A Girl of the Commune Read online

  CHAPTER II.

  As his father had said, Cuthbert Harrington's tastes differed widelyfrom his own. Cuthbert was essentially a Londoner, and his friends wouldhave had difficulty in picturing him as engaged in country pursuits.Indeed, Cuthbert Hartington, in a scarlet coat, or toiling through aturnip field in heavy boots with a gun on his shoulder, would have beento them an absurd anomaly.

  It was not that he lacked strength; on the contrary, he was tall andwell, if loosely, built. Grace is not a common manly attribute, but hepossessed it to an eminent degree. There was a careless ease in hismanner, an unconscious picturesqueness in his poses, a turn, that wouldhave smacked of haughtiness had there been the slightest element ofpride in his disposition, in the curve of the neck, and well-poisedhead.

  His life was chiefly passed among artists, and like them as a class, heaffected loose and easy attire. He wore turn-down collars with acarelessly-knotted necktie, and a velvet jacket. He was one of those menwhom his intimates declared to be capable of doing anything he chose,and who chose to do nothing. He had never distinguished himself in anyway at Harrow. He had maintained a fair place in his forms as he movedup in the school, but had done so rather from natural ability than fromstudy. He had never been in the eleven, although it was the generalopinion he would have certainly had a place in it had he chosen to playregularly. As he sauntered through Harrow so he sauntered throughCambridge; keeping just enough chapels and lectures to avoid gettinginto trouble, passing the examinations without actual discredit, rowinga little, playing cricket when the fit seized him, but preferring totake life easily and to avoid toil, either mental or bodily.Nevertheless he read a great deal, and on general subjects was one ofthe best informed men of his college.

  He spent a good deal of his time in sketching and painting, art beinghis one passion. His sketches were the admiration of his friends, butalthough he had had the best lessons he could obtain at the Universityhe lacked the application and industry to convert the sketches intofinished paintings. His vacations were spent chiefly on the Continent,for his life at home bored him immensely, and to him a week among theSwiss lakes, or in the galleries of Munich or Dresden, was worth morethan all the pleasures that country life could give him.

  He went home for a short time after leaving the University, but his staythere was productive of pleasure to neither his father nor himself. Theyhad not a single taste in common, and though Cuthbert made an effort totake an interest in field sports and farming, it was not long before hisfather himself told him that as it was evident the life was altogetherdistasteful to him, and his tastes lay in another direction, he wasperfectly ready to make him an allowance that would enable him either totravel or to live in chambers in London.

  "I am sorry, of course, lad," he said, "that you could not make yourselfhappy with me here, but I don't blame you, for it is after all a matterof natural disposition. Of course you will come down here sometimes, andat any rate I shall be happier in knowing that you are living your ownlife and enjoying yourself in your own way, than I should be in seeingyou trying in vain to take to pursuits from which you would derive nopleasure whatever."

  "I am awfully sorry, father," Cuthbert had said. "I heartily wish it hadbeen otherwise, but I own that I would rather live in London on analmost starvation income than settle down here. I have really tried hardto get to like things that you do. I feel it would have been better if Ihad always stayed here and had a tutor; then, no doubt, I should havetaken to field sports and so on. However, it is no use regretting thatnow, and I am very thankful for your offer."

  Accordingly he had gone up to London, taken chambers in Gray's Inn,where two or three of his college friends were established, and joined aBohemian Club, where he made the acquaintance of several artists, andsoon became a member of their set. He had talked vaguely of taking upart as a profession, but nothing ever came of it. There was an easel ortwo in his rooms and any number of unfinished paintings; but he wasfastidious over his own work and unable from want of knowledge oftechnique to carry out his ideas, and the canvases were one afteranother thrown aside in disgust. His friends upbraided him bitterly withhis want of application, not altogether without effect; he took theirremonstrances in perfect good temper, but without making the slightesteffort to improve. He generally accompanied some of them on theirsketching expeditions to Normandy, Brittany, Spain, or Algiers, and hisportfolios were the subject of mingled admiration and anger among hisartist friends in St. John's Wood; admiration at the vigor and talentthat his sketches displayed, anger that he should be content to donothing greater.

  His days were largely spent in their studios where, seated in the mostcomfortable chair he could find, he would smoke lazily and watch them atwork and criticise freely. Men grumbled and laughed at his presumption,but were ready to acknowledge the justice of his criticism. He had anexcellent eye for color and effect and for the contrast of light andshade, and those whose pictures were hung, were often ready enough toadmit that the canvas owed much of its charm to some happy suggestion onCuthbert's often ready part.

  Every two or three months he went home for a fortnight. He was greatlyattached to his father, and it was the one drawback to the contentmentof his life that he had been unable to carry out the Squire's wishes,and to settle down with him at Fairclose. He would occasionally bemoanhimself over this to his friends.

  "I am as bad as the prodigal son," he would say, "except that I don'tget what I deserve, and have neither to feed on husks nor to tend swine;but though the fatted calf would be ready for me if I were to return Ican't bring myself to do so."

  "I don't know about being a prodigal," Wilson, one of the oldest of hisset would grumble in reply, "but I do know you are a lazy young beggar,and are wasting your time and opportunities; it is a thousand pities youwere born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Your father ought to haveturned you adrift with an allowance just sufficient to have kept you onbread and butter, and have left you to provide everything else foryourself; then you would have been an artist, sir, and would have made abig name for yourself. You would have had no occasion to waste your timein painting pot-boilers, but could have devoted yourself to good,honest, serious work, which is more than most of us can do. We areobliged to consider what will sell and to please the public by turningout what they call pretty pictures--children playing with dogs, andtrumpery things of that sort. Bah, it is sickening to see a young fellowwasting his life so."

  But Cuthbert only laughed good-temperedly, he was accustomed to suchtirades, and was indeed of a singularly sweet and easy temper.

  It was the end of the first week in May, the great artistic event of theyear was over, the Academy was opened, the pictures had been seen andcriticised, there was the usual indignation at pictures being hunggenerally voted to be daubs, while others that had been considered amongthe studios as certain of acceptance, had been rejected. Two or three ofCuthbert's friends were starting at once for Cornwall to enjoy a restafter three months' steady work and to lay in a stock of fresh sketchesfor pictures for the following year.

  "I will go with you," Cuthbert said when they informed him of theirintention, "it is early yet, but it is warm enough even for loafing onthe rocks, and I hate London when it's full. I will go for a fortnightanyhow," and so with Wilson and two younger men, he started for Newquay,on the north of Cornwall. Once established there the party met only atmeals.

  "We don't want to be doing the same bits," Wilson said, "and we shallsee plenty of each other of an evening." Cuthbert was delighted with theplace, and with his usual enthusiasm speedily fixed upon a subject, andsetting up his easel and camp-stool began work on the morning after hisarrival. He had been engaged but a few hours when two young ladies camealong. They stopped close to him, and Cuthbert, who hated beingoverlooked when at work, was on the point of growling an anathema underhis fair drooping mustache, when one of the girls came close and saidquietly--

  "How are you, Mr. Hartington? Who would have thought of meeting youhere?"

  He did not reco
gnize her for a moment and then exclaimed--

  "Why, it is Mary Brander. I beg your pardon," he went on, taking off hissoft, broad-brimmed hat, "I ought to have said Miss Brander, but havingknown you so long as Mary Brander, the name slipped out. It must havebeen three years since we met, and you have shot up from a girl into afull-grown young lady. Are your father and mother here?"

  "No, I came down last week to stay with my friend, Miss Treadwyn, whowas at Girton with me. Anna, this is Mr. Cuthbert Hartington. Mr.Hartington's place is near Abchester, and he is one of my father'sclients."

  Miss Treadwyn bowed and Cuthbert took off his hat.

  "We have known each other ever since we were children," Mary went on,"that is to say ever since I was a child, for he was a big boy then; heoften used to come into our house, while Mr. Hartington was going intobusiness matters with my father, and generally amused himself by teasingme. He used to treat me as if I was a small sort of monkey, andgenerally ended by putting me in a passion; of course that was in theearly days."

  "Before you came to years of discretion, Miss Brander. You were growinga very discreet damsel when I last saw you, and I felt rather afraid ofyou. I know that you were good enough to express much disapproval of meand my ways."

  "Very likely I did, though I don't remember it. I think I was veryoutspoken in those days."

  "I do not think you have changed much in that respect, Mary," MissTreadwyn said.

  "Why should one say what one does not think," Mary said, sturdily, "itwould be much better if we all did so. Do you not agree with me, Mr.Hartington?"

  "It depends upon what 'better' means; it would be awful to think of theconsequences if we all did so. Society would dissolve itself into itscomponent parts and every man's hand would be against his neighbor. I donot say that people should say what they do not think, but I am surethat the world would not be so pleasant as it is by a long way if everyone was to say exactly what he did think. Just imagine what thesensation of authors or artists would be if critics were to state theiropinions with absolute candor!"

  "I think it were better if they did so, Mr. Hartington; in that casethere would be fewer idiotic books written and fewer men wasting theirlives in trying vainly to produce good paintings."

  "That is true enough," Cuthbert laughed, "but you must remember thatcritics do not buy either books or paintings, and that there are plentyof people who buy the idiotic books and are perfectly content withpictures without a particle of artistic merit."

  "I suppose so," she admitted, reluctantly, "but so much the worse, forit causes mediocrity!"

  "But we are most of us mediocre--authors like Dickens, Thackeray, andGeorge Eliot are the exception--and so are artists like Millais andLandseer, but when books and paintings give pleasure they fulfil theirpurpose, don't they?"

  "If their purpose is to afford a livelihood to those that make them, Isuppose they do, Mr. Hartington; but they do not fulfil what ought to betheir purpose--which should, of course, be to elevate the mind or toimprove the taste."

  He shook his head.

  "That is too lofty an ideal altogether for me," he said. "I doubtwhether men are much happier for their minds being improved or theirtastes elevated, unless they are fortunate enough to have sufficientmeans to gratify those tastes. If a man is happy and contented with thestreet he lives in, the house he inhabits, the pictures on his walls,and the books he gets from a library, is he better off when you teachhim that the street is mean and ugly, the house an outrage onarchitectural taste, the wall-papers revolting, the pictures daubs, andthe books trash? Upon my word I don't think so. I am afraid I am aPhilistine."

  "But you are an artist, are you not, Mr. Hartington," Miss Treadwynsaid, looking at the sketch which had already made considerableprogress.

  "Unfortunately, no; I have a taste for art, but that is all. I should bebetter off if I had not, for then I should be contented with doingthings like this; as it is I am in a perpetual state of grumble becauseI can do no better."

  "You know the Latin proverb _meliora video_, and so on, Mr. Hartington,does it apply?"

  "That is the first time I have had Latin quoted against me by a younglady," Cuthbert said, smilingly, but with a slight flush that showed theshaft had gone home. "I will not deny that the quotation exactly hits mycase. I can only plead that nature, which gave me the love for art, didnot give me the amount of energy and the capacity for hard work that arerequisite to its successful cultivation, and has not even given me thestimulus of necessity, which is, I fancy, the greatest human motor."

  "I should be quite content to paint as well as you do, Mr. Hartington,"Anna Treadwyn said. "It must add immensely to the pleasure of travellingto be able to carry home such remembrances of places one has seen."

  "Yes, it does so, Miss Treadwyn. I have done a good deal of wanderingabout in a small way, and have quite a pile of portfolios by whose aid Ican travel over the ground again and recall not only the scenery butalmost every incident, however slight, that occurred in connectiontherewith."

  "Well, Anna, I think we had better be continuing our walk."

  "I suppose we had. May I ask, Mr. Hartington, where you are staying? Iam sure my mother will be very pleased if you will call upon us atPorthalloc. There is a glorious view from the garden. I suppose you willbe at work all day, but you are sure to find us in of an evening."

  "Yes, I fancy I shall live in the open air as long as there is lightenough to sketch by, Miss Treadwyn, but if your mother will be goodenough to allow me to waive ceremony, I will come up some evening afterdinner; in the meantime may I say that I shall always be found somewherealong the shore, and will be glad to receive with due humility anychidings that my old playmate, if she will allow me to call her so, maychoose to bestow upon me."

  Anna Treadwyn nodded. "I expect we shall be here every day; the sea isnew to Mary, and at present she is wild about it."

  "How could you go on so, Mary," she went on, as they continued theirwalk.

  "How could I?" the girl replied. "Have we not agreed that one of thechief objects of women's lives should not only be to raise their own sexto the level of man, but generally to urge men to higher aims, and yetbecause I have very mildly shown my disapproval of Cuthbert Hartington'slaziness and waste of his talents, you ask me how I can do it!"

  "Well, you see, Mary, it is one thing for us to form all sorts ofresolutions when we were sitting eight or ten of us together in yourrooms at Girton; but when it comes to putting them into execution onesees things in rather a different light. I quite agree with our theoriesand I hope to live up to them, as far as I can, but it seems to me mucheasier to put the theories into practice in a general way than inindividual cases. A clergyman can denounce faults from the pulpitwithout giving offence to anyone, but if he were to take one of hiscongregation aside and rebuke him, I don't think the experiment would besuccessful."

  "Nathan said unto David, thou art the man."

  "Yes, my dear, but you will excuse my saying that at present you havescarcely attained the position of Nathan."

  Mary Brander laughed.

  "Well, no, but you see Cuthbert Hartington is not a stranger. I haveknown him ever since I can remember, and used to like him very much,though he did delight in teasing me; but I have been angry with him fora long time, and though I had forgotten it, I remember I did tell him mymind last time I saw him. You see his father is a dear old man, quitethe beau-ideal of a country squire, and there he is all alone in his bighouse while his son chooses to live up in London. I have heard my fatherand mother say over and over again that he ought to be at home takinghis place in the county instead of going on his own way, and I haveheard other ladies say the same."

  "Perhaps mothers with marriageable daughters, Mary," Anna Treadwyn saidwith a smile, "but I don't really see why you should be so severe on himfor going his own way. You are yourself doing so without, I fancy, muchdeference to your parents' opinions, and besides I have heard you many atime rail against the soullessness of the conversation and th
e gossipand tittle-tattle of society in country towns, meaning in your case inAbchester, and should, therefore, be the last to blame him for revoltingagainst it."

  "You forget, Anna," Mary said, calmly, "that the cases are altogetherdifferent. He goes his way with the mere selfish desire to amusehimself. I have set, what I believe to be a great and necessary aimbefore me. I don't pretend that there is any sacrifice in it, on thecontrary it is a source of pleasure and satisfaction to devote myself tothe mission of helping my sex to regain its independence, and to take upthe position which it has a right to."

  "Of course we are both agreed on that, my dear, we only differ in thebest way of setting about it."

  "I don't suppose Mr. Hartington will take what I said to heart," Maryreplied serenely, "and if he does it is a matter of entire indifferenceto me."

  The subject of their conversation certainly showed no signs of takingthe matter to heart. He smiled as he resumed his work.

  "She is just what she used to be," he said to himself. "She was alwaysterribly in earnest. My father was saying last time I was down that hehad learned from Brander that she had taken up all sorts of Utopiannotions about women's rights and so on, and was going to spend twoyears abroad, to get up her case, I suppose. She has grown very pretty.She was very pretty as a child, though of course last time I saw her shewas at the gawky age. She is certainly turning the tables on me, and shehit me hard with that stale old Latin quotation. I must admit it waswonderfully apt. She has a good eye for dress; it is not many girls thatcan stand those severely plain lines, but they suit her figure and faceadmirably. I must get her and her friend to sit on a rock and let me putthem into the foreground of one of my sketches; funny meeting her here,however, it will be an amusement."

  After that it became a regular custom for the two girls to stop as theycame along the shore for a chat with Cuthbert, sometimes sitting down onthe rocks for an hour; their stay, however, being not unfrequently cutshort by Mary getting up with heightened color and going off abruptly.It was Cuthbert's chief amusement to draw her out on her favoritesubject, and although over and over again she told herself angrily thatshe would not discuss it with him, she never could resist falling intothe snares Cuthbert laid for her. She would not have minded had heargued seriously with her, but this was just what he did not do, eitherlaughing at her theory, or replying to her arguments with a mockseriousness that irritated her far more than his open laughter.

  Anna Treadwyn took little part in the discussions, but sat an amusedlistener. Mary had been the recognized leader of her set at Girton; herreal earnestness and the fact that she intended to go abroad to fitherself the better to carry out her theories, but making her a poweramong the others. Much as Anna liked and admired her, it amused hergreatly to see her entangled in the dilemma, into which Cuthbert ledher, occasionally completely posing her by his laughing objections. Ofan evening Cuthbert often went up to Porthalloc, where he was warmlywelcomed by Anna's mother, whose heart he won by the gentle anddeferential manner that rendered him universally popular among theladies of the families of his artist friends. She would sit smilingly bywhen the conflicts of the morning were sometimes renewed, for she sawwith satisfaction that Anna at least was certainly impressed withCuthbert's arguments and banter, and afforded very feeble aid to MaryBrander in her defence of their opinions.

  "I feel really obliged to you, Mr. Hartington," she said one evening,when the two girls happened to be both out of the room when he arrived,"for laughing Anna out of some of the ideas she brought back fromGirton. At one time these gave me a great deal of concern, for my ideasare old-fashioned, and I consider a woman's mission is to cheer andbrighten her husband's home, to be a good wife and a good mother, and tobe content with the position God has assigned to her as being her rightand proper one. However, I have always hoped and believed that she wouldgrow out of her new-fangled ideas, which I am bound to say she nevercarried to the extreme that her friend does. The fact that I am somewhatof an invalid and that it is altogether impossible for her to carry outsuch a plan as Miss Brander has sketched for herself, and that there isno opportunity whatever for her to get up a propaganda in this quietlittle Cornish town, has encouraged that hope; she herself has said butlittle on the subject since she came home, and I think your fights withMiss Brander will go far to complete her cure."

  "It is ridiculous from beginning to end," Cuthbert said, "but it isnatural enough. It is in just the same way that some young fellows startin life with all sorts of wild radical notions, and settle down inmiddle age into moderate Liberals, if not into contented Conservatives.The world is good enough in its way and at any rate if it is to getbetter it will be by gradual progress and not by individual effort.There is much that is very true in Miss Brander's views that thingsmight be better than they are, it is only with her idea that she has amission to set them right that I quarrel. Earnestness is no doubt a goodthing, but too much of it is a misfortune rather than an advantage. Nodoubt I am prejudiced," he laughed, "because I am afraid that I have noparticle of it in my composition. Circumstances have been against itsgrowth, and there is no saying what I might be if they were to change.At present, at any rate, I have never felt the want of it, but I canadmire it among others even though I laugh at it."

  A month passed, and Wilson and his two companions moved further alongthe coast in search of fresh subjects, but Cuthbert declined toaccompany them, declaring that he found himself perfectly comfortablewhere he was, at which his companions all laughed, but made no attemptto persuade him further.

  "Do you know, Mary," Anna said, a few days later, "you and Mr.Hartington remind me strongly of Beatrice and Benedict."

  "What do you mean, Anna?" Mary asked, indignantly.

  "Nothing, my dear," Anna replied, demurely, "except that you areperpetually quarrelling."

  "We may be that," Mary said, shortly, "but we certainly shall not arriveat the same kind of conclusion to our quarrel."

  "You might do worse, Mary; Mr. Hartington is charming. My mother, who isnot given to general admiration, says he is one of the most delightfulmen that she ever met. He is heir to a good estate, and unless I amgreatly mistaken, the idea has occurred to him if not to you. I thoughtso before, but have been convinced of it since he determined to remainhere while those men he was with have all gone away."

  "You will make me downright angry with you, Anna, if you talk suchnonsense," Mary said, severely. "You know very well that I have alwaysmade up mind that nothing shall induce me to marry and give up myfreedom, at any rate for a great many years, and then only to a man whowill see life as I do, become my co-worker and allow me my independence.Mr. Hartington is the last man I should choose; he has no aim or purposewhatever, and he would ruin my life as well as his own. No, thank you.However, I am convinced that you are altogether mistaken, and CuthbertHartington would no more dream of asking me to be his wife than I shouldof taking him for a husband--the idea is altogether preposterous."

  However, a week later, Cuthbert, on going up to Porthalloc one morning,and catching sight of Mary Brander in the garden by herself, joined herthere and astonished her by showing that Anna was not mistaken in herview. He commenced abruptly--

  "Do you know, Miss Brander, I have been thinking over your arguments,and I have come to the conclusion that woman has really a mission inlife. Its object is not precisely that which you have set yourself, butit is closely allied to it, my view being that her mission is tocontribute to the sum of human happiness by making one individual manhappy!"

  "Do you mean, is it possible that you can mean, that you think woman'smission is to marry?" she asked, with scorn, "are you going back tothat?"

  "That is entirely what I meant, but it is a particular case I wasthinking of, rather than a general one. I was thinking of your case andmine. I do not say that you might not do something towards adding to thehappiness of mankind, but mankind are not yearning for it. On the otherhand I am sure that you could make me happy, and I am yearning for thatkind of happiness."

&nb
sp; "Are you really in earnest, Mr. Hartington?"

  "Quite in earnest, very much so; in the six weeks that I have been hereI have learnt to love you, and to desire, more earnestly certainly thanI have ever desired anything before, that you should be my wife. I knowthat you do not credit me with any great earnestness of purpose, but Iam quite earnest in this. I do love you, Mary."

  "I am sorry to hear it, and am surprised, really and truly surprised. Ithought you disapproved of me altogether, but I did think you gave mecredit for being sincere. It is clear you did not, or you could notsuppose that I would give up all my plans before even commencing them. Ilike you very much, Cuthbert, though I disapprove of you as much as Ithought you disapproved of me; but if ever I do marry, and I hope Ishall never be weak enough to do so, it must be to someone who has thesame views of life that I have; but I feel sure that I shall never loveanyone if love is really what one reads of in books, where woman isalways ready to sacrifice her whole life and her whole plans to a manwho graciously accepts the sacrifice as a matter of course."

  "I was afraid that that would be your answer," he said gravely. "And yetI was not disposed to let the chance of happiness go without at leastknowing that it was so. I can quite understand that you do not even feelthat I am really in earnest. So small did I feel my chances were, that Ishould have waited for a time before I risked almost certain refusal,had it not been that you are on the point of going abroad for two years.And two years is a long time to wait when one feels that one's chance isvery small at the end of that time. Well, it is of no use sayinganything more about it. I may as well say good-bye at once, for I shallpack up and go. Good-bye, dear; I hope that you are wrong, and that someday you will make some man worthy of you happy, but when the time comesremember that I prophesy that he will not in the slightest degreeresemble the man you picture to yourself now. I think that the sayingthat extremes meet is truer than those that assert that like meets like;but whoever he is I hope that he will be someone who will make you ashappy as I should have tried to do."

  "Good-bye, Cuthbert," she said, frankly, "I think this has all been verysilly, and I hope that by the time we meet again you will have forgottenall about it."

  There was something in his face, as she looked up into it, that told herwhat she had before doubted somewhat, that he had been really in earnestfor once in his life, and she added, "I do hope we shall be quite goodfriends when we meet again, and that you will then see I am quite rightabout this."

  He smiled, gave her a little nod, and then dropping her hand saunteredinto the house.

  "It is the most foolish thing I have ever heard of," she said toherself, pettishly, as she looked after him. "I can't think how such anidea ever occurred to him. He must have known that even if I had notdetermined as I have done to devote myself to our cause, he was the lastsort of man I should ever have thought of marrying. Of course he is niceand I always thought so, but what is niceness when he has no aims, noambitions in life, and he is content to waste it as he is doing."

  Five minutes later Anna Treadwyn joined her in the garden.

  "So I was right after all, Mary?"

  "How do you know, do you mean to say that he has told you?"

  "Not exactly, but one can use one's eyes, I suppose. He said nothinglast night about going away, and now he is leaving by this afternoon'scoach; besides, although he laughed and talked as usual one could seewith half an eye that it was forced. So you have actually refused him?"

  "Of course I have, how can you ask such a question? It was the mostperfectly absurd idea I ever heard of."

  "Well, I hope that you will never be sorry for it, Mary."

  "There is not much fear of that," Mary said, with a toss of her head,"and let me say that it is not very polite, either of you or him, tothink that I should be ready to give up all my plans in life, the firsttime I am asked, and that by a gentleman who has not the slightestsympathy with them. It is a very silly and tiresome affair altogether,and I do hope I shall never hear anything of it again."