CHAPTER XII
"THE DAUGHTERS OF PHILIP"
In the market-place alone Stood the statue carved in stone, Watching children round her feet Playing marbles in the street: When she tried to join their play They in terror fled away.
Christopher went to Australia in search of George Farringdon's son, andElisabeth stayed in England and cherished bitter thoughts in her heartconcerning him. That imagination of hers--which was always prone to leadher astray--bore most terribly false witness against Christopher justthen. It portrayed him as a hard, self-righteous man, ready to sacrificethe rest of mankind to the Moloch of what he considered to be his ownparticular duty and spiritual welfare, and utterly indifferent as to howsevere was the suffering entailed on the victims of this sacrifice. And,as Christopher was not at hand to refute the charges of Elisabeth'slibellous fancy by his own tender and unselfish personality, the accusertook advantage of his absence to blacken him more and more.
It was all in a piece with the rest of his character, she said toherself; he had always been cold and hard and self-contained. When hishouse had been left unto him desolate by the stroke which changed hisuncle from a wise and kindly companion into a helpless and peevishchild, she had longed to help and comfort him with her sympathy; and hehad thrown it back in her face. He was too proud and too superior tocare for human affection, she supposed; and now he felt no hesitation infirst forsaking her, and then reducing her to poverty, if only by sodoing he could set himself still more firmly on the pedestal of his ownvirtue. So did Elisabeth's imagination traduce Christopher; andElisabeth listened and believed.
At first she was haunted by memories of how good he had been to her whenher cousin Maria died, and many a time before; and she used to dreamabout him at night with so much of the old trust and affection that ittook all the day to stamp out the fragrance of tenderness which herdreams had left behind. But after a time these dreams and memories grewfewer and less distinct, and she persuaded herself that Christopher hadnever been the true and devoted friend she had once imagined him to be,but that the kind and affectionate Chris of olden days had been merely acreature of her own invention. There was no one to plead his cause forhim, as he was far away, and appearances were on the side of hisaccuser; so he was tried in the court of Elisabeth's merciless youngjudgment, and sentenced to life-long banishment from the circle of herinterests and affections. She forgot how he had comforted her in the dayof her adversity. If he had allowed her to comfort him, she would haveremembered it forever; but he had not; and in this world men must beprepared to take the consequences of their own mistakes, even thoughthose mistakes be made through excess of devotion to another person.
In certain cases it may be necessary to pluck out the right eye and cutoff the right hand; but there is no foundation for supposing that theoperation will be any the less painful because of the righteous motiveinducing it. And so Christopher Thornley learned by bitter experience,when, after many days, he returned from a fruitless search for themissing heir, to find the countenance of Elisabeth utterly changedtoward him. She was quite civil to him--quite polite; she neverattempted to argue or quarrel with him as she had done in the old days,and she listened patiently to all the details of his doings inAustralia; but with gracious coldness she quietly put him outside theorbit of her life, and showed him plainly that he was now nothing moreto her than her trustee and the general manager of her works.
It was hard on Christopher--cruelly hard; yet he had no alternative butto accept the position which Elisabeth, in the blindness of her heart,assigned to him. Sometimes he felt the burden of his lot was almost morethan he could bear; not because of its heaviness, as he was a brave manand a patient one, but because of the utter absence of any joy in hislife. Men and women can endure much sorrow if they have much joy aswell; it is when sorrow comes and there is no love to lighten it, thatthe Hand of God lies heavy upon them; and It lay heavy uponChristopher's soul just then. Sometimes, when he felt weary unto deathof the dreary routine of work and the still drearier routine of hisuncle's sick-room, he recalled with a bitter smile how Elisabeth used tosay that the gloom and smoke of the furnaces was really a pillar ofcloud to show how God was watching over the people at the Osierfield asHe watched over them in the wilderness. Because she had forgotten to begracious to him, he concluded that God had forgotten to be gracious tohim also--a not uncommon error of human wisdom; but though his heart waswounded and his days darkened by her injustice toward him, he neverblamed her, even in his inmost thoughts. He was absolutely loyal toElisabeth.
One grim consolation he had--and that was the conviction that he had notwon, and never could have won, Elisabeth's love; and that, therefore,poverty or riches were matters of no moment to him. Had he felt thattemporal circumstances were the only bar between him and happiness, hisposition as her paid manager would have been unendurable; but now shehad taught him that it was he himself, and not any difference in theirrespective social positions, which really stood between herself and him;and, that being so, nothing else had any power to hurt him. Wealth,unshared by Elisabeth, would have been no better than want, he said tohimself; success, uncrowned by her, would have been equivalent tofailure. When Christopher was in Australia he succeeded in tracingGeorge Farringdon as far as Broken Hill, and there he found poorGeorge's grave. He learned that George had left a widow and one son, whohad left the place immediately after George's death; but no one couldgive him any further information as to what had subsequently become ofthese two. And he was obliged at last to abandon the search and returnto England, without discovering what had happened to the widow andchild.
Some years after his nephew's fruitless journey to Australia RichardSmallwood died; and though the old man had been nothing but a burdenduring the last few years of his life, Christopher missed him sorelywhen he was gone. It was something even to have a childish old man tolove him, and smile at his coming; now there was nobody belonging tohim, and he was utterly alone.
But the years which had proved so dark to Christopher had been full ofbrightness and interest to Elisabeth. She had fulfilled her intention ofstudying at the Slade School, and she had succeeded in her work beyondher wildest expectations. She was already recognised as an artist of nomean order. Now and then she came down to the Willows, bringing GraceCobham with her; and the young women filled the house with company. Nowand then they two went abroad together, and satisfied their souls withthe beauty of the art of other lands. But principally they lived inLondon, for the passion to be near the centre of things had come uponElisabeth; and when once that comes upon any one, London is the place inwhich to live. People wondered that Elisabeth did not marry, and blamedher behind her back for not making suitable hay while it was as yetsummer with her. But the artist-woman never marries for the sake ofbeing married--or rather for the sake of not being unmarried--as so manyof her more ordinary sisters do; her art supplies her with thatnecessary interest in life, without which most women become eitherinvalids or shrews, and--unless she happens to meet the right man--shecan manage very well without him.
George Farringdon's son had never turned up, in spite of all the effortsto discover him; and by this time Elisabeth had settled down into thebelief that the Willows and the Osierfield were permanently hers. Shehad long ago forgiven Christopher for setting her and her interestsaside, and going off in search of the lost heir--at least she believedthat she had; but there was always an undercurrent of bitterness in herthoughts of him, which proved that the wound he had then dealt her hadleft a scar.
Several men had wanted to marry Elisabeth, but they had not succeeded inwinning her. She enjoyed flirting with them, and she rejoiced in theiradmiration, but when they offered her their love she was frightened andran away. Consequently the world called her cold; and as the yearsrolled on and no one touched her heart, she began to believe that theworld was right.
"There are three great things in life," Grace Cobham said to her oneday, "art and love and religion. They really are all part of the samethi
ng, and none of them is perfected without the others. You have gottwo, Elisabeth; but you have somehow missed the third, and without ityou will never attain to your highest possibilities. You are a goodwoman, and you are a true artist; but, until you fall in love, yourreligion and your art will both lack something, and will fall short ofperfection."
"I'm afraid I'm not a falling-in-love sort of person," replied Elisabethmeekly; "I'm extremely sorry, but such is the case."
"It is a pity! But you may fall in love yet."
"It's too late, I fear. You see I am over thirty; and if I haven't doneit by now, I expect I never shall do it. It is tiresome to have missedit, I admit; and especially as you think it would make me paint betterpictures."
"Well, I do. You paint so well now that it is a pity you don't paintstill better. I do not believe that any artist does his or her best workuntil his or her nature is fully developed; and no woman's nature isfully developed until she has been in love."
"I have never been in love; I don't even know what it is like inside,"said Elisabeth sadly; "and I dreadfully want to know, because--looked atfrom the outside--it seems interesting."
Grace gazed at her thoughtfully. "I wonder if it is that you are toocold to fall in love, or whether it only is that the right person hasn'tappeared."
"I don't know. I wish I did. What do you think it feels like?"
"I know what it feels like--and that is like nothing else this sideheaven."
"It seems funny to get worked up in that sort of way over an ordinaryman--turning him into a revival-service or a national anthem, orsomething equally thrilling and inspiring! Still, I'd do it if I could,just from pure curiosity. I should really enjoy it. I've seen stupidgirls light up like a turnip with a candle inside, simply because someplain young man did the inevitable, and came up into the drawing-roomafter dinner; and I've seen clever women go to pieces like a linenbutton at the wash, simply because some ignorant man did the inevitable,and preferred a more foolish and better-looking woman to themselves."
"Have you really never been in love, Elisabeth?"
Elisabeth pondered for a moment. "No; I've sometimes thought I was, butI've always known I wasn't."
"I wonder at that; because you really are affectionate."
"That is quite true; but no one has ever seemed to want as much as I hadto give," said Elisabeth, the smile dying out of her eyes; "I do so longto be necessary to somebody--to feel that it is in my power to makesomebody perfectly happy; but nobody has ever asked enough of me."
"You could have made the men happy who wanted to marry you," suggestedGrace.
"No; I could have made them comfortable, and that's not the same thing."
As Elisabeth sat alone in her own room that night, she thought aboutwhat Grace had said, and wondered if she were really too cold ever toexperience that common yet wonderful miracle which turns earth intoheaven for most people once in their lives. She had received much loveand still more admiration in her time; but she had never been allowed togive what she had to give, and she was essentially of the type of womanto whom it is more blessed to give than to receive. She had never cravedto be loved, as some women crave; she had only asked to be allowed tolove as much as she was capable of loving, and the permission had beendenied her. As she looked back over her past life, she saw that it hadalways been the same. She had given the adoration of her childhood toAnne Farringdon, and Anne had not wanted it; she had given the devotionof her girlhood to Felicia, and Felicia had not wanted it; she had giventhe truest friendship of her womanhood to Christopher, and Christopherhad not wanted it. As for the men who had loved her, she had knownperfectly well that she was not essential to them; had she been, shewould have married them; but they could be happy without her--and theywere. For Grace she had the warmest sense of comradeship; but Grace'slife was so full on its own account, that Elisabeth could only be one ofmany interests to her. Elisabeth was so strong and so tender, that shecould have given much to any one to whom she was absolutely necessary;but she felt she could give of her best to no man who desired it only asa luxury--it was too good for that.
"It seems rather a waste of force," she said to herself, with awhimsical smile. "I feel like Niagara, spending its strength on emptysplashings, when it might be turning thousands of electric engines andlighting millions of electric lights, if only its power were turned inthe right direction and properly stored. I could be so much to anybodywho really needed me--I feel I could; but nobody seems to need me, soit's no use bothering. Anyway, I have my art, and that more thansatisfies me; and I will spend my life in giving forth my strength tothe world at large, in the shape of pictures which shall help the worldto be better and happier. At least I hope so."
And with this reflection Elisabeth endeavoured to console herself forthe non-appearance of that fairy prince, who, in her childish dreams,had always been wounded in the tournament of life, and had turned to herfor comfort.
The years which had passed so drearily for Christopher, had cast theirshadows also over the lives of Alan and Felicia Tremaine. When Williewas a baby, his nurse accidentally let him fall; and the injury he thenreceived was so great that, as he grew older, he was never able to walkproperly, but had to punt himself about with a little crutch. This wasa terrible blow to Alan; and became all the greater as time went on,and Felicia had no other children to share his devotion. Felicia, too,felt it sorely; but she fretted more over the sorrow it was to herhusband than on her own account.
There was a great friendship between Willie and Elisabeth. Weakness ofany kind always appealed to her, and he, poor child! was weak indeed. Sowhen Elisabeth was at the Willows and Willie at the Moat House, the twospent much time together. He never wearied of hearing about the thingsthat she had pretended when she was a little girl; and she never weariedof telling him about them.
"And so the people, who lived among the smoke and the furnaces, followedthe pillar of cloud till it led them to the country on the other side ofthe hills," said Willie one day, as he and Elisabeth were sitting on theold rustic seat in the Willows' garden. "I remember; but tell me, whatdid they find in the country over there?" And he pointed with his thinlittle finger to the blue hills beyond the green valley.
"They found everything that they wanted," replied Elisabeth. "Not thethings that other people thought would be good for them, you know; butjust the dear, foolish, impossible things that they had wanted forthemselves."
"And did the things make them happy?"
"Perfectly happy--much happier than the wise, desirable, sensible thingscould have made them."
"I suppose they could all walk without crutches," suggested Willie.
"Of course they could; and they could understand everything withoutbeing told."
"And the other people loved them very much, and were very kind to them,weren't they?"
"Perhaps; but what made them so happy was that they loved the otherpeople and were kind to them. As long as they lived here in the smokeand din and bustle, everybody was so busy looking after his own concernsthat nobody could be bothered with their love. There wasn't room for it,or time for it. But in the country over the hills there was plenty ofroom and plenty of time; in fact, there wasn't any room or any time foranything else."
"What did they have to eat?" Willie asked.
"Everything that had been too rich for them when they were here."
Willie sighed. "It must have been a nice country," he said.
"It was, dear; the nicest country in the world. It was always summerthere, too, and holiday time."
"Didn't they have any lessons to learn?"
"No; because they'd learned them all."
"Did they have roads and railways?" Willie made further inquiry.
"No; only narrow green lanes, which led straight into fairyland. And thelonger you walked in them the less tired you were."
"Tell me a story about the country over there," said Willie, nestling upto Elisabeth; "and let there be a princess in it."
She put her strong arm round him
and held him close. "Once upon a time,"she began, "there was a princess, who lived among the smoke and thefurnaces."
"Was she very beautiful?"
"No; but she happened to have a heart made of real gold. That was theonly rare thing about her; otherwise she was quite a common princess."
"What did she do with the heart?" asked Willie.
"She wanted to give it to somebody; but the strange thing was thatnobody would have it. Several people asked her for it before they knewit was made of real gold; but when they found that out, they began tomake excuses. One said that he'd no place in his house for such afirst-class article; it would merely make the rest of the furniture lookshabby, and he shouldn't refurnish in order to please anybody. Anothersaid that he wasn't going to bother himself with looking after a realgold heart, when a silver-gilt one would serve his purpose just as well.And a third said that solid gold plate wasn't worth the trouble ofcleaning and keeping in order, as it was sure to get scratched or bentin the process, the precious metals being too soft for everyday use."
"It is difficult not to scratch when you're cleaning plate," Willieobserved. "I sometimes help Simpkins, and there's only one spoon thathe'll let me clean, for fear I should scratch; and that's quite an oldone that doesn't matter. So I have to clean it over and over again. Butgo on about the princess."
"Well, then she offered her gold heart to a woman who seemed lonely anddesolate; but the woman only cared for the hearts of men, and threw backthe princess's in her face. And then somebody advised her to set it upfor auction, to go to the highest bidder, as that was generallyconsidered the correct thing to do with regard to well-regulated women'shearts; but she didn't like that suggestion at all. At last the poorprincess grew tired of offering her treasure to people who didn't wantit, and so she locked it up out of sight; and then everybody said thatshe hadn't a heart at all, and what a disgrace it was for a young womanto be without one."
"That wasn't fair!"
"Not at all fair; but people aren't always fair on this side of thehills, darling."
"But they are on the other?"
"Always; and they are never hard or cold or unsympathetic. So theprincess decided to leave the smoke and the furnaces, and to go to thecountry on the other side of the hills. She travelled down into thevalley and right through it, and then across the hills beyond, and neverrested till she reached the country on the other side."
"And what did she find when she got there?"
Elisabeth's eyes grew dreamy. "She found a fairy prince standing on thevery borders of that country, and he said to her, 'You've come at last;I've been such a long time waiting for you.' And the princess asked him,'Do you happen to want such a thing as a heart of real gold?' 'I shouldjust think I do,' said the prince; 'I've wanted it always, and I'venever wanted anything else; but I was beginning to be afraid I was nevergoing to get it.' 'And I was beginning to be afraid that I was nevergoing to find anybody to give it to,' replied the princess. So she gavehim her heart, and he took it; and then they looked into each other'seyes and smiled."
"Is that the end of the story?"
"No, dear; only the beginning."
"Then what happened in the end?"
"Nobody knows."
But Willie's youthful curiosity was far from being satisfied. "What wasthe fairy prince like to look at?" he inquired.
"I don't know, darling; I've often wondered."
And Willie had to be content with this uncertain state of affairs. Sohad Elisabeth.
For some time now she had been making small bonfires of the Thames; butthe following spring Elisabeth set the river on fire in good earnest byher great Academy picture, The Pillar of Cloud. It was the picture ofthe year; and it supplied its creator with a copious draught of thatnectar of the gods which men call fame.
It was a fine picture, strongly painted, and was a representation of theBlack Country, with its mingled gloom and glare, and its pillar of smokealways hanging over it. In the foreground were figures of men and womenand children, looking upward to the pillar of cloud; and, by the magicspell of the artist, Elisabeth had succeeded in depicting on theirfaces, for such who had eyes to see it, the peace of those who knew thatGod was with them in their journey through the wilderness. They wereworn and weary and toil-worn, as they dwelt in the midst of thefurnaces; but, through it all, they looked up to the overshadowing cloudand were lightened, and their faces were not ashamed. In the fardistance there was a glimpse of the sun setting behind a range of hills;and one felt, as one gazed at the picture and strove to understand itsmeaning, that the pillar of cloud was gradually leading the peoplenearer and nearer to the far-off hills and the land beyond the sunset;and that there they would find an abundant compensation for thesuffering and poverty that had blighted their lives as they toiled herefor their daily bread.
Even those who could not understand the underlying meaning ofElisabeth's picture, marvelled at the power and technical skill wherebyshe had brought the weird mystery of the Black Country into the heart ofLondon, until one almost felt the breath of the furnaces as one gazedentranced at her canvas; and those who did understand the underlyingmeaning, marvelled still more that so young a woman should have learnedso much of life's hidden mysteries--forgetting that art is nointellectual endowment, but a revelation from God Himself, and that thetrue artist does not learn but knows, because God has whispered to him.
There was another picture that made a sensation in that year's Academy;it was the work of an unknown artist, Cecil Farquhar by name, and wasnoted in the catalogue as The Daughters of Philip. It represented the"four daughters, virgins, which did prophesy" of Philip of Caesarea; butit did not set them forth in the dress and attitude of inspired sibyls.Instead of this it showed them as they were in their own home, when theSpirit of the Lord was not upon them, but when they were ordinary girls,with ordinary girls' interests and joys and sorrows. One of them wasbraiding her magnificent black hair in front of a mirror; and anotherwas eagerly perusing a letter with the love-light in her eyes; a thirdwas weeping bitterly over a dead dove; and a fourth--the youngest--wasplaying merrily with a monkey. It was a dazzling picture, brilliant withrich Eastern draperies and warm lights; and shallow spectators wonderedwhat the artist meant by painting the prophetesses in such frivolous andworldly guise; but the initiated understood how he had fathomed thetragedy underlying the lives of most women who are set apart from theirfellows by the gift of genius. When the Spirit is upon them theyprophesy, by means of pictures or poems or stories or songs; and theworld says, "These are not as other women; they command our admiration,but they do not crave our love: let us put them on the top of pinnaclesfor high days and holidays, and not trouble them with the petty detailsof everyday life."
The world forgets that the gift of genius is a thing apart from thewoman herself, and that these women at heart are very women, as entirelyas their less gifted sisters are, and have the ordinary woman's longingfor love and laughter, and for all the little things that make lifehappy. A pinnacle is a poor substitute for a hearthstone, from thefeminine point of view; and laurel wreaths do not make half sosatisfactory a journey's end as lovers' meetings. All of which it isdifficult for a man to understand, since fame is more to him than it isto a woman, and love less; therefore the knowledge of this truth provedCecil Farquhar to be a true artist; while the able manner in which hehad set it forth showed him to be also a highly gifted one. And theworld is always ready to acknowledge real merit when it sees it, and todo homage to the same.
The Daughters of Philip carried a special message to the heart ofElisabeth Farringdon. She had been placed on her pinnacle, and hadalready begun to find how cold was the atmosphere up there, and how muchmore human she was than people expected and allowed for her to be. Shefelt like a statue set up in the market-place, that hears the childrenpiping and mourning, and longs to dance and weep with them; but they didnot ask her to do either--did not want her to do either--and if she hadcome down from her pedestal and begged to be allowed to play with themor comfort the
m, they would only have been frightened and run away.
But here at last was a man who understood what she was feeling; to whomshe could tell her troubles, and who would know what she meant; and shemade up her mind that before that season was over, she and the unknownartist, who had painted The Daughters of Philip, should be friends.
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