CHAPTER V
THE MOAT HOUSE
You thought you knew me in and out And yet you never knew That all I ever thought about Was you.
Sedgehill High Street is nothing but a part of the great high road whichleads from Silverhampton to Studley and Slipton and the other towns ofthe Black Country; but it calls itself Sedgehill High Street as itpasses through the place, and so identifies itself with its environment,after the manner of caterpillars and polar bears and other similarlywise and adaptable beings. At the point where this road adopts thepseudonym of the High Street, close by Sedgehill Church, a lane branchesoff from it at right angles, and runs down a steep slope until it comesto a place where it evidently experiences a difference of opinion as towhich is the better course to pursue--an experience not confined tolanes. But in this respect lanes are happier than men and women, in thatthey are able to pursue both courses, and so learn for themselves whichis the wiser one, as is the case with this particular lane. One courseleads headlong down another steep hill--so steep that unwary travellersusually descend from their carriages to walk up or down it, and thusare enabled to ensure relief to their horses and a chill to themselvesat the same time; for it is hot work walking up or down that sunnyprecipice, and the cold winds of Mershire await one with equal gusto atthe top and at the bottom. At the foot of the hill stretches a breezycommon, wide enough to make one think "long, long thoughts"; and if thetraveller looks backward when he has crossed this common, he will seeSedgehill Church, crowning and commanding the vast expanse, and pointingheavenward with its slender spire to remind him, and all other wayfaringmen, that the beauty and glory of this present world is only an earnestand a foretaste of something infinitely fairer.
The second course of the irresolute lane is less adventurous, andwanders peacefully through Badgering Woods, a dark and delightful spot,once mysterious enough to be a fitting hiding-place for the age-longslumbers of some sleeping princess. As a matter of fact, so it was; theprincess was black but comely, and her name was Coal. There she hadslept for a century of centuries, until Prince Iron needed and soughtand found her, and awakened her with the noise of his kisses. So now thewood is not asleep any more, but is filled with the tramping of theprince's men. The old people wring their hands and mourn that the formerthings are passing away, and that Mershire's youthful beauty will soonbe forgotten; but the young people laugh and are glad, because they knowthat life is greater than beauty, and that it is by her blackcoalfields, and not by her green woodlands, that Mershire will save herpeople from poverty, and will satisfy her poor with bread.
When Elisabeth Farringdon was a girl, the princess was still asleep inthe heart of the wood, and no prince had yet attempted to disturb her;and the lane passed through a forest of silence until it came to a dearlittle brown stream, which, by means of a dam, was turned into a moat,encircling one of the most ancient houses in England. The Moat House hadbeen vacant for some time, as the owner was a delicate man who preferredto live abroad; and great was the interest at Sedgehill when, a year ortwo after Elisabeth left school, it was reported that a stranger, AlanTremaine by name, had taken the Moat House for the sake of the hunting,which was very good in that part of Mershire.
So Alan settled there, and became one of the items which went to themaking of Elisabeth's world. He was a small, slight man,interesting-looking rather than regularly handsome, of aboutfive-and-twenty, who had devoted himself to the cultivation of hisintellect and the suppression of his soul. Because his mother had been areligious woman, he reasoned that faith was merely an amiable feminineweakness, and because he himself was clever enough to make passableLatin verses, he argued that no Supernatural Being could have beenclever enough to make him.
"Have you seen the new man who has come to the Moat House?" askedElisabeth of Christopher. The latter had now settled down permanently atthe Osierfield, and was qualifying himself to take his uncle's place asgeneral manager of the works, when that uncle should retire from thepost. He was also qualifying himself to be Elisabeth's friend instead ofher lover--a far more difficult task.
"Yes; I have seen him."
"What is he like? I am dying to know."
"When I saw him he was exactly like a man riding on horseback; but as hewas obviously too well-dressed to be a beggar, I have no reason tobelieve that the direction in which he was riding was the one whichbeggars on horseback are proverbially expected to take."
"How silly you are! You know what I mean."
"Perfectly. You mean that if you had seen a man riding by, at the rateof twelve miles an hour, it would at once have formed an opinion as toall the workings of his mind and the meditations of his heart. But myimpressions are of slower growth, and I am even dull enough to requiresome foundation for them." Christopher loved to tease Elisabeth.
"I am awfully quick in reading character," remarked that young lady,with some pride.
"You are. I never know which impresses me more--the rapidity with whichyou form opinions, or their inaccuracy when formed."
"I'm not as stupid as you think."
"Pardon me, I don't think you are at all stupid; but I am always hopingthat the experience of life will make you a little stupider."
"Don't be a goose, but tell me all you know about Mr. Tremaine."
"I don't know much about him, except that he is well-off, that heapparently rides about ten stone, and that he is not what people callorthodox. By the way. I didn't discover his unorthodoxy by seeing himride by, as you would have done; I was told about it by some people whoknow him."
"How very interesting!" cried Elisabeth enthusiastically. "I wonder howunorthodox he is. Do you think he doesn't believe in anything?"
"In himself, I fancy. Even the baldest creed is usually self-embracing.But I believe he indulges in the not unfashionable luxury of doubts.You might attend to them, Elisabeth; you are the sort of girl who wouldenjoy attending to doubts."
"I suppose I really am too fond of arguing."
"There you misjudge yourself. You are instructive rather thanargumentative. Saying the same thing over and over again in differentlanguage is not arguing, you know; I should rather call it preaching, ifI were not afraid of hurting your feelings."
"You are a very rude boy! But, anyway, I have taught you a lot ofthings; you can't deny that."
"I don't wish to deny it; I am your eternal debtor. To tell the truth, Ibelieve you have taught me everything I know, that is worth knowing,except the things that you have tried to teach me. There, I mustconfess, you have signally failed."
"What have I tried to teach you?"
"Heaps of things: that pleasure is more important than duty; that we aresent into the world to enjoy ourselves; that the worship of art is theonly soul-satisfying form of faith; that conscience is an exhaustedforce; that feelings and emotions ought to be labelled and scheduled;that lobster is digestible; that Miss Herbert is the most attractivewoman in the world; etcetera, etcetera."
"And what have I taught you without trying?"
"Ah! that is a large order; and it is remarkable that the things youhave taught me are just the things that you have never learnedyourself."
"Then I couldn't have taught them."
"But you did; that is where your genius comes in."
"I really am tremendously quick in judging character," repeatedElisabeth thoughtfully; "if I met you for the first time I should knowin five minutes that you were a man with plenty of head, and heaps ofsoul, and very little heart."
"That would show wonderful penetration on your part."
"You may laugh, but I should. Of course, as it is, it is notparticularly clever of me to understand you thoroughly; I have known youso long."
"Exactly; it would only be distinctly careless of you if you did not."
"Of course it would; but I do. I could draw a map of your mind with myeyes shut, I know it so well."
"I wish you would. I should value it even if it were drawn with youreyes open, though possibly in that case it m
ight be less correct."
"I will, if you will give me a pencil and a sheet of paper."
Christopher produced a pencil, and tore a half-sheet off a note that hehad in his pocket. The two were walking through the wood at the Willowsat that moment, and Elisabeth straightway sat down upon a felled treethat happened to be lying there, and began to draw.
The young man watched her with amusement. "An extensive outline," heremarked; "this is gratifying."
"Oh yes! you have plenty of mind, such as it is; nobody could denythat."
"But why is the coast-line all irregular, with such a lot of bays andcapes and headlands?"
"To show that you are an undecided person, and given to split hairs, anddon't always know your own opinion. First you think you'll do a thingbecause it is nice; and then you think you won't do it because it iswrong; and in the end you drop between two stools, like Mahomet'scoffin."
"I see. And please what are the mountain-ranges that you are drawingnow?"
"These," replied Elisabeth, covering her map with herring-bones, "areyour scruples. Like all other mountain-ranges they hinder commerce, makepleasure difficult, and render life generally rather uphill work.""Don't I sound exactly as if I was taking a geography class?"
"Or conducting an Inquisition," added Christopher.
"I thought an Inquisition was a Spanish thing that hurt."
"So certain ignorant people say; but it was originally invented, Ibelieve, to eradicate error and to maintain truth."
"I am going on with my geography class, so don't interrupt. The riversin this map, which are marked by a few faint lines, are narrow andshallow; they are only found near the coast, and never cross theinterior of the country at all. These represent your feelings."
"Very ingenious of you! And what is that enormous blotch right in themiddle of the country, which looks like London and its environs?"
"That is your conscience; its outlying suburbs cover nearly the wholecountry, you will perceive. You will also notice that there are noseaports on the coast of my map; that shows that you are self-contained,and that you neither send exports to, nor receive imports from, thehearts and minds of other people."
"What ever are those queer little castellated things round the coastthat you are drawing now?"
"Those are floating icebergs, to show that it is a cold country. There,my map is finished," concluded Elisabeth, half closing her eyes andcontemplating her handiwork through her eyelashes; "and I consider it amost successful sketch."
"It is certainly clever."
"And true, too."
Christopher's eyes twinkled. "Give it me," he said, stretching out hishand; "but sign it with your name first. Not there," he added hastily,as Elisabeth began writing a capital E in one corner; "right across themiddle."
Elisabeth looked up in surprise. "Right across the map itself, do youmean?"
"Yes."
"But it is such a long name that it will cover the whole country."
"I know that."
"It will spoil it."
"I shouldn't be surprised; nevertheless, I always am in favour ofrealism."
"I don't know where the realism comes in; but I am such an obligingperson that I will do what you want," said Elisabeth, writing her nameright across the half-sheet of paper, in her usual dashing style.
"Thank you," said Christopher, taking the paper from her; and he smiledto himself as he saw that the name "Elisabeth Farringdon" covered thewhole of the imaginary continent from east to west. Elisabeth naturallydid not know that this was the only true image in her allegory; she wasas yet far too clever to perceive obvious things. As Chris said, it wasnot when her eyes were open that she was most correct.
"I have seen Mr. Tremaine," said Elisabeth to him, a day or two afterthis. "Cousin Maria left her card upon him, and he returned her callyesterday and found us at home. I think he is perfectly delightful."
"You do, do you? I knew you would."
"Why?"
"Because, like the Athenians, you live to see or to hear some newthing."
"It wasn't his newness that made me like him; I liked him because he wasso interesting. I do adore interesting people! I hadn't known him fiveminutes before he began to talk about really deep things; and then Ifelt I had known him for ages, he was so very understanding."
"Indeed," Christopher said drily.
"By the time we had finished tea he understood me better than you doafter all these years. I wonder if I shall get to like him better than Ilike you?"
"I wonder, too." And he really did, with an amount of curiosity that waspositively painful.
"Of course," remarked Elisabeth thoughtfully, "I shall always like you,because we have been friends so long, and you are overgrown with thelichen of old memories and associations. But you are not veryinteresting in the abstract, you see; you are nice and good, but youhave not heart enough to be really thrilling."
"Still, even if I had a heart, it is possible I might not always wear iton my sleeve for Miss Elisabeth Farringdon to peck at."
"Oh yes, you would; you couldn't help it. If you tried to hide it Ishould see through your disguises. I have X rays in my eyes."
"Have you? They must be a great convenience."
"Well, at any rate, they keep me from making mistakes," Elisabethconfessed.
"That is fortunate for you. It is a mistake to make mistakes."
"I remember our Dear Lady at Fox How once saying," continued the girl,"that nothing is so good for keeping women from making mistakes as asense of humour."
"I wonder if she was right?"
"She was always right; and in that as in everything else. Have you nevernoticed that it is not the women with a sense of humour who make foolsof themselves? They know better than to call a thing romantic which isreally ridiculous."
"Possibly; but they are sometimes in danger of calling a thingridiculous which is really romantic; and that also is a mistake."
"I suppose it is. I wonder which is worse--to think ridiculous thingsromantic, or romantic things ridiculous? It is rather an interestingpoint. Which do you think?"
"I don't know. I never thought about it."
"You never do think about things that really matter," exclaimedElisabeth, with reproof in her voice; "that is what makes you souninteresting to talk to. The fact is you are so wrapped up in thattiresome old business that you never have time to attend to the deeperthings and the hidden meanings of life; but are growing into a regularmoney-grubber."
"Perhaps so; but you will have the justice to admit it isn't my ownmoney that I am grubbing," replied Christopher, who had only reconciledhimself to giving up all his youthful ambitions and becomingsub-manager of the Osierfield by the thought that he might thereby insome roundabout way serve Elisabeth. Like other schoolboys he haddreamed his dreams, and prospected wonderful roads to success which hisfeet were destined never to tread; and at first he had asked somethingmore of life than the Osierfield was capable of offering him. Butfinally he had submitted contentedly to the inevitable, because--inspite of all his hopes and ambitions--his boyish love for Elisabeth heldhim fast; and now his manly love for Elisabeth held him faster still.But even the chains which love had rivetted are capable of galling ussometimes; and although we would not break them, even if we could, wegrumble at them occasionally--that is to say, if we are merely human, asis the case with so many of us.
"It is a great pity," Elisabeth went on, "that you deliberately narrowyourself down to such a small world and such petty interests. It is badenough for old people to be practical and sensible and commonplace andall that; but for a man as young as you are it is simply disgusting. Ican not understand you, because you really are clever and ought to knowbetter; but although I am your greatest friend, you never talk to meabout anything except the merest frivolities."
Christopher bowed his head to the storm and was still--he was one of thepeople who early learn the power of silence; but Elisabeth, having oncemounted her high horse, dug her spurs into her steed and rode on tov
ictory. In those days she was so dreadfully sure of herself that shefelt competent to teach anybody anything.
"You laugh at me as long as I am funny and I amuse you; but the minuteI begin to talk about serious subjects--such as feelings and sentimentsand emotions--you lose your interest at once, and turn everything into ajoke. The truth is, you have so persistently suppressed your higher selfthat it is dying of inanition; you'll soon have no higher self left atall. If people don't use their hearts they don't have any, like theKentucky fish that can't see in the dark because they are blind, don'tyou know? Now you should take a leaf out of Mr. Tremaine's book. Thefirst minute I saw him I knew that he was the sort of man thatcultivated his higher self; he was interested in just the things thatinterest me."
The preacher paused for breath, and looked up to see whether her sermonwas being "blessed" to her hearer; then suddenly her voice changed--
"What is the matter, Chris?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"Because you look so awfully white. I was talking so fast that I didn'tnotice it; but I expect it is the heat. Do sit down on the grass andrest a bit; it is quite dry; and I'll fan you with a big dock leaf."
"I'm all right," replied Christopher, trying to laugh, and succeedingbut indifferently.
"But I'm sure you are not, you are so pale; you look just as you lookedthe day that I tumbled off the rick--do you remember it?--and you tookme into Mrs. Bateson's to have my head bound up. She said you'd got atouch of the sun, and I'm afraid you've got one now."
"Yes, I remember it well enough; but I'm all right now, Betty. Don'tworry about me."
"But I do worry when you're ill; I always did. Don't you remember thatwhen you had measles and I wasn't allowed to see you, I cried myself tosleep for three nights running, because I thought you were going todie, and that everything would be vile without you? And then I had aprayer-meeting about you in Mrs. Bateson's parlour, and I wrote thehymns for it myself. The Batesons wept over them and considered theminspired, and foretold that I should die early in consequence." AndElisabeth laughed at the remembrance of her fame.
Christopher laughed too. "That was hard on you! I admit thatverse-writing is a crime in a woman, but I should hardly call it acapital offence. Still, I should like to have heard the hymns. You weregreat at writing poetry in those days."
"Wasn't I? And I used to be so proud when you said that my poems weren't'half bad'!"
"No wonder; that was high praise from me. But can't you recall thosehymns?"
The hymnist puckered her forehead. "I can remember the beginning of theopening one," she said; "it was a six-line-eights, and we sang it to atune called Stella; it began thus:
"How can we sing like little birds, And hop about among the boughs? How can we gambol with the herds, Or chew the cud among the cows? How can we pop with all the weasles Now Christopher has got the measles?"
"Bravo!" exclaimed the subject of the hymn. "You are a born hymn-writer,Elisabeth. The shades of Charles Wesley and Dr. Watts bow to yourobvious superiority."
"Well, at any rate, I don't believe they ever did better at fourteen;and it shows how anxious I was about you even then when you were ill. Iam just the same now--quite as fond of you as I was then; and you areof me, too, aren't you?"
"Quite." Which was perfectly true.
"Then that's all right," said Elisabeth contentedly; "and, you see, itis because I am so fond of you that I tell you of your faults. I thinkyou are so good that I want you to be quite perfect."
"I see."
The missionary spirit is an admirable thing; but a man rarely does itfull justice when it is displayed--toward himself--by the object of hisdevotion.
"If I wasn't so fond of you I shouldn't try to improve you."
"Of course not; and if you were a little fonder of me you wouldn't wantto improve me. I perfectly understand."
"Dear old Chris! You really are extremely nice in some ways; and if youhad only a little more heart you would be adorable. And I don't believeyou are naturally unfeeling, do you?"
"No--I do not; but I sometimes wish I was."
"Don't say that. It is only that you haven't developed that side of yousufficiently; I feel sure the heart is there, but it is dormant. So nowyou will talk more about feelings, won't you?"
"I won't promise that. It is rather stupid to talk about things that onedoesn't understand; I am sure this is correct, for I have often heardyou say so."
"But talking to me about your feelings might help you to understandthem, don't you see?"
"Or might help you."
"Oh! I don't want any help; feelings are among the few things that I canunderstand without any assistance. But you are sure you are all right,Chris, and haven't got a headache or anything?" And the anxiousexpression returned to Elisabeth's face.
"My head is very well, thank you."
"You don't feel any pain?"
"In my head? distinctly not."
"You are quite well, you are certain?"
"Perfectly certain and quite well. What a fidget you are! Apparently youattach as much importance to rosy cheeks as Mother Hankey does."
"A pale face and dark hair are in her eyes the infallible signs of adepraved nature," laughed Elisabeth; "and I have both."
"Yet you fly at me for having one, and that only for a short time.Considering your own shortcomings, you should be more charitable."
Elisabeth laughed again as she patted his arm in a sisterly fashion."Nice old boy! I am awfully glad you are all right. It would make memiserable if anything went really wrong with you, Chris."
"Then nothing shall go really wrong with me, and you shall not bemiserable," said Christopher stoutly; "and, therefore, it is fortunatethat I don't possess much heart--things generally go wrong with thepeople who have hearts, you know, and not with the people who have not;so we perceive how wise was the poet in remarking that whatever is ismade after the best possible pattern, or words to that effect." Withwhich consoling remark he took leave of his liege-lady.
The friendship between Alan Tremaine and Elisabeth Farringdon grew apaceduring the next twelve months. His mind was of the metaphysical andspeculative order, which is interesting to all women; and hers was ofthe volatile and vivacious type which is attractive to some men. Theydiscussed everything under the sun, and some things over it; they readthe same books and compared notes afterward; they went out sketchingtogether, and instructed each other in the ways of art; and theycarefully examined the foundations of each other's beliefs, andendeavoured respectively to strengthen and undermine the same. Graduallythey fell into the habit of wondering every morning whether or not theyshould meet during the coming day; and of congratulating themselvesnearly every evening that they had succeeded in so meeting.
As for Christopher, he was extremely and increasingly unhappy, and, itmust be admitted, extremely and increasingly cross in consequence. Thefact that he had not the slightest right to control Elisabeth's actions,in no way prevented him from highly disapproving of them; and the factthat he was too proud to express this disapproval in words, in no wayprevented him from displaying it in manner. Elisabeth was wonderfullyamiable with him, considering how very cross he was; but are we not allamiable with people toward whom we--in our inner consciousness--knowthat we are behaving badly?
"I can not make out what you can see in that conceited ass?" he said toher, when Alan Tremaine had been living at the Moat House for somethingover a year.
"Perhaps not; making things out never is your strong point," repliedElisabeth suavely.
"But he is such an ass! I'm sure the other evening, when he trotted outhis views on the Higher Criticism for your benefit, he made me feelpositively ill."
"I found it very interesting; and if, as you say, he did it for mybenefit, he certainly succeeded in his aim." There were limits to thepatience of Elisabeth.
"Well, how women can listen to bosh of that kind I can not imagine! Whatcan it matter to you what he disbelieves or why he disbelieves it? Andit is beas
tly cheek of him to suppose that it can."
"But he is right in supposing it, and it does matter to me. I like toknow how old-fashioned truths accord or do not accord with modern phasesof thought."
"Modern phases of nonsense, you mean! Well, the old-fashioned truths aregood enough for me, and I'll stick to them, if you please, in spite ofMr. Tremaine's overwhelming arguments; and I should advise you to stickto them, too."
"Oh! Chris, I wish you wouldn't be so disagreeable." And Elisabethsighed. "It is so difficult to talk to you when you are like this."
"I'm not disagreeable," replied Christopher mendaciously; "only I cannot let you be taken in by a stuck-up fool without trying to open youreyes; I shouldn't be your friend if I could." And he actually believedthat this was the case. He forgot that it is not the trick offriendship, but of love, to make "a corner" in affection, and tomonopolize the whole stock of the commodity.
"You see," Elisabeth explained, "I am so frightfully modern, and yet Ihave been brought up in such a dreadfully old-fashioned way. It was allvery well for the last generation to accept revealed truth withoutunderstanding it, but it won't do for us."
"Why not?"
"Oh! because we are young and modern."
"So were they at one time, and we shall not be so for long."
Elisabeth sighed again. "How difficult you are! Of course, the sort ofreligion that did for Cousin Maria and Mr. Smallwood won't do for Mr.Tremaine and me. Can't you see that?"
"I can not, I am sorry to say."
"Their religion had no connection with their intellects."
"Still, it changed their hearts, which I have heard is no unimportantoperation."
"They accepted what they were told without trying to understand it,"Elisabeth continued, "which is not, after all, a high form of faith."
"Indeed. I should have imagined that it was the highest."
"But can't you see that to accept blindly what you are told is not halfso great as to sift it all, and to separate the chaff from the wheat,and to find the kernel of truth in the shell of tradition?" Elisabethhad not talked to Alan Tremaine for over a year without learning histricks of thought and even of expression. "Don't you think that it isbetter to believe a little with the whole intellect than a great dealapart from it?"
Christopher looked obstinate. "I can't and don't."
"Have you no respect for 'honest doubt'?"
"Honest bosh!"
Elisabeth's face flushed. "You really are too rude for anything."
Christopher was penitent at once; he could not bear really to vex her."I am sorry if I was rude; but it riles me to hear you quotingTremaine's platitudes by the yard--such rotten platitudes as they are,too!"
"You don't do Mr. Tremaine justice, Chris. Even though he may haveoutgrown the old faiths, he is a very good man; and he has such lovelythoughts about truth and beauty and love and things like that."
"His thoughts are nothing but empty windbags; for he is the type of manwho is too ignorant to accept truth, too blind to appreciate beauty, andtoo selfish to be capable of loving any woman as a woman ought to beloved."
"I think his ideas about love are quite ideal," persisted the girl."Only yesterday he was abusing the selfishness of men in general, andsaying that a man who is really in love thinks of the woman he loves aswell as of himself."
"He said that, did he? Then he was mistaken."
Elisabeth looked surprised. "Then don't you agree with him that a man inlove thinks of the woman as well as of himself?"
"No; I don't. A man who is really in love never thinks of himself atall, but only of the woman. It strikes me that Master Alan Tremaineknows precious little about the matter."
"I think he knows a great deal. He said that love was the discovery ofthe one woman whereof all other women were but types. That really was asweet thing to say!"
"My dear Betty, you know no more about the matter than he does. Fallingin love doesn't merely mean that a man has found a woman who is dearerto him than all other women, but that he has found a woman who is dearerto him than himself."
Elisabeth changed her ground. "I admit that he isn't what you mightcall orthodox," she said--"not the sort of man who would clothe himselfin the rubric, tied on with red tape; but though he may not be aChristian, as we count Christianity, he believes with all his heart inan overruling Power which makes for righteousness."
"That is very generous of him," retorted Christopher; "still, I can notfor the life of me see that the possession of three or four thousand ayear, without the trouble of earning it, gives a man the right topatronize the Almighty."
"You are frightfully narrow, Chris."
"I know I am, and I am thankful for it. I had rather be as narrow as aplumbing-line than indulge in the sickly latitudinarianism that such menas Tremaine nickname breadth."
"Oh! I am tired of arguing with you; you are too stupid for anything."
"But you haven't been arguing--you have only been quoting Tremaineverbatim; and that that may be tiring I can well believe."
"Well, you can call it what you like; but by any other name it willirritate you just as much, because you have such a horrid temper. Yourreligion may be very orthodox, but I can not say much for its improvingqualities; it is the crossest, nastiest, narrowest, disagreeablest sortof religion that I ever came across."
And Elisabeth walked away in high dudgeon, leaving Christopher veryangry with himself for having been disagreeable, and still angrier withTremaine for having been the reverse.
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