The Farringdons

by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler

  CHAPTER X

  CHANGES

  Why did you take all I said for certain When I so gleefully threw the glove? Couldn't you see that I made a curtain Out of my laughter to hide my love?

  "My dear," said Miss Farringdon, when Elisabeth came down one morning tobreakfast, "there is sad news to-day."

  Miss Farringdon was never late in a morning. She regarded early risingas a virtue on a par with faith and charity; while to appear at thebreakfast-table after the breakfast itself had already appeared thereonwas, in her eyes, as the sin of witchcraft.

  "What is the matter?" asked Elisabeth, somewhat breathlessly. She hadrun downstairs at full speed in order to enter the dining-room beforethe dishes, completing her toilet as she fled; and she had only beatenthe bacon by a neck.

  "Richard Smallwood has had a paralytic stroke. Christopher sent up wordthe first thing this morning."

  "Oh! I am so sorry. Mr. Smallwood is such a dear old man, and used to beso kind to Christopher and me when we were little."

  "I am very sorry, too, Elisabeth. I have known Richard Smallwood all mylife, and he was a valued friend of my dear father's, as well as beinghis right hand in all matters of business. Both my father and unclethought very highly of Richard's opinion, and considered that they owedmuch of their commercial success to his advice and assistance."

  "Poor Christopher! I wonder if he will mind much?"

  "Of course he will mind, my dear. What a strange child you are, and whatpeculiar things you say! Mr. Smallwood is Christopher's only livingrelative, and when anything happens to him Christopher will be entirelyalone in the world. It is sad for any one to be quite alone; andespecially for young people, who have a natural craving forcompanionship and sympathy." Miss Farringdon sighed. She had spent mostof her life in the wilderness and on the mountain-tops, and she knew howcold was the climate and how dreary the prospect there.

  Elisabeth's eyes filled with tears, and her heart swelled with a strangenew feeling she had never felt before. For the first time in her lifeChristopher (unconsciously on his part) made a direct appeal to herpity, and her heart responded to the appeal. His perspective, from herpoint of view, was suddenly changed; he was no longer the kindly,easy-going comrade with whom she had laughed and quarrelled and made itup again ever since she could remember, and with whom she was on afooting of such familiar intimacy; instead, he had become a man standingin the shadow of a great sorrow, whose solitary grief commanded herrespect and at the same time claimed her tenderness. All throughbreakfast, and the prayers which followed, Elisabeth's thoughts ran onthis new Christopher, who was so much more interesting and yet so muchfarther off than the old one. She wondered how he would look and what hewould say when next she saw him; and she longed to see him again, andyet felt frightened at the thought of doing so. At prayers that morningMiss Farringdon read the lament of David over Saul and Jonathan; andwhile the words of undying pathos sounded in her ears, Elisabethwondered whether Christopher would mourn as David did if his uncle wereto die, and whether he would let her comfort him.

  When prayers were over, Miss Farringdon bade Elisabeth accompany her toMr. Smallwood's; and all the way there the girl's heart was beating sofast that it almost choked her, with mingled fear of and tenderness forthis new Christopher who had taken the place of her old playmate. Asthey sat waiting for him in the oak-panelled dining-room, a fresh waveof pity swept over Elisabeth as she realized for the first time--thoughshe had sat there over and over again--what a cheerless home this was inwhich to spend one's childhood and youth, and how pluckily Christopherhad always made the best of things, and had never confessed--even toher--what a dreary lot was his. Then he came downstairs; and as sheheard his familiar footstep crossing the hall her heart beat faster thanever, and there was a mist before her eyes; but when he entered the roomand shook hands, first with Miss Farringdon and then with her, she wasquite surprised to see that he looked very much as he always looked,only his face was pale and his eyes heavy for want of sleep; and hissmile was as kind as ever as it lighted upon her.

  "It is very good of you to come to me so quickly," he said, addressingMiss Farringdon but looking at Elisabeth.

  "Not at all, Christopher," replied Miss Maria; "those who have friendsmust show themselves friendly, and your uncle has certainly provedhimself of the sort that sticketh closer than a brother. No son couldhave done more for my father--no brother could have done more forme--than he has done; and therefore his affliction is my affliction, andhis loss is my loss."

  "You are very kind." And Christopher's voice shook a little.

  Elisabeth did not speak. She was struggling with a feeling ofuncontrollable shyness which completely tied her usually fluent tongue.

  "Is he very ill?" Miss Farringdon asked.

  "Yes," Christopher replied, "I'm afraid it's a bad job altogether. Thedoctor thinks he will last only a few days; but if he lives he willnever regain the use of his speech or of his brain; and I don't knowthat life under such conditions is a boon to be desired."

  "I do not think it is. Yet we poor mortals long to keep our beloved oneswith us, even though it is but the semblance of their former selves thatremain."

  Christopher did not answer. There suddenly rushed over him the memory ofall that his uncle had been to him, and of how that uncle still treatedhim as a little child; and with it came the consciousness that, when hisuncle was gone, nobody would ever treat him as a little child any more.Life is somewhat dreary when the time comes for us to be grown-up toeverybody; so Christopher looked (and did not see) out of the window,instead of speaking.

  "Of course," Miss Farringdon continued, "you will take his place, shouldhe be--as I fear is inevitable--unable to resume work at theOsierfield; and I have such a high opinion of you, Christopher, that Ihave no doubt you will do your uncle's work as well as he has done it,and there could not be higher praise. Nevertheless, it saddens me toknow that another of the old landmarks has been swept away, and that nowI only am left of what used to be the Osierfield forty years ago. Thework may be done as well by the new hands and brains as by the old ones;but after one has crossed the summit of the mountain and begun to godownhill, it is sorry work exchanging old lamps for new. The new lampsmay give brighter light, perchance; but their light is too strong fortired old eyes; and we grow homesick for the things to which we areaccustomed." And Miss Farringdon took off her spectacles and wiped them.

  There was silence for a few seconds, while Christopher manfullystruggled with his feelings and Miss Maria decorously gave vent to hers.Christopher was vexed with himself for so nearly breaking down beforeElisabeth, and throwing the shadow of his sorrow across the sunshine ofher path. He did not know that the mother-heart in her was yearning overhim with a tenderness almost too powerful to be resisted, and that hisweakness was constraining her as his strength had never done. He wasrather surprised that she did not speak to him; but with the patientsimplicity of a strong man he accepted her behaviour without questioningit. Her mere presence in the room somehow changed everything, and madehim feel that no world which contained Elisabeth could ever be anentirely sorrowful world. Of course he knew nothing about the newChristopher which had suddenly arisen above Elisabeth's horizon; he wasfar too masculine to understand that his own pathos could be pathetic,or his own suffering dramatic. It is only women--or men who have much ofthe woman in their composition--who can say:

  "Here I and sorrow sit, This is my throne; let kings come bow to it."

  The thoroughly manly man is incapable of seeing the picturesque effectof his own misery.

  So Christopher pulled himself together and tried to talk of trivialthings; and Miss Farringdon, having walked through the dark valleyherself, knew the comfort of the commonplace therein, and fell in withhis mood, discussing nurses and remedies and domestic arrangements andthe like. Elisabeth, however, was distinctly disappointed inChristopher, because he could bring himself down to dwell upon thesetrifling matters when the Angel of Death had crossed the li
ntel of hisdoorway only last night, and was still hovering round with overshadowingwings. It was just like him, she said to herself, to give his attentionto surface details, and to miss the deeper thing. She had yet to learnthat it was because he felt so much, and not because he felt so little,that Christopher found it hard to utter the inmost thoughts of hisheart.

  But when Miss Farringdon had made every possible arrangement for Mr.Smallwood's comfort, and they rose to leave, Elisabeth's heart smote herfor her passing impatience; so she lingered behind after her cousin hadleft the room, and, slipping her hand into Christopher's, shewhispered--

  "Chris, dear, I'm so dreadfully sorry!"

  It was a poor little speech for the usually eloquent Elisabeth to make;in cold blood she herself would have been ashamed of it; but Christopherwas quite content. For a second he forgot that he had decided not tolet Elisabeth know that he loved her until he was in a position to marryher, and he very nearly took her in his strong arms and kissed her thereand then; but before he had time to do this, his good angel (or perhapshis bad one, for it is often difficult to ascertain how one's twoguardian spirits divide their work) reminded him that it was his duty toleave Elisabeth free to live her own life, unhampered by the knowledgeof a love which might possibly find no fulfilment in this world wheremoney is considered the one thing needful; so he merely returned thepressure of her hand, and said in a queer, strained sort of voice--

  "Thanks awfully, dear. It isn't half so rough on a fellow when he knowsyou are sorry." And Elisabeth also was content.

  Contrary to the doctor's expectations, Richard Smallwood did not die: hehad lost all power of thought or speech, and never regained them, butlived on for years a living corpse; and the burden of his illness layheavily on Christopher's young shoulders. Life was specially dark topoor Christopher just then. His uncle's utter break-down effectuallyclosed the door on all chances of escape from the drudgery of theOsierfield to a higher and wider sphere; for, until now, he hadcontinued to hope against hope that he might induce that uncle to starthim in some other walk of life, where the winning of Elisabeth wouldenter into the region of practical politics. But now all chance of thiswas over; Richard Smallwood was beyond the reach of the entreaties andarguments which hitherto he had so firmly resisted. There was nothingleft for Christopher to do but to step into his uncle's shoes, and tryto make the best of his life as general manager of the Osierfield,handicapped still further by the charge of that uncle, which made itimpossible for him to dream of bringing home a wife to the big old housein the High Street.

  There was only one drop of sweetness in the bitterness of his cup--oneray of light in the darkness of his outlook; and that was theconsciousness that he could still go on seeing and loving and servingElisabeth, although he might never be able to tell her he was doing so.He hoped that she would understand; but here he was too sanguine;Elisabeth was as yet incapable of comprehending any emotion until shehad seen it reduced to a prescription.

  So Christopher lived on in the gloomy house, and looked after his uncleas tenderly as a mother looks after a sick child. To all intents andpurposes Richard was a child again; he could not speak or think, but hestill loved his nephew, the only one of his own flesh and blood; and hesmiled like a child every time that Christopher came into his room, andcried like a child ever; time that Christopher went away.

  Elisabeth was very sorry for Christopher at first, and very tendertoward him; but after a time the coldness, which he felt it his duty toshow toward her in the changed state of affairs, had its natural effect,and she decided that it was foolish to waste her sympathy upon any onewho obviously needed and valued it so little. Moreover, she had notforgotten that strange, new feeling which disturbed her heart themorning after Mr. Smallwood was taken ill; and she experienced, halfunconsciously, a thoroughly feminine resentment against the man who hadcalled into being such an emotion, and then apparently had found no usefor it. So Elisabeth in her heart of hearts was at war withChristopher--that slumbering, smouldering sort of warfare which isready to break out into fire and battle at the slightest provocation;and this state of affairs did not tend to make life any the easier forhim. He felt he could have cheerfully borne it all if only Elisabeth hadbeen kind and had understood; but Elisabeth did not understand him inthe least, and was consequently unkind--far more unkind than she, in hercareless, light-hearted philosophy, dreamed of.

  She, too, had her disappointments to bear just then. The artist-soul inher had grown up, and was crying out for expression; and she vainlyprayed her cousin to let her go to the Slade School, and there learn todevelop the power that was in her. But Miss Farringdon belonged to thegeneration which regarded art purely as a recreation--such asfancy-work, croquet, and the like--and she considered that young womenshould be trained for the more serious things of life; by which shemeant the ordering of suitable dinners for the rich and themanufacturing of seemly garments for the poor. So Elisabeth had toendure the agony which none but an artist can know--the agony of beingdumb when one has an angel-whispered secret to tell forth--of beingbound hand and foot when one has a God-sent message to write upon thewall.

  Now and then Miss Maria took her young cousin up to town for a fewweeks, and thus Elisabeth came to have a bowing acquaintanceship withLondon; but of London as an ever-fascinating, never-wearying friend sheknew nothing. There are people who tell us that "London is delightful inthe season," and that "the country is very pretty in the summer," and wesmile at them as a man would smile at those who said that his mother was"a pleasant person," or his heart's dearest "a charming girl." Thosewho know London and the country, as London and the country deserve to beknown, do not talk in this way, for they have learned that there is noend to the wonder or the interest or the mystery of either.

  The year following Richard Smallwood's break-down, a new interest cameinto Elisabeth's life. A son and heir was born at the Moat House; andElisabeth was one of the women who are predestined to the worship ofbabies. Very tightly did the tiny fingers twine themselves round hersomewhat empty heart; for Elisabeth was meant to love much, and atpresent her supply of the article was greatly in excess of the demandmade upon it. So she poured the surplus--which no one else seemed toneed--upon the innocent head of Felicia's baby; and she found that thebaby never misjudged her nor disappointed her, as older people seemed soapt to do. One of her most devout fellow-worshippers was Mrs. Herbert,who derived comfort from the fact that little Willie was not ashamed ofher as little Willie's mother was; so--like many a disappointed womanbefore them--both Mrs. Herbert and Elisabeth discovered the healingpower which lies in the touch of a baby's hand. Felicia loved the child,too, in her way; but she was of the type of woman to whom the husband isalways dearer than the children. But Alan's cup was filled tooverflowing, and he loved his son as he loved his own soul.

  One of Christopher's expedients for hiding the meditations of his heartfrom Elisabeth's curious eyes was the discussion with her of what peoplecall "general subjects"; and this tried her temper to the utmost. Sheregarded it as a sign of superficiality to talk of superficial things;and she hardly ever went in to dinner with a man without arriving atthe discussion of abstract love and the second _entree_ simultaneously.It had never yet dawned upon her that as a rule it is because one hasnot experienced a feeling that one is able to describe it; she reasonedin the contrary direction, and came to the conclusion that those personshave no hearts at all whose sleeves are unadorned with the same.Therefore it was intolerable to her when Christopher--who had playedwith her as a child, and had once very nearly made her grow up into awoman--talked to her about the contents of the newspapers.

  "I never look at the papers," she answered crossly one day, in reply tosome unexceptionable and uninteresting comment of his upon such historyas was just then in the raw material; "I hate them."

  "Why do you hate them?" Christopher was surprised at her vehemence.

  "Because there is cholera in the South of France, and I never look atthe papers when there is cholera about, it frightens m
e so." Elisabethhad all the pity of a thoroughly healthy person for the suffering thatcould not touch her, and the unreasoning terror of a thoroughly healthyperson for the suffering which could.

  "But there is nothing to frighten you in that," said Christopher, in hismost comforting tone; "France is such a beastly dirty hole that they arebound to have diseases going on there, such as could never troubleclean, local-boarded, old England. And then it's so far away, too. I'dnever worry about that, if I were you."

  "Wouldn't you?" Elisabeth was at war with him, but she was notinsensible to the consolation he never failed to afford her when thingswent wrong.

  "Good gracious, no! England is so well looked after, with countycouncils and such, that even if an epidemic came here they'd stamp itout like one o'clock. Don't frighten yourself with bogeys, Elisabeth,there's a good girl!"

  "I feel just the same about newspapers now that I used to feel aboutLalla Rookh," said Elisabeth confidentially.

  Christopher was puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't see quite the connection,but I have no doubt it is there, like Mrs. Wilfer's petticoat."

  "In Cousin Maria's copy of Lalla Rookh there is a most awful picture ofthe Veiled Prophet of Khorassan; and when I was little I went nearly madwith terror of that picture. I used to go and look at it when nobody wasabout, and it frightened me more and more every time."

  "Why on earth didn't you tell me about it?"

  "I don't know. I felt I wouldn't tell anybody for worlds, but must keepit a ghastly secret. Sometimes I used to hide the book, and try toforget where I'd hidden it. But I never could forget, and in the end Ialways went and found it, and peeped at the picture and nearly died ofterror. The mere outside of the book had a horrible fascination for me.I used to look at it all the time I was in the drawing-room, and thenpretend I wasn't looking at it; yet if the housemaid had moved it aninch in dusting the table where it lay, I always knew."

  "Poor little silly child! If only you'd have told me, I'd have askedMiss Farringdon to put it away where you couldn't get at it."

  "But I couldn't have told you, Chris--I couldn't have told anybody.There seemed to be some terrible bond between that dreadful book and mewhich I was bound to keep secret. Of course it doesn't frighten me anylonger, though I shall always hate it; but the newspapers frighten mejust in the same way when there are horrible things in them."

  "Why, Betty, I am ashamed of you! And such a clever girl as you, too, tobe taken in by the romancing of penny-a-liners! They always make theworst of things in newspapers in order to sell them."

  "Oh! then you think things aren't as bad as newspapers say?"

  "Nothing like; but they must write something for people to read, and themore sensational it is the better people like it."

  Elisabeth was comforted; and she never knew that Christopher did notleave the house that day without asking Miss Farringdon if, for a fewweeks, the daily paper might be delivered at the works and sent up tothe Willows afterward, as he wanted to see the trade-reports the firstthing in the morning. This was done; and sometimes Christopherremembered to send the papers on to the house, and sometimes he did not.On these latter occasions Miss Farringdon severely reproved him, andtold him that he would never be as capable a man as his uncle had been,if he did not endeavour to cultivate his memory; whereat Chris wasinwardly tickled, but was outwardly very penitent and apologetic,promising to try to be less forgetful in future. And he kept his word;for not once--while the epidemic in the South of France lasted--did heforget to forget to send the newspaper up to the Willows when there wasanything in it calculated to alarm the most timid reader.

  "Cousin Maria," said Elisabeth, a few days after this, "I hear thatCoulson's circus is coming to Burlingham, and I want to go and see it."

  Miss Farringdon looked up over the tops of her gold-rimmed spectacles."Do you, my dear? Well, I see no reason why you should not. I have beenbrought up to disapprove of theatres, and I always shall disapprove ofthem; but I confess I have never seen any harm in going to a circus."

  It is always interesting to note where people draw the line betweenright and wrong in dealing with forms of amusement; and it is doubtfulwhether two separate lines are ever quite identical in their curves.

  "Christopher could take me," Elisabeth continued; "and if he couldn't,I'm sure Alan would."

  "I should prefer you to go with Christopher, my dear; he is morethoughtful and dependable than Alan Tremaine. I always feel perfectlyhappy about you when you have Christopher to take care of you."

  Elisabeth laughed her cousin to scorn. She did not want anybody to takecare of her, she thought; she was perfectly able to take care ofherself. But Miss Farringdon belonged to a time when single women offorty were supposed to require careful supervision; and Elisabeth wasbut four-and-twenty.

  Christopher, when consulted, fell into the arrangement with alacrity;and it was arranged for him to take Elisabeth over to Burlingham on theone day that Coulson's circus was on exhibition there. Elisabeth lookedforward to the treat like a child; for she was by nature extremely fondof pleasure, and by circumstance little accustomed to it.

  Great then was her disappointment when the morning of the day arrived,to receive a short note from Christopher saying that he was extremelysorry to inconvenience her, but that his business engagements made itimpossible for him to take her to Burlingham that day; and addingvarious apologies and hopes that she would not be too angry with him.She had so few treats that her disappointment at losing one was reallyacute for the moment; but what hurt her far more than the disappointmentwas the consciousness that Chris had obeyed the calls of business ratherthan her behest--had thought less of her pleasure than of the claims ofthe Osierfield. All Elisabeth's pride (or was it her vanity?) rose up inarms at the slight which Christopher had thus put upon her; and she feltangrier with him than she had ever felt with anybody in her life before.She began to pour out the vials of her wrath in the presence of MissFarringdon; but that good lady was so much pleased to find a young manwho cared more for business than for pleasure, or even for a youngwoman, that she accorded Elisabeth but scant sympathy. So Elisabethpossessed her wounded soul in extreme impatience, until such time as theoffender himself should appear upon the scene, ready to receive thosevials which had been specially prepared for his destruction.

  He duly appeared about tea-time, and found Elisabeth consuming the smokeof her anger in the garden.

  "I hope you are not very angry with me," he began in a humble tone,sitting down beside her on the old rustic seat; "but I found myselfobliged to disappoint you as soon as I got to the works this morning;and I am sure you know me well enough to understand that it wasn't myfault, and that I couldn't help myself."

  "I don't know you well enough for anything of the kind," repliedElisabeth, flashing a pair of very bright eyes upon his discomfitedface; "but I know you well enough to understand that you are just amass of selfishness and horridness, and that you care for nothing butjust what interests and pleases yourself."

  Christopher was startled. "Elisabeth, you don't mean that; you know youdon't."

  "Yes; I do. I mean that I have always hated you, and that I hate youmore than ever to-day. It was just like you to care more for thebusiness than you did for me, and never to mind about my disappointmentas long as that nasty old ironworks was satisfied. I tell you I hateyou, and I hate the works, and I hate everything connected with you."

  Christopher looked utterly astonished. He had no idea, he said tohimself, that Elisabeth cared so much about going to Coulson's circus;and he could not see anything in the frustration of a day's excursion toaccount for such a storm of indignation as this. He did not realize thatit was the rage of a monarch whose kingdom was in a state of rebellion,and whose dominion seemed in danger of slipping away altogether.Elisabeth might not understand Christopher; but Christopher was notalways guiltless of misunderstanding Elisabeth.

  "And it was just like you," Elisabeth went on, "not to let me know tillthe last minute, when it was too late for anything to be don
e. If youhad only had the consideration--I may say the mere civility--to sendword last night that your royal highness could not be bothered with meand my affairs to-day, I could have arranged with Alan Tremaine to takeme. He is always able to turn his attention for a time from his ownpleasure to other people's."

  "But I thought I told you that it was not until I got to the works thismorning that I discovered it would be impossible for me to take you toBurlingham to-day."

  "Then you ought to have found it out sooner."

  "Hang it all! I really can not find out things before they occur. Cleveras I am, I am not quite clever enough for that. If I were, I should soonmake my own fortune by telling other people theirs."

  But Elisabeth was too angry to be flippant. "The fact is you care fornothing but yourself and your horrid old business. I always told you howit would be."

  "You did. For whatever faults you may have to blame yourself,over-indulgence toward mine will never be one of them. You can make yourconscience quite clear on that score." Christopher was as determined totreat the quarrel lightly as Elisabeth was to deal with it on seriousgrounds.

  "You have grown into a regular, commonplace, money-grubbing, businessman, with no thoughts for anything higher than making iron and money andvulgar things like that."

  "And making you angry--that is a source of distinct pleasure to me. Youhave no idea how charming you are when you are--well, for the sake ofeuphony we will say slightly ruffled, Miss Elisabeth Farringdon."

  Elisabeth stamped her foot. "I wish to goodness you'd be serioussometimes! Frivolity is positively loathsome in a man."

  "Then I repent it in dust and ashes, and shall rely upon your moresedate and serious mind to correct this tendency in me. Besides, as yougenerally blame me for erring in the opposite direction, it is a reliefto find you smiting me on the other cheek as a change. It keeps up mymental circulation better."

  "You are both too frivolous and too serious."

  Christopher was unwise enough to laugh. "My dear child, I seem to makewhat is called 'a corner' in vices; but even I can not reconcile theconflicting ones."

  Then Elisabeth's anger settled down into the quiet stage. "If you thinkit gentlemanly to disappoint a lady and then insult her, pray go ondoing so; I can only say that I don't."

  "What on earth do you mean, Elisabeth? Do you really believe that Imeant to vex you?" The laughter had entirely died out of Christopher'sface, and his voice was hoarse.

  "I don't know what you meant, and I am afraid I don't much mind. All Iknow is that you did disappoint me and did insult me, and that is enoughfor me. The purity of your motives is not my concern; I merely resentthe impertinence of your behaviour."

  Christopher rose from his seat; he was serious enough now. "You areunjust to me, Elisabeth, but I can not and will not attempt to justifymyself. Good afternoon."

  For a second the misery on his face penetrated the thunder-clouds ofElisabeth's indignation. "Won't you have some tea before you go?" sheasked. It seemed brutal--even to her outraged feelings--to send so old afriend empty away.

  Christopher's smile was very bitter as he answered. "No, thank you. I amafraid, after the things you have said to me, I should hardly be ablegraciously to accept hospitality at your hands; and rather than acceptit ungraciously, I will not accept it at all." And he turned on hisheel and left her.

  As she watched his retreating figure, one spasm of remorse shot throughElisabeth's heart; but it was speedily stifled by the recollection that,for the first time in her life, Christopher had failed her, and hadshown her plainly that there were, in his eyes, more important mattersthan Miss Elisabeth Farringdon and her whims and fancies. And whatwoman, worthy of the name, could extend mercy to a man who had openlydisplayed so flagrant a want of taste and discernment as this? Certainlynot Elisabeth, nor any other fashioned after her pattern. She felt thatshe had as much right to be angry as had the prophet, when AlmightyWisdom saw fit to save the great city in which he was not particularlyinterested, and to destroy the gourd in which he was. And so, probably,she had.

  For several days after this she kept clear of Christopher, nursing heranger in her heart; and he was so hurt and sore from the lashing whichher tongue had given him, that he felt no inclination to come within theradius of that tongue's bitterness again.

  But one day, when Elisabeth was sitting on the floor of the Moat Housedrawing-room, playing with the baby and discussing new gowns withFelicia between times, Alan came in and remarked--

  "It was wise of you to give up your excursion to Coulson's circus lastweek, Elisabeth; as it has turned out it was chiefly a scare, and thecase was greatly exaggerated; but it might have made you feeluncomfortable if you had gone. I suppose you saw the notice of theoutbreak in that morning's paper, and so gave it up at the lastmoment."

  Elisabeth ceased from her free translation of the baby's gurglings andher laudable endeavours suitably to reply to the same, and gave herwhole attention to the baby's father. "I don't know what you mean. Whatscare and what outbreak are you talking about?"

  "Didn't you see," replied Alan, "that there was an outbreak of choleraat Coulson's circus, and a frightful scare all through Burlingham inconsequence? Of course the newspapers greatly exaggerated the danger,and so increased the scare; and I don't know that I blame them for that.I am not sure that the sensational way in which the press announcespossible dangers to the community is not a safeguard for the communityat large. To be alive to a danger is nine times out of ten to avoid adanger; and it is far better to be more frightened than hurt than to bemore hurt than frightened--certainly for communities if not forindividuals."

  "But tell me about it. I never saw any account in the papers; and I'mglad I didn't, for it would have frightened me out of my wits."

  "It broke out among a troupe of acrobats who had just come straight fromthe South of France, and evidently brought the infection with them. Theywere at once isolated, and such prompt and efficient measures were takento prevent the spread of the disease, that there have been no morecases, either in the circus or in the town. Now, I should imagine, alldanger of its spreading is practically over; but, of course, it madeeverybody in the neighbourhood, and everybody who had been to thecircus, very nervous and uncomfortable for a few days. The localauthorities, however, omitted no possible precaution which should assistthem in stamping out the epidemic, should those few cases have startedan epidemic--which was, of course, possible, though hardly likely."

  And then Alan proceeded to expound his views on the matter of sanitaryauthorities in general and of those of Burlingham in particular, towhich Felicia listened with absorbing attention and Elisabeth did notlisten at all.

  Soon after this she took her leave; and all along the homeward walkthrough Badgering Woods she was conscious of feeling ashamed ofherself--a very rare sensation with Elisabeth, and by no means anagreeable one. She was by nature so self-reliant and so irresponsiblethat she seldom regretted anything that she had done; if she had actedwisely, all was well; and if she had not acted wisely, it was over anddone with, and what was the use of bothering any more about it? This washer usual point of view, and it proved as a rule a most comfortable one.But now she could not fail to see that she had been in thewrong--hopelessly and flagrantly in the wrong--and that she had behavedabominably to Christopher into the bargain. She had to climb down, asother ruling powers have had to climb down before now; and the act ofclimbing down is neither a becoming nor an exhilarating form of exerciseto ruling powers. But at the back of her humble contrition there was afeeling of gladness in the knowledge that Christopher had not reallyfailed her after all, and that her kingdom was still her own as it hadbeen in her childish days; and there was also a nobler feeling of higherjoy in the consciousness that--quite apart from his attitude towardher--Christopher was still the Christopher that she had always in herinmost soul believed him to be; that she was not wrong in the idea shehad formed of him long ago. It is very human to be glad on our ownaccount when people are as fond of us as we expected th
em to be; but itis divine to be glad, solely for their sakes, when they act up to theirown ideals, quite apart from us. And there was a touch of divinity inElisabeth's gladness just then, though the rest of her was extremelyhuman--and feminine at that.

  On her way home she encountered Caleb Bateson going back to work afterdinner, and she told him to ask Mr. Thornley to come up to the Willowsthat afternoon, as she wanted to see him. She preferred to send a verbalmessage, as by so doing she postponed for a few hours that climbing-downprocess which she so much disliked; although it is frequently easier toclimb down by means of one's pen than by means of one's tongue.

  Christopher felt no pleasure in receiving her message. He was not angrywith her, although he marvelled at the unreasonableness and injustice ofa sex that thinks more of a day's pleasure than a life's devotion; hedid not know that it was over the life's devotion and not the day'spleasure that Elisabeth had fought so hard that day; but his encounterwith her had strangely tired him, and taken the zest out of his life,and he had no appetite for any more of such disastrous and ingloriouswarfare.

  But he obeyed her mandate all the same, having learned the importantpolitical lesson that the fact of a Government's being in the wrong isno excuse for not obeying the orders of that Government; and he waitedfor her in the drawing-room at the Willows, looking out toward thesunset and wondering how hard upon him Elisabeth was going to be. Andhis thoughts were so full of her that he did not hear her come into theroom until she clasped both her hands round his arm and looked up intohis gloomy face, saying--

  "Oh! Chris, I'm so dreadfully ashamed of myself."

  The clouds were dispelled at once, and Christopher smiled as he had notsmiled for a week. "Never mind," he said, patting the hands that were onhis arm; "it's all right."

  But Elisabeth, having set out upon the descent, was prepared to climbdown handsomely. "It isn't all right; it's all wrong. I was simplyfiendish to you, and I shall never forgive myself--never."

  "Oh, yes; you will. And for goodness' sake don't worry over it. I'm gladyou have found out that I wasn't quite the selfish brute that I seemed;and that's the end of the matter."

  "Dear me! no; it isn't. It is only the beginning. I want to tell you howdreadfully sorry I am, and to ask you to forgive me."

  "I've nothing to forgive."

  "Yes, you have; lots." And Elisabeth was nearer the mark thanChristopher.

  "I haven't. Of course you were angry with me when I seemed sodisagreeable and unkind; any girl would have been," replied Chris,forgetting how very unreasonable her anger had seemed only five minutesago. But five minutes can make such a difference--sometimes.

  Elisabeth cheerfully caught at this straw of comfort; she was alwaysready to take a lenient view of her own shortcomings. If Christopher hadbeen wise he would not have encouraged such leniency; but who is wiseand in love at the same time?

  "Of course it did seem rather unkind of you," she admitted; "you see, Ithought you had thrown me over just for the sake of some tiresomebusiness arrangement, and that you didn't care about me and mydisappointment a bit."

  A little quiver crept into Christopher's voice. "I think you might haveknown me better than that."

  "Yes, I might; in fact, I ought to have done," agreed Elisabeth withsome truth. "But why didn't you tell me the real reason?"

  "Because I thought it might worry and frighten you. Not that therereally was anything to be frightened about," Christopher hastened toadd; "but you might have imagined things, and been upset; you have sucha tremendous imagination, you know."

  "I'm afraid I have; and it sometimes imagines vain things at yourexpense, Chris dear."

  "How did you find me out?" Chris asked.

  "Alan told me about the cholera scare at Burlingham, and I guessed therest."

  "Then Alan was an ass. What business had he to go frightening you, Ishould like to know, with a lot of fiction that is just trumped up tosell the papers?"

  "But, Chris, I want you to understand how sorry I am that I was so vileto you. I really was vile, wasn't I?" Elisabeth was the type of womanfor whom the confessional will always have its fascinations.

  "You were distinctly down on me, I must confess; but you needn't worryabout that now."

  "And you quite forgive me?"

  "As I said before, I've nothing to forgive. You were perfectly right tobe annoyed with a man who appeared to be so careless and inconsiderate;but I'm glad you've found out that I wasn't quite as selfish as youthought."

  Elisabeth stroked his coat sleeve affectionately. "You are not selfishat all, Chris; you're simply the nicest, thoughtfullest, most unselfishperson in the world; and I'm utterly wretched because I was so unkind toyou."

  "Don't be wretched, there's a dear! Your wretchedness is the one thing Ican't and won't stand; so please leave off at once."

  To Christopher remorse for wrong done would always be an agony; he hadyet to learn that to some temperaments, whereof Elisabeth's was one, itpartook of the nature of a luxury--the sort of luxury which tempts oneto pay half a guinea to be allowed to swell up one's eyes and reddenone's nose over imaginary woes in a London theatre.

  "Did you mind very much when I was so cross?" Elisabeth askedthoughtfully.

  Christopher was torn between a loyal wish to do homage to his idol and alaudable desire to save that idol pain. "Of course I minded prettyconsiderably; but why bother about that now?"

  "Because it interests me immensely. I often think that your only faultis that you don't mind things enough; and so, naturally, I want to findout how great your minding capacity is."

  "I see. Your powers of scientific research are indeed remarkable; butdid it never strike you that even vivisection might be carried toofar--too far for the comfort of the vivisected, I mean; not for theenjoyment of the vivisector?"

  "It is awfully good for people to feel things," persisted Elisabeth.

  "Is it? Well, I suppose it is good--in fact, necessary--for some poorbeggars to have their arms or legs cut off; but you can't expect me tobe consumed with envy of the same?"

  "Please tell me how much you minded," Elisabeth coaxed.

  "I can't tell you; and I wouldn't if I could. If I were a rabbit thathad been cut into living pieces to satisfy the scientific yearnings of alearned professor, do you think I would leave behind me--for myexecutors to publish and make large fortunes thereby--confidentialletters and private diaries accurately describing all the tortures I hadendured, for the recreation of the reading public in general and thesaid professor in particular? Not I."

  "I should. I should leave a full, true, and particular account of allthat I had suffered, and exactly how much it hurt. It would interest theprofessor most tremendously."

  Christopher shook his head. "Oh, dear! no; it wouldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I should have knocked his brains out long before that forhaving dared to hurt you at all."