures like mine. When I've lived my life and worn myself out with trying to get the utmost I can out of everything, I shall spend the first three thousand years of eternity sitting quite still upon a fixed star without speaking, with my legs dangling into s.p.a.ce, and looking at you. It will be such a nice rest, before beginning life over again.”
”Say two thousand years; you'd never be able to sit still without speaking for more than two thousand years at the outside. By that time you'd have pulled yourself together, and be wanting to set about teaching the angels a thing or two. I know your ways.”
”I should enjoy that,” laughed Elisabeth.
”So would the angels, if they were anything like me.”
Elisabeth laughed again, and looked through the trees to the fields beyond. Friends were much more comfortable than lovers, she said to herself; Alan in his palmiest days had never been half so soothing to her as Christopher was now. She wondered why poets and people of that kind made so much of love and so little of friends.h.i.+p, since the latter was obviously the more lasting and satisfactory of the two. Somehow the mere presence of Christopher had quite cured the sore feeling that Alan and Felicia had left behind them when they started for their walk without even asking her to go with them; and she was once more sure of the fact that she was necessary to somebody--a certainty without which Elisabeth could not live. So her imagination took heart of grace again, and began drawing plans for extensive castles in Spain, and arranging social campaigns wherein she herself should be crowned with triumph. She decided that half the delight of winning life's prizes and meeting its fairy princes would be the telling Christopher all about them afterward; for her belief in his exhaustless sympathy was boundless.
”A penny for your thoughts,” he said, after she had been silent for some moments.
”I was looking at Mrs. Bateson feeding her fowls,” said Elisabeth evasively; ”and, I say, have you ever noticed that hens are just like tea-pots, and c.o.c.ks like coffee-pots? Look at them now! It seems as if an army of breakfast services had suddenly come to life _a la_ Galatea, and were pouring libations at Mrs. Bateson's feet.”
”It does look rather like that, I admit. But here are Miss Herbert and Tremaine returning from their walk; let's go and meet them.”
And Elisabeth went to meet the lovers with no longer any little cobwebs of jealousy hiding in the dark corners of her heart, Christopher's hand having swept them all away; he had a wonderful power of exterminating the little foxes which would otherwise have spoiled Elisabeth's vines; and again she said to herself how much better a thing was friends.h.i.+p than love, since Alan had always expected her to be interested in his concerns, while Christopher, on the contrary, was always interested in hers.
It was not long after this that Elisabeth was told by Felicia of the latter's engagement to Alan Tremaine; and Elisabeth was amazed at the rapidity with which Felicia had a.s.similated her lover's views on all subjects. Elisabeth had expected that her friend would finally sacrifice her opinions on the altar of her feelings; she was already old enough to be prepared for that; but she had antic.i.p.ated a fierce warfare in the soul of Felicia between the directly opposing principles of this young lady's mother and lover. To Elisabeth's surprise, this civil war never took place. Felicia accepted Alan's doubts as unquestioningly as she had formerly accepted Mrs. Herbert's beliefs; and as she loved the former more devotedly than she had ever loved the latter, she was more devout and fervid in her agnosticism than she had ever been in her faith. She had believed, because her mother ordered her to believe; she doubted, because Alan desired her to doubt; her belief and unbelief being equally the outcome of her affections rather than of her convictions.
Mrs. Herbert likewise looked leniently upon Alan's want of orthodoxy, and at this Elisabeth was not surprised. Possibly there are not many of us who do not--in the private and confidential depths of our evil hearts--regard earth in the hand as worth more than heaven in the bush, so to speak; at any rate, Felicia's mother was not one of the bright exceptions; and--from a purely commercial point of view--a saving faith does not go so far as a spending income, and it is no use pretending that it does. So Mrs. Herbert smiled upon her daughter's engagement; but compromised with that accommodating conscience of hers by always speaking of her prospective son-in-law as ”poor Alan,” just as if she really believed, as she professed she did, that the death of the body and the death of the soul are conditions equally to be deplored.
”You see, my dear,” she said to Elisabeth, who came to stay at Wood Glen for Felicia's marriage, which took place in the early summer, ”it is such a comfort to Mr. Herbert and myself to know that our dear child is so comfortably provided for. And then--although I can not altogether countenance his opinions--poor Alan has such a good heart.”
Elisabeth, remembering that she had once been fascinated by the master of the Moat House, was merciful. ”He is an extremely interesting man to talk to,” she said; ”he has thought out so many things.”
”He has, my love. And if we are tempted to rebuke him too severely for his non-acceptance of revealed truth, we must remember that he was deprived comparatively early in life of both his parents, and so ought rather to be pitied than blamed,” agreed Mrs. Herbert, who would cheerfully have poured out all the vials of the Book of Revelation upon any impecunious doubter who had dared to add the mortal sin of poverty to the venial one of unbelief.
”And he is really very philanthropic,” Elisabeth continued; ”he has done no end of things for the work-people at the Osierfield. It is a pity that his faith is second-rate, considering that his works are first-cla.s.s.”
”Ah! my dear, we must judge not, lest in turn we too should be judged.
Who are we, that we should say who is or who is not of the elect? It is often those who seem to be the farthest from the kingdom that are in truth the nearest to it.” Mrs. Herbert had dismissed a kitchen-maid, only the week before, for declining to attend her Bible-cla.s.s, and walking out with a young man instead.
”Still, I am sorry that Alan has all those queer views,” Elisabeth persisted; ”he really would be a splendid sort of person if he were only a Christian; and it seems such a pity that--with all his learning--he hasn't learned the one thing that really matters.”
”My love, I am ashamed to find you so censorious; it is a sad fault, especially in the young. I would advise you to turn to the thirteenth of First Corinthians, and see for yourself how excellent a gift is charity--the greatest of all, according to our dear Saint Paul.”