Part 67 (2/2)
”It is a sad day to me when I hear you say so, Hadria!” the sister exclaimed.
”Algitha, there is just one solitary weapon that _can't_ be taken from a woman--and so it is considerately left to her. Ah, it is a dangerous toy when brandished dexterously! Sometimes it sends a man or two away howling. Our pastors and masters have a wholesome dread of the murderous thing--and what wails, and satires, and lamentations it inspires!
Consult the literature of all lands and ages! Heaven-piercing! The only way of dealing with the awkward dilemma is to get the woman persuaded to be 'good,' and to lay down her weapon of her own accord, and let it rust. How many women have been so persuaded! Not I!”
”I know, and I understand how you feel; but oh, Hadria, _this_ is not the way to fight, _this_ will bring no good to anyone. And as for admiration, the admiration of men--why, you know it is not worth having--of this sort.”
”Oh, do I not know it! It is less than worthless. But I am not seeking anything of permanent value; I am seeking excitement, and the superficial satisfaction of brandis.h.i.+ng the weapon that everyone would be charmed to see me lay in the dust. I _won't_ lay it down to please anybody. Dear me, it will soon rust of its own accord. You might as well ask some luckless warrior who stands at bay, facing overwhelming odds, to yield up his sword and leave himself defenceless. It is an insult to one's common sense.”
Algitha's remonstrance seemed only to inflame her sister's mood, so she said no more. But she watched Hadria's increasingly reckless conduct, with great uneasiness.
”It really _is_ exciting!” exclaimed Hadria, with a strange smile. The whole party had migrated for the day, to the hills at a distance of about ten miles from Craddock Dene. A high spot had been chosen, on the edge of woodland shade, looking out over a wide distance of plain and far-off ranges. Here, as Claude Moreton remarked, they were to spoil the landscape, by taking their luncheon.
”Or what is worse, by giving ourselves rheumatism,” added Lord Engleton.
”What grumbling creatures men are!” exclaimed his wife, ”and what pleasures they lose for themselves and make impossible for others, by this stupid habit of dwelling upon the disadvantages of a situation, instead of on its charms.”
”We ought to dwell upon the fowl and the magnificent prospect, and ignore the avenging rheumatism,” said Claude Moreton.
”Oh no, guard against it,” advised Algitha, with characteristic common sense. ”Sit on this waterproof, for instance.”
”Ah, there you have the true philosophy!” cried Professor Theobald.
”Contentment and forethought. Observe the symbol of forethought.” He spread the waterproof to the wind.
”There is nothing like a contented spirit!” cried Lady Engleton.
”Who is it that says you knock a man into a ditch, and then you tell him to remain content in the position in which Providence has placed him?”
asked Hadria.
”Even contentment has its dangers,” said Claude Moreton, dreamily.
At the end of the meal, Hadria rose from the rug where she had been reclining, with the final a.s.sertion, that she thought the man who was knocked into the ditch and told to do his duty there, would do the best service to mankind, as well as to himself, by making a horrid clamour and trying to get out again. A group collected round her, almost immediately.
”Mrs. Fenwick, won't you give us a song!” cried Madame Bertaux. ”I see you have been kind enough to bring your guitar.”
Marion was enthroned upon the picnic-basket, with much pomp, and her guitar placed in her hand by Claude Moreton. Her figure, in her white gown and large straw hat, had for background the shadows of thick woods.
Professor Theobald sank down on the gra.s.s at Hadria's side. She felt that his mood was agitated. She could not be in much doubt as to its cause. The reckless _role_ that she had been playing was bringing its result. Hadria was half alarmed, half exultant. She had a strange, vague notion of selling her life dearly, to the enemy. Only, of late, this feeling had been mixed with another, of which she was scarcely conscious. The subtle fascination which the Professor exercised over her had taken a stronger hold, far stronger than she knew.
She was sitting on a little knoll, her arm resting on her knee, and her cheek in her hand. In the exquisitely graceful att.i.tude, was an element of self-abandonment. It seemed as if she had grown tired of guiding and directing herself, and were now commending herself to fate or fortune, to do with her as they would, or must.
Marion struck a quiet chord. Her voice was sweet and tender and full, admirably suited to the song. Every nerve in Hadria answered to her tones.
”Oh, gather me the rose, the rose While yet in flower we find it; For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it.
”For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed foreborne for ever, The worm regret will canker on, And time will turn him never.”
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