“I don’t suppose she’s ever condescended to read the ‘Pickwick Papers,’ which would do her all the good in the world,” observed James coolly. “Though she’s quite capable of going through them without a smile.”
“When I say read,” said Zella with some dignity, “I mean serious reading.”
“Kant and Hegel, to wit, I suppose. Don’t you go and follow Miss Alison’s taste in literature, Zella. I hate girls to have a smattering of that sort of thing, and for those who read in earnest it’s worse still.”
“Do you mean that Alison doesn’t read in earnest?” asked Zella, guiltily conscious of a semi-resolution that had formed itself on hearing Alison’s frequent allusions to the very writers in question.
“I should think she was much too busy wondering what Miss Alison St. Craye thought of Emmanuel Kant, to have time to look for his meaning.”
“I see what you mean,” said Zella, hedging.
“It’s a very common form of self-deception, I suppose,” began James in the old instructive voice. “I mean, so many people seem to do their reading for the sake of forming their own opinion, and not in the least with any idea of learning anything. I can’t quite get at what I mean — anyhow, it’s a form of intellectual dishonesty.”
“Alison’s theory is — and I am inclined to agree with her — that one should evolve one’s own philosophy from life itself, merely using books as sign-posts, and not mistaking them for the goal itself,” enunciated Zella, determined to be profound at all costs.
This time it was at the cost of considerable mortification, for James smothered an unmistakable laugh, and exclaimed:
“Well done, Zella! You must be a friend after Miss St. Craye’s own heart if you have evolved a philosophy from life already! I congratulate you.”
Zella coloured so furiously that Lady St. Craye, entering the room with profuse apologies, ceased them abruptly as the thought crossed her mind that possibly the two cousins had been glad of their tete-a-tete.
Sir George Kindersley was announced, and proved to be a contemporary and obvious admirer of Lady St. Craye.
“I think,” she said gently, “we won’t wait. Alison went to dress rather late, and won’t be down just yet. Shall we come?”
They went, and Zella, seated beside James, found herself wondering with some curiosity how he and Alison would treat one another.”
Greetings between them there were none, for when Alison swept in, in a black and gold dress that resembled nothing so much as a kimono, she contented herself with an agreeable gesture of degage apology that comprised the assembly, and established herself without further ado in her favourite posture, both elbows on the table and her hands clasped beneath her chin.
“Do not let us be bandies” was her first observation, at the mild platitude uttered by Sir George Kindersley by way of opening a conversation.
The remark might have been the keynote of the occasion. Alison herself could not have been more resolved against any suspicion of banalities than was Zella, anxious to impress James, and even more anxious to cultivate her own pose of being a deeply read and fearlessly unconventional young woman of the world.
But James remained obstinately unimpressionable. His manner towards Zella was tinged with something of the sulky reserve of his boyhood, and she was angrily conscious of it and left most of the conversation to Alison.
Miss St. Craye was at no loss.
“And what of our Ibsen?” she suddenly demanded, across the small round table, of James, when the latter had been exchanging for some moments shameless platitudes with Lady St. Craye on the subject of the English drama.
He may be your Risen,” said James coolly; “he is not mine. I do not understand him, to begin with.”
“That,” said Alison, smiling kindly, with her head on one side, “I refuse to believe. Surely Ibsen’s point of view is almost childish in its directness, its determined pessimism?”
“It is such a pity to be pessimistic,” said Lady St. Craye wistfully. “It is only young people, I believe, who like sad things best, isn’t it?” She looked with her disarming child-like smile at Sir George.
“My dear mother, Ibsen would turn in his grave if he heard you speak of his dramas as sad things. What fearful profanation!”
“Aren’t they sad?” said James with a transparent assumption of simplicity. “They are dreary, but perhaps that is only because they are boring.”
Alison looked at him in weighty silence, and then said:
“That is not worthy of you. Surely, even if his outlook means nothing to you, you can respect the sincerity of it.”
“Come, come, Miss Alison, surely you don’t want us to believe that you hold Ibsen’s creed — woman a doll, and a dicky-bird, and all the rest of it,” said Sir George, with a fatal effort towards inducing the conversation into a lighter vein.
Alison’s enormous eyes annihilated him, and Lady St. Craye said plaintively:
“Alison doesn’t really think that sort of thing, you know. Her creed is quite a different one, and most beautiful.”
She looked lovingly at her daughter. James looked at Lady St. Craye with a different expression in his dark eyes, and Zella felt that it was time to draw attention to herself.
“Tell us your creed, Alison,” she said, unable at the moment to think of a creed more personal, and perhaps knowing that in any case she would lack courage to enunciate one with the latent sarcasm of her cousin’s eyes upon her.
“Ah,” said Alison — and her eyes took on an odd effect of darkening and deepening—” my creed is that of the Theosophist.”
Sir George looked uncomfortable, and turned to Lady St. Craye with an obvious desire to change the conversation. She immediately began to talk of other things, and Alison’s audience was reduced to two. But she received no lack of attention.
“Theosophy as an attitude interests me a good deal,” said James. “There is something so original about a creed which boasts that it condemns no other creed.”
“Theosophy is not a creed,” said Alison gravely. “It is bound by no limits, save those of our own inner vision; and those of us who grow, who become bigger and wider in outlook, learn to tolerate all sects and creeds for the sake of the fragment of truth that each has preserved.”
Zella wondered if the Catholic Church came within the sphere of things tolerated by the exponents of Theosophy, and felt guiltily that Reverend Mother would have called this one of the occasions when human respect should be trampled underfoot and a fearless testimony uttered. Reverend Mother, however, not being there to enforce the precept by her presence, Zella merely said, with an earnest expression on her face:
“Ah, toleration is the finest of hall-marks in any society.”
“But are you a member of the Society, Miss St. Craye?” inquired James.
Alison flung back her head with a characteristic gesture, and laughed deliberately.
“Only of that wonderful Society to which we all belong — the Society in which we are all bound together by ties of Brotherhood: that Society called Life.”
“It sounds like an insurance company,” said James amiably. “But I meant the Theosophical Society proper.”
“Certainly not,” said Alison. “I do not approve of cliques, religious or otherwise. My Theosophy lies in the world around, as I told you — the love of soul for soul, of humanity for sunshine, fresh air, little innocent wood-creatures and insect life. It may be needful for the weaker among us to be upheld by the binding laws of a Society, but there are others — and I venture to count myself amongst them — to whom the Law of Love is sufficient.”
Zella, to her own vexation and perplexity, found herself colouring with a feeling of intense annoyance.
“If that is so,” observed James dryly, “I am surprised that you are not a vegetarian.”
Alison looked affronted, and Zella, who thought James’s remark in bad taste, retorted with spirit:
“Why should you suppose Alison would indulge in a fad of tha
t sort?”
“Not as a fad at all, but as a matter of principle. Why kill and devour the innocent little creatures whom you look upon as brothers? This excellent salmi was once, probably, several happy-hearted chickens sporting in the country, and you, who profess to love them and be their sister, have them killed in a particularly painful manner, and then eat them. It seems illogical, in view of the Law of Love.”
“You are pleased to be facetious,” said Alison coldly, “but the subject is hardly an amusing one. I do not choose to make myself ridiculous, and exceedingly inconvenient to my friends, by indulging in the fad of vegetarianism for purely sentimental reasons.”
Certainly not — only for logical ones. You can’t deny that, by causing pain or death to any living creature, you are breaking your own law.”
“I do deny it,” said Alison, with a backward gesture of her head, indicative of the courageous defence of her opinions. “Pray, why should I annoy and distress my friends by living on beans and macaroni, when the slaughter that admittedly does go on, so that man may exist, would go on exactly the same?”
“You would at least be consistent,” said James. “It is a question of values. The inconveniences of being considered a faddist, against the sin — if you think it one — of adding to the sum of human pain by the addition of one rabbit or chicken.”“
“But according to that, James, one should give up a good many things — hunting and fishing — for instance,” said Zella, more for the sake of making herself heard than from any very passionate conviction.
“Well, people have been known to do so.”
“For humanitarian reasons?”
“Certainly. Think of the saints in ancient days — well, some of them,” said James hurriedly, forestalling the outburst which he saw trembling on Alison’s lips as to the iniquity of the ascetic self-torturers of the Middle Ages. “And, as I said, members of the Theosophical Society are generally vegetarians, I believe.”
“Have you ever known any members of this Society?” demanded Alison, with an accent of ineffable contempt.
“Only one,” said James serenely—” a very good fellow.”
“One can imagine the type — happy in all the glories of belonging to a Society with a capital S,” laughed Alison, “and enjoying the importance of demanding cheese soufflé when other people are eating roast beef.”
“I do not fancy he sees much cheese soufflé or roast beef, either, for the matter of that,” said James. “Cheese soufflé is not a matter of course to every vegetarian, whatever a cup of tea and a bun may be.”
“You mean,” said Zella, looking at her cousin disapprovingly, “that your Theosophist friend probably to have very many motives in common.”
“Exactly,” James replied with provoking serenity.
“Then, why attempt to draw a parallel?” demanded Alison. “I have no doubt that to minds of a certain class, very worthy, very respectable, there is, as I have said, an immense satisfaction in being affiche as belonging to a Theosophical or any other sect. That hardly implies that the true meaning of the word Theosophy has been revealed to them. Theosophy in its deepest sense is the hall-mark of minds that are above the average, not below it.”
Zella thought that the flow of rhetoric must have silenced even James, but he demanded with unabated amusement; “Then, you would say that my vegetarian friend’s Theosophy could have little or nothing in common with yours.
“I do not know what his views are,” repeated Alison impatiently; “but if he is a faddist of the body-building, nut-cutlet school, I should imagine there was no slightest bond of union between us — especially as you say or imply that he belongs to a class of society which finds a pleasure in peculiarity, such as good breeding would rather resent than otherwise.”
“Yes,” said James meditatively—” certainly. He is, in point of fact, a bank clerk.”
Alison made an acquiescent gesture.
“Exactly,” she said with cold triumph.
“Then,” repeated James thoughtfully, “there could be little or no sympathy between you as fellow-Theosophists.”
“The word probably bears quite a different meaning to each of us,” returned Alison. “Our minds must, by the influence of heredity and environment alone, be as the poles asunder.”
Zella wished, not for the first time, that she could manipulate polysyllables with the fluent assurance of Miss St. Craye.
“No bond of union between two persons each of whom profess equally that Theosophy is his and her creed,” murmured James to himself.
Alison laughed a little.
“Admit that you are arguing after a defeat,” she said with the gracious demeanour of victory. “You can scarcely expect me to admit a fellowship of mind with your vegetarian bank clerk.”
“No. There can be no common meeting-ground for you both,” James murmured thoughtfully.
“I should say most emphatically none,” retorted Alison, as though humouring the insistence of a pertinacious child.
“Then,” in his turn demanded James, “what becomes of your universal Brotherhood, pray? If rabbits and chickens are your brothers and sisters, surely a bank clerk is, too?”
James’s tone was half humorous, but there was an undercurrent in it that made Lady St. Craye pause in her exchange of platitudes with Sir George Kindersley, and look at the flushed, contemptuous face of her daughter.
“Are-you talking about bank clerks?” she asked James, smiling. “I don’t think I should like Alison to be a sister to bank clerks, you know.”
It was impossible not to laugh at the plaintive triviality cutting across the earnest “Let me assure you” with which Alison had begun to reply.
“We shall be late for the first act,” said Lady St. Craye placidly, rising from the table.
Zella went to bed that night with an intangible sense of failure. She had evidently failed to impress James, of that she was entirely convinced; and she was unhappily conscious, as in the old days at school, of her own weak fickleness. For even as Alison could succeed in displeasing her with James for his levity and his argumentative bluntness, so James himself had disillusioned her as to the high sincerity and superior personality of Alison St. Craye.
XXIII
“In the midst of life we are in death,” said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans.
“You could hardly call the Baronne de Kervoyou in the midst of life, mother. She was over seventy, and ill with bronchitis.”
“James dear, that sounds unfeeling. It does not matter what you say to me, since I understand my boy perfectly; but I should not like Louis or poor little Zella to hear you speak in that way. Besides, what I meant was that it is a great shock to hear so suddenly of a death in the family, when we are just fresh from all the excitement and pleasure of the wedding.”
“In the family?”
“James, you are in what I call a cavilling mood to-day, dear. Why repeat everything I say in that absurd tone of incredulity? The Baronne may not have been an actual blood-relation of our own, but for my poor Esmee’s sake I have always looked upon her as one of ourselves. And though we did not see much of her, owing to her living abroad, she and I were great friends.”
James refrained from cavilling again at this remarkable statement, but his expression was such that Mrs. Lloyd-Evans replied to it with some heat:
“You are too young to remember anything about it, dear, but I shall never forget a journey your father and I took all the way to Paris on purpose to see the old Baronne. It was soon after we lost dear Esmee, and something had to be settled about poor little Zella. Louis was quite heart-broken, in his own way, and, besides, gentlemen do not really quite understand about things always, so he very wisely left it all to me. I remember saying to your father at the time: ‘Henry, it is of no use to tell me that the Baronne is a foreigner and a Roman Catholic: I know she is. But dear Esmee always looked upon her as Zella’s own grandmother, and it is right she should be allowed a say in the matter.’”
“I wonder she p
ersuaded you to let Zella go to a convent school, all the same.”
“She persuaded me to nothing,” said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans with great dignity. “I hope I am broad-minded enough to realize that there is good in every creed; and it was very natural that a Roman Catholic, which the Baronne as a foreigner could hardly help being, poor thing! should wish to have Zella brought up in a Roman Catholic convent. And, after all, James, any religious teaching is better than none, which is what it would have been if Zella had remained with poor Louis, never going to church or anything.”
“Perhaps the Baronne de Kervoyou foresaw that her going to a convent would end in her turning R.C.,” suggested James rather dryly.
“My dear boy, do not impute motives. It may have been so, but one would prefer not to think so just now, at all events,” said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans solemnly. “In the grave all things are forgotten.”
Evidently they were, for Mrs. Lloyd-Evans refused to dwell upon the Roman Catholicism, foreignness, and French artfulness, of the Baronne, which had hitherto been the only characteristics allowed her in the Lloyd-Evans household, and sallied forth to condole with Zella, garbed in the modified mourning of black moire and purple feathers.
“No colours on such an errand,” she had murmured, with a chastened smile at her son.
“I’ll walk across the Park with you, mother. Of course, Zella knows already, doesn’t she?”
James, versed in his mother’s expressions, detected a slight symptom of stiffening.
Yes, dear, she does. Gentlemen are often very inconsiderate, and, instead of asking me to go round and break it gently to the child, which I would willingly have done, however much one shrinks from that kind of errand, poor Louis must needs go and telegraph to her last night. I dare say she is quite upset to-day,” said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans with some satisfaction.
“What does Uncle Louis say?”
“Nothing much. You know that hasty telegraphic style of his. Louis’s letters never really tell one anything. I have always thought it rather an affectation of poor Louis’s, to write in that way, though one does not like to say anything of that sort just now, when he is in grief. I always say, Jimmy, that there is what I call a certain sacredness about the first days of a bereavement.”
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