For in her youthThere is a prone and speechless dialect, Such as moves men; besides, she hath prosperous art, When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. Measure for Measure. |
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For in her youth There is a prone and speechless dialect, Such as moves men; besides, she hath prosperous art, When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. Measure for Measure. |
IF anybody had stated that Geoffrey Hampstead was a scoundrel, he would have had grounds for his opinion. As he did not attempt to palliate his own misdeeds, nobody will do so for him. He repudiated the idea of being led into wrong-doing, or driven into it by outside circumstances. Whatever he did, he liked to do thoroughly, and of his own accord. When Nature lavishes her gifts, much ability for both good and evil is usually part of the general endowment; and, although, perhaps, if we knew more, all wrong-doing would receive pity, Geoffrey possessed a knowledge of results that tends to withdraw compassion. But he had overstepped the mark when he had told Nina there was no good in him. Even his own statement reminded him how few things there are about which a sweeping assertion can be made with truth. He grew impatient to find that so many people do not hold opinions — that their opinions hold them; and when the good qualities of a person under discussion met with no consideration he invariably spoke of them. He had a good word to say for most people, and no lack of courage to say it, and thus he gave impression of being fair-minded, which made men like him. He had the compassion for the faulty which seems to appear more frequently in those whose lives have been by no means without reproach than among the strictest followers of religions which claim charity as their own. He thought he realized that consciousness of virtue does not breed so much true compassion as consciousness of sin; and a young clergyman of his acquaintance found that his arguments as to the utility of sin in the world were very shocking and difficult to answer.
Thus he alternated between good and evil, very much in the ordinary way, with only these differences, that his good seemed more disinterested and his evil more pronounced than with most people. The good which he did was done without the bargaining hope of future compensation, and therefore seemed more commendable. On the other hand, as he had almost forgotten what the idea of hell was, he was not forced to brave those consequences which, if some believe as they profess, must render their deliberate wrong-doing almost heroic.
What should a man be called who had in him these combinations? Too good to be either a Quilp or a Jonas Chuzzlewit, and much too bad to resemble any of the spotless heroes of fiction. It will settle the matter with those who are intolerant of distinctions and who do not examine into mixtures of good and evil outside their own range of life to have it understood and agreed that he was a thoroughpaced scoundrel. This will place us all on a comfortable footing.
Some days after the Dusenalls' entertainment Geoffrey was strolling along King Street when he caught sight of Margaret Mackintosh coming along the street with quiet eyes observant. She walked with a long, elastic step, which seemed to speak of the buoyancy of her heart.
Geoffrey walked slower, so that he might enjoy the beauty of her carriage, and t charm of her presence as she recognized him. It seemed to him that no one else could convey so much in a bow as she could. With the graceful inclination of the head came the pleasure of recognition and a quick intelligence that lighted up her face. It was the bow of a princess, as we imagine it; not, it will be remembered, as Canada has experienced it. A nobility and graciousness in her face and figure made men feel that she had a right to condescend to them. Innocence was not the chief characteristic of her face. However attractive, innocence is a poetic name for ignorance — the ignorance which has been canonized by the Romish faith, and has thus produced all the insipid virgins and heroines of the old masters and writers. She did not show that pliable, ductile, often pretty ignorance, supposedly sanctified by the name of innocence, which has been the priestly ideal of beauty for at least nineteen hundred years — perhaps always. Hers was a good face, with a sweet, firm, generous mouth, possibly passionate, and already marked by sympathetic suffering from such human ills as she understood. She seemed to have nothing to hide, and she was as free and open as the day, and as fresh as the dawn; and a large part of the charm she had for all men lay in the fact that her self-respect was so assured to her that she had forgotten all about it. She had none of that primness which is the outcome of an attempt to conceal the fact that knowledge of which one is ashamed is continually uppermost in the mind.
As soon as her eye rested on Geoffrey, it lighted up with that marvelous quickness which is the attribute of rapidly-thinking people. In a flash her mind apparently possessed itself of all she had ever known of him. Five or six little things to say came tumbling over each other to her lips, as she held out her long gloved band in greeting. Even Hampstead felt that her quick approach, earnest manner, and the way she looked straight at him almost disconcerted him; but he had thought to wait till she spoke to him to see what she would say. And she thought he would speak first, so a little pause occurred for an instant that would have been slightly awkward had they not both been young and very good-looking and much interested in each other.
"And how are you?" said she heartily, as they shook hands. The pause might have continued as far as either of them cared. They were self-possessed persons — these two.
"Oh, I am pretty well, thank you," said Geoffrey, without hastening to continue the conversation.
"And particularly well you look. Never saw you look better," said Margaret.
Geoffrey made a deep bow, extending the palms of his hands toward her and downward in reverent Oriental pantomime, as one who should say: "Your slave is humbly glad to please, and dusts your path with his miserable body."
"And what brought you into town to-day?" said he, as he turned and walked with her. "Not the giddy delight of walking on King Street, I hope?"
"That was my only idea, I will confess. Home was dull, and I was tired of reading. Mother was busy and father was away somewhere; so I came out for a walk. Yes, King Street was my only hope. No, by the way — I had an excuse. I have been looking for a house-maid. None to be had though."
"Don't find one," said Geoffrey. "Just come out every day to look for one. I know several fellows who would hunt house-maids with you forever if they got the chance."
"Ah! they never dare to say that to me. They might get snapped up. Yet it is hard to only receive compliments by deputy, like this. Do they intend that, after all, I shall die an old maid? And your banks friends are such excellent partis! are they not?"
"They are," said Geoffrey. "At least, they would be if they had a house to put a wife into — to say nothing of the maid."
"Talking of house-maids," said Margaret, "I just
met Mrs. whats-her-name — you know, the little American with
the German name; and she had just discharged one of her maids.
She said to me, 'You know I have just one breakfast — ice-
cold water and a hot roll; sometimes a pickle. Sarah said I'd
kill myself, and in spite of everything I could say she would
load the table with tea or coffee and stuff I don't want. 'Last I
got mad and I walked in with her wages up to date. I said,
"If you think I 'fill the bill' as 'a nice person' nothing would give me greater pleasure. Sarah will be found. No, I have nothing in particular on hand to-day. I was going to the gymnasium to have a fellow pummel me with the gloves. I am certain I have received more headaches and nose-bleedings in learning how to defend myself with my hands than one would receive in being attacked a dozen times in earnest."
"Well, now would be a good time to stop taking further lessons," said Margaret. "Why do you give yourself so much trouble?"
"Oh, for the exercise, I suppose, or the prestige of being a boxer. Keeps one's person sacred, in a manner; and among young men serves to give more weight to the expression of one's opinions. I think it is a mistake, though, as far as I am concerned. Nature made me speedy on my feet, and when the time comes I'll use her gift instead of the artificial one."
"I have heard it said that it is much wiser for a gentleman to run from a street fight than to stay in it — that the fact of his not using his feet as a means of attack in a fight always places him at a disadvantage. Could you not learn the manly art of kicking, as well?"
"What a murderous notion!" exclaimed Geoffrey. "I don't think that branch of self-defense is taught in the schools. It reminds one of a duel with axes. For my part, I think that hunting Sarah is much more improving. That is, if one did not have blood-thirsty ideas put into his head on the way."
And Margaret looked so gentle and pacific.
"I always think a very interesting subject like this should be thought out carefully," said she, smiling.
If she could not talk well on all subjects, she was a boon to those who could only talk on one — to those who resemble a ship with only one sail to keep them going — slow to travel on, but capable of teaching something, and not to be despised.
With her tall figure, classic face, and blonde hair, Margaret Mackintosh was a vision; but when she came, with large-pupiled eyes, in quest of knowledge, even grave and reverend seigniors were apt to forget the information she asked for. University-degree young men, the most superior of living creatures, soon understood that she sought for what they had learned, and not for themselves; and this demeanor on her part, while it tended to disturb the nice balance in which the weight of their mental talents was accurately poised against that of their physical fascinations, went to make friends and not lovers.
There was one person, however, to whose appearance she was not indifferent; who always suggested to her the Apollo Belvedere, and gave her an increased interest in the Homer of arts, whereas the vigorous life, heroic resolve, and shapely perfection of the ancient hero meet with but little response in women who exist with difficulty. She was perhaps entitled, by a sort of natural right, to expect that a masculine appearance should approach that grade of excellence of which she was herself an example.
"Do you know," she continued, as they proceeded up Yonge Street, "just before I met you I passed such a horrible young man, with long arms reaching almost to his knees and a little face. He made me quite uncomfortable. It's all very well to believe in our evolution as an abstract idea; but an experience like this brings the conviction home to one's mind altogether too vividly. It was quite a relief to meet you. You always look so — in fact, so different from that sort of person, don't you know?"
She nearly said he looked so like her Apollo, but did not.
Geoffrey smiled. "There are times when the idea seems against common sense," said he, with a short glance at her.
"Ah! you intend that for me. But you are almost
repeating father's remark. You know he is a confirmed follower of
the theory. A few days ago he said that the only thing he had
against you was that you upset his studies. He says you ought to
hire out to the special- She stopped.
"Ah! you were going to say something severe,
then," said Geoffrey. "Just as well, though, to snub me
sometimes. I don't mind it if nobody knows of it. But, about your
father? Do you assist him in his studies?"
"I don't know that I assist him much. He does the
hardest part of the work, and then has to explain it all to me.
But I read to him a good deal when his eyes trouble him. After
procuring a new book on the subject he never rests till he has
exhausted it. We often worry through it together, taking turns at
the reading. We have just finished Haeckel's last. We are wild
about Haeckel."
"Yes, there is something very spiritual and
orthodox about him," said Geoffrey. "And now that you must have
got about as far as you can at present, how does the theory
affect you?"
"Not at all, except to make me long to know more.
If one could live to be two hundred years old, would it not be
delightful?" said Margaret, looking far away up the street in
front of her.
"But as to your religion?" asked Geoffrey. "Do
you find that it makes any difference?"
"I don't think I was ever a very religious
person," she replied, mistaking the word religious for 'churchy.'
I never was christened, nor confirmed, nor taught my catechism,
nor anything of that sort. Nobody ever promised that I should
renounce the devil and all his works, and so — and so I
suppose I never have."
She looked at Geoffrey with the round eyes of
guilelessness, slightly mirthful, as if, while deprecating this
wretched state, she could still enjoy life.
Her companion could scarcely look away from her.
There was such a combination of knowledge and purity and
all-round goodness in her face that it fascinated him and induced
him to say gravely:
"Indeed, one might have almost supposed that you
had enjoyed these benefits from your earliest youth."
"No," she answered, "I have been neglected in
church matters. Who knows? Perhaps, if I had been different,
father and I would never have been such companions. I never
remember his going to church, although he pays his pew-rent for
mother and me to go. He is afraid people would call him an
atheist, you know, and no man cares about being despised or
looked upon as peculiar in that way. He says that as long as he
pays his pew-rent the good people will let him alone. As for
mother, I hardly know what her belief is now. She is mildly
contemptuous of evolution; chiefly, I think, because she does not
know or care anything about it. She says the creed she was
brought up in is quite enough for her, and if she can keep the
dust out of the house and contentment in it she
will do more than most people and "And what belief did you come to care about?" he
asked, feeling interested.
Well, father seems to think that the most
dignified attitude of our ignorance is a respectful silence; but,
as you have asked which belief I care about, I can
answer, frankly that I like best going to church and saying my
prayers. It is so much more pleasant and comfortable to try to
think our prayers are heard, for, as mother says, reason and
logic are poor outlets for emotion when the lawsuit goes wrong.
With our information as it is, our conclusions seem to depend on
whether we have or have not in us the spirit of research. They
tell me in the churches that, being unregenerate, my heart is
desperately wicked, and, as I have nothing but a little bad
temper now and then to reproach myself with, I do not agree with
them. On the contrary, I always feel that my life rather tends to
lead me toward believing — or, at any rate, does not make me
prejudiced. I like to believe that God watches over and cares for
us. There being no proof or disproof of the matter, I would find
it as difficult, by way of reasoning, to altogether disbelieve as
to altogether believe."
"Then you make evolution a part of your religion?"
asked Geoffrey.
Margaret had been brought up in an advanced
latter-day school. All the unrecognized passion within her had
gone out in quest of knowledge, which her father had taught her
to regard as a source of quiet happiness, or at least as
comforting to the soul during the maturer years as an intricate
knowledge of crochet and quilt work. When she took to her bosom
the so-called dry-as-dust facts of science she clothed them in a
sort of spirituality. Even slipper-working for a married curate
has been known to stir the pulses, and, though she knew that when
the object of our enthusiasm seem to glow it is unsafe to say
whether the glow is not merely the reflection of our own fervor,
she regarded the lately dug-up facts of science somewhat as if
they were mines of long-bidden coal, capable of use and possessed
of intrinsic warmth. Her face brightened with all the enthusiasm
of a devotee as she answered Geoffrey's question.
"Indeed, yes. The new knowledge seems like the
backbone of my religion. I often sit in church and think what a
blessed privilege it is to be permitted to know even as little as
we do about God's plan of creation."
She joined her hands before her quickly as she
walked along, forgetful of all but the idea that enchained her.
Her face showed the devotion seen in some old pictures of early
saints, but it was too capable and animated to be the production
of any of the old masters.
"Oh, it is grand to know even a little!" she
exclaimed; "to think that this is God's plan, and that bit by bit
we are allowed to unravel it! Is it not true that we acquire
knowledge as we are able to receive it? Did not the ruder people
receive the simple laws which Moses learned in Egypt? and did not
Christianity expand those laws by teaching the religion of
sympathy? These are historical facts. Why, then, should we not
regard evolution as an advanced gospel, the gospel of the
knowledge of God's works, to bind us more closely to him from our
admiration of the excellence of his handiwork — as a father
might show his growing son how his business is carried on, and
how beautiful things are made? Of course, one may reply that all
the discoveries do not show that there is a God. Perhaps they
don't; but I try to think they do. I never have been able to find
that verbal Creeds do much toward making us what we are. The
gloomy distort Christ's life to prove the necessity for sorrow;
the joyous do just the opposite. The naturally cruel practice
their cruelty in the name of religion. Though all start with
perhaps the same words on their lips, each individual in reality
makes his religion for himself according to his nature. Look at
the difference between Guiteau and Florence Nightingale. They
both had the same creeds."
Hampstead was silent.
"I know that my religion might not suffice for
others, because it has no terrors, but to me it is compelling.
When I turn it all over more minutely, the beauty of the thoughts
seems to carry me away. Let those whose brittle creeds are broken
grope about in their gloom, if they will. To me it is glorious
first to try to understand things, and then to praise God for his
marvelous works."
Margaret grew more intense in her utterance as her
subject grew upon her. They had turned off on a quiet street some
time before, so there was nothing to interrupt her. As her
earnestness gave weight to her voice, the words came out more
fervently and more melodiously. Both her hands were raised, in an
unconscious gesture, While the words welled forth with a depth
and force impossible to describe.
Geoffrey walked on in silence.
He thought of the passage, "I came not to call the
righteous, but sinners to repentance," and he wondered whether
Christ would have thought that such as Margaret stood in need of
any further faith. The shrine of Understanding was the only one
she worshiped at, arguing as she did, that from a proper
understanding and true wisdom followed all the goodness of the
Christ-life. He became conscious of a vague regret within him
that he had as he thought, passed those impressionable periods
when a man's beliefs may be molded again. There was a distinct
longing to participate in the assurance and joy which any kind of
fixed faith is capable of producing. The Byronic temperament was
not absent from him. He was keenly susceptible to anything —
either moral or immoral — which called upon his ideality;
and these ideas of Margaret's, although he had thought of them
before, seemed new to him.
"It seems strange," he said musingly, "to hear of
some of the most learned men of the day erecting an altar similar
to that which Paul found at Athens 'to the unknown God,' and to
find them impelled to worship something which they speak of as
unknown and unknowable."
"And yet," she answered, "it is the work of some
of these very men, and their predecessors, that gives the light
and life to the religion which I, for one, find productive of
comfort and enthusiasm. One can understand the practicability of
a heaven where a gradual acquisition of the fullness of knowledge
could be a joyful and everlasting occupation; and I think a
religion to fit us for such a heaven should, like the Buddhist's,
strive to increase our knowledge instead of endeavoring to stifle
it. What is there definitely held out as reward by religions to
make men improve? As far as I can see, there is nothing definite
promised, except in Buddhism perhaps, which men with active minds
would care to accept. But knowledge! knowledge! This is what may
bring an eternity of active happiness. Here is a vista as
delightful as it is boundless. Surely in this century, we have
less cause to call God altogether 'unknown' than had the men of
Athens. In the light of omniscience the difference may be slight
indeed, but to us it is great. "I have none," said Geoffrey simply; "and it is
very good of you to tell me so much about yourself. I have been
wanting something of the kind. You know Bulwer says, 'No moral
can be more impressive than that which shows how a man may become
entangled in his own sophisms.' He says it is better than a
volume of homilies; and it is difficult sometimes, after a course
of reading mixed up with one's own vagaries, to judge as to one's
self or others from a sufficiently stable standpoint. You always
seem to give me an intuitive knowledge of what good really is,
and to tell me where I am in my moral fog."
They walked on together for some little distance
further when Margaret stopped and began to look up and down the
street.
"Why, where are we?" she said. "What street is
this?"
"I can not help you with the name of the street. I
supposed we were approaching the domicile of Sarah. We are now in
St. John's Ward, I think, and unless Sarah happens to be a
colored person you are not likely to find her in this
neighborhood."
"Dear me," said Margaret, as she descended from
considering the possible occupations of the heavenly host to
those usual in St. John's Ward, "I have not an idea where we are.
We must have come a long distance out of our way. It is your
fault for doing all the talking."
"On the contrary, Miss Margaret, I have been
unable to get a word in edgewise."
The search for Sarah was abandoned, and they
wended their way toward Margaret's home, the conversation passing
to other subjects and to Nina Lindon, whom they discussed in
connection with the ball at the Dusenalls'.
"They certainly seem very devoted, do they not?"
said Margaret, referring to Jack Cresswell also.
"Yes, their attachment for each other is quite
idyllic," said Geoffrey, lapsing into his cynical speech, "which
is as it should be. I did not see them much together, as I left
early."
"I noticed your absence, at least I remembered
afterward not having seen you late in the evening, but, as you
take such an interest in your friend, you should have stayed
longer, if only to see the very happy expression on his face. You
know she is spoken of as being the belle, and certainly he
ought to be proud of her, as the attention she attracted was so
very marked. I thought her appearance was charming. They seemed
to make an exception to the rule among lovers that one loves and
the other submits to be loved."
"I am glad to hear you say this," said Geoffrey,
as he silently reflected as to the cause of Nina's return to do
her duty in a way that would tend to ease her conscience. "Jack
is worthy of the best of girls. Have you ever called upon the
Lindons?"
"No, not yet. But Mr. Cresswell spoke to me about
Miss Lindon and said he would like me to know her. So I said we
would call. I am afraid, however, that mother will complain at
the length of her visiting list being increased. She will have to
be coaxed into this call to please me."
"Jack cherishes an idea that Miss Lindon, he, and
I will become a trio of good friends," said Geoffrey. "Now, if
anything could be done to make it a quartette, if you would
consent to make a fourth, Miss Margaret, I am certain the new
arrangement would be more satisfactory to all parties, especially
so to me considered as one of the trio. A gooseberry's part is
fraught with difficulties."
"The more the merrier, no doubt, in this case.
Numbers will release you from your responsibilities. I have
myself two or three friends that would make excellent additions
to the quartette. There's Mr. Le Fevre, of your bank, and also
Mr. ——"
Ah, well!" said Geoffrey, interrupting. "Let us
consider. I don't think that it was contemplated to make a
universal brotherhood of this arrangement. If there are to be any
more elected I should propose that the male candidates should be
balloted for by the male electors only, and that additional lady
members should be disposed of by their own sex only. Let me see.
In the event of a tie in voting, the matter might be left to a
general meeting to be convened for consultation and ice-cream,
and, if the candidate be thrown out by a majority, the proposer
should be obliged to pay the expenses incurred by the conclave."
"That seems a feasible method," said Margaret.
"Although I tell you, if we girls do not have the right men,
there will be trouble. And now we ought to name the new society.
What do you say to calling it 'An Association for the Propagation
of Friendly Feeling among Themselves'?"
"Limited," added Geoffrey, thinking that the
membership ought to be restricted.
"Oh, limited, by all means," cried Margaret. "I
should rather think so. Limited in finances, brains, and
everything else. And then the rules! Politics and religion
excluded, of course, as in any other club?"
"Well, I don't mind those so much as discussions
of millinery and dress-making. These should be vetoed at any
general meeting."
"Excuse me. These are subjects that come under the
head of art, and ought to be permissible to any extent; but I do
make strong objection to the use of yachting terms and sporting
language generally."
"Possibly you are right," said Geoffrey. "But Jack
— poor Jack! he must refer to starboard bulkheads and that
sort of thing from time to time. However, we will agree to each
other's objections, but we must certainly place an embargo upon
saying ill-natured things about our neighbors ——"
"Good heavens, man! Do you expect us to be dumb?"
cried Margaret. "Very well. It shall be so. We will call it the
'Dumb Improvement Company for Learned Pantomime.'"
And thus they rattled on in their fanciful talk
merrily enough — interrupting each other and laughing over
their own absurdities, and sharpening their wits on each other,
as only good friends can, until Margaret's home was reached.
To Geoffrey it seemed to emphasize Margaret's
youth and companionability when, in following his changing moods,
she could so readily make the transition from the sublime to the
ridiculous.
(End of Chapter VI.)