The Farringdons

by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler

  CHAPTER III

  MRS. BATESON'S TEA-PARTY

  The best of piggie when he dies Is not "interred with his bones," But, in the form of porcine pies, Blesses a world that heard his cries, Yet heeded not those dying groans.

  "Cousin Maria, please may I go to tea at Mrs. Bateson's withChristopher?" said Elisabeth one day, opening the library door a little,and endeavouring to squeeze her small person through as narrow anaperture as possible, as is the custom with children. She never calledher playmate "Chris" in speaking to Miss Farringdon; for this latterregarded it as actually sinful to address people by any abbreviation oftheir baptismal names, just as she considered it positively immoral topartake of any nourishment between meals. "Mrs. Bateson has killed herpig, and there will be pork-pies for tea."

  Miss Farringdon looked over her spectacles at the restless littlefigure. "Yes, my child; I see no reason why you should not. KeziaBateson is a God-fearing woman, and her husband has worked at theOsierfield for forty years. I have the greatest respect for CalebBateson; he is a worthy man and a good Methodist, as his father wasbefore him."

  "He is a very ignorant man: he says Penny-lope."

  "Says what, Elisabeth?"

  "Penny-lope. I was showing him a book the other day about Penelope--thewoman with the web, you know--and he called her Penny-lope. I didn'tlike to correct him, but I said Penelope afterward as often and as loudas I could."

  "That was very ill-bred of you. Come here, Elisabeth."

  The child came and stood by the old lady's chair, and began playing witha bunch of seals that were suspended by a gold chain from MissFarringdon's waist. It was one of Elisabeth's little tricks that herfingers were never idle when she was talking.

  "What have I taught you are the two chief ends at which every womanshould aim, my child?"

  "To be first a Christian and then a gentlewoman," quoted Elisabethglibly.

  "And how does a true gentlewoman show her good breeding?"

  "By never doing or saying anything that could make any one else feeluncomfortable," Elisabeth quoted again.

  "Then do you think that to display your own knowledge by showing upanother person's ignorance would make that person feel comfortable,Elisabeth?"

  "No, Cousin Maria."

  "Knowledge is not good breeding, remember; it is a far less importantmatter. A true gentlewoman may be ignorant; but a true gentlewoman willnever be inconsiderate."

  Elisabeth hung her head. "I see."

  "If you keep your thoughts fixed upon the people to whom you aretalking, and never upon yourself, you will always have good manners, mychild. Endeavour to interest and not to impress them."

  "You mean I must talk about their things and not about mine?"

  "More than that. Make the most of any common ground between yourself andthem; make the least of any difference between yourself and them; and,above all, keep strenuously out of sight any real or fancied superiorityyou may possess over them. I always think that Saint Paul's saying, 'Tothe weak became I as weak,' was the perfection of good manners."

  "I don't think I quite understand."

  Miss Farringdon spoke in parables. "Then listen to this story. There wasonce a common soldier who raised himself from the ranks and earned acommission. He was naturally very nervous the first night he dined atthe officers' mess, as he had never dined with gentlemen before, and hewas afraid of making some mistake. It happened that the wine was servedwhile the soup was yet on the table, and with the wine the ice. The poorman did not know what the ice was for, so took a lump and put it in hissoup."

  Elisabeth laughed.

  "The younger officers began to giggle, as you are doing," MissFarringdon continued; "but the colonel, to whom the ice was handed next,took a lump and put it in his soup also; and then the young officers didnot want to laugh any more. The colonel was a perfect gentleman."

  "It seems to me," said Elisabeth thoughtfully, "that you've got to begood before you can be polite."

  "Politeness appears to be what goodness really is," replied MissFarringdon, "and is an attitude rather than an action. Fine breeding isnot the mere learning of any code of manners, any more than gracefulnessis the mere learning of any kind of physical exercise. The gentlemanapparently, as the Christian really, looks not on his own things, but onthe things of others; and the selfish person is always both unchristianand ill-bred."

  Elisabeth gazed wistfully up into Miss Farringdon's face. "I should liketo be a real gentlewoman, Cousin Maria; do you think I ever shall be?"

  "I think it quite possible, if you bear all these maxims in mind, and ifyou carry yourself properly and never stoop. I can not approve of thecareless manners of the young people of to-day, who loll uponeasy-chairs in the presence of their elders, and who slouch into a roomwith constrained familiarity and awkward ease," replied Miss Farringdon,who had never sat in an easy-chair in her life, and whose back was stillas straight as an arrow.

  So in the afternoon of that day Christopher and Elisabeth attended Mrs.Bateson's tea-party.

  The Batesons lived in a clean little cottage on the west side of HighStreet, and enjoyed a large garden to the rearward. It was a singularfact that whereas all their windows looked upon nothing more interestingthan the smokier side of the bleak and narrow street, their pigstiescommanded a view such as can rarely be surpassed for beauty and extentin England. But Mrs. Bateson called her front view "lively" and her backview "dull," and congratulated herself daily upon the aspect and theprospect of her dwelling-place. The good lady's ideas as to whatconstitutes beauty in furniture were by no means behind her opinions asto what is effective in scenery. Her kitchen was paved with bright redtiles, which made one feel as if one were walking across a coral reef,and was flanked on one side with a black oak dresser of unnumberedyears, covered with a brave array of blue-and-white pottery. An artistwould have revelled in this kitchen, with its delicious effects in redand blue; but Mrs. Bateson accounted it as nothing. Her pride wascentred in her parlour and its mural decorations, which consistedprincipally of a large and varied assortment of funeral-cards, neatlyframed and glazed. In addition to these there was a collection of familyportraits in daguerreotype, including an interesting representation ofMrs. Bateson's parents sitting side by side in two straight-backedchairs, with their whole family twining round them--a sort of SwissFamily Laocoon; and a picture of Mr. Bateson--in the attitude of Julietand the attire of a local preacher--leaning over a balcony, which wasovergrown with a semi-tropical luxuriance of artificial ivy, and whichwas obviously too frail to support him. But the masterpiece in Mrs.Bateson's art-gallery was a soul-stirring illustration of the death ofthe revered John Wesley. This picture was divided into two compartments:the first represented the room at Wesley's house in City Road, with theassembled survivors of the great man's family weeping round his bed; andthe second depicted the departing saint flying across Bunhill Fieldsburying-ground in his wig and gown and bands, supported on either sideby a stalwart angel.

  As Elisabeth had surmised, the entertainment on this occasion waspork-pie; and Mrs. Hankey, a near neighbour, had also been bidden toshare the feast. So the tea-party was a party of four, the respectivehusbands of the two ladies not yet having returned from their duties atthe Osierfield.

  "I hope that you'll all make yourselves welcome," said the hostess,after they had sat down at the festive board. "Master Christopher, mydear, will you kindly ask a blessing?"

  Christopher asked a blessing as kindly as he could, and Mrs. Batesoncontinued:

  "Well, to be sure, it is a pleasure to see you looking so tall andstrong, Master Christopher, after all your schooling. I'm not in favourof much schooling myself, as I think it hinders young folks fromgrowing, and puts them off their vittles; but you give the contradictionto that notion--doesn't he, Mrs. Hankey?"

  Mrs. Hankey shook her head. It was her rule in life never to look on thebright side of things; she considered that to do so was what she called"tempting Providence." Her theory appeared to be that as
long asProvidence saw you were miserable, that Power was comfortable about youand let you alone; but if Providence discovered you could bear moresorrow than you were then bearing, you were at once supplied with thatlittle more. Naturally, therefore, her object was to convince Providencethat her cup of misery was full. But Mrs. Hankey had her innocentenjoyments, in spite of the sternness of her creed. If she took lightthings seriously, she took serious things lightly; so she was notwithout her compensations. For instance, a Sunday evening's discourse onfuture punishment and the like, with illustrations, was an unfailingsource of pure and healthful pleasure to her; while a funeralsermon--when the chapel was hung with black, and the bereaved familysat in state in their new mourning, and the choir sang Vital Spark as ananthem--filled her soul with joy. So when Mrs. Bateson commented withsuch unseemly cheerfulness upon Christopher's encouraging appearance, itwas but consistent of Mrs. Hankey to shake her head.

  "You can never tell," she replied--"never; often them that looks thebest feels the worst; and many's the time I've seen folks look the verypicture of health just before they was took with a mortal illness."

  "Ay, that's so," agreed the hostess; "but I think Master Christopher'slooks are the right sort; such a nice colour as he's got, too!"

  "That comes from him being so fair complexioned--it's no sign ofhealth," persisted Mrs. Hankey; "in fact, I mistrust those faircomplexions, especially in lads of his age. Why, he ought to be as brownas a berry, instead of pink and white like a girl."

  "It would look hideous to have a brown face with such yellow hair asmine," said Christopher, who naturally resented being compared to agirl.

  "Master Christopher, don't call anything that the Lord has made hideous.We must all be as He has formed us, however that may be," replied Mrs.Hankey reprovingly; "and it is not our place to pass remarks upon whatHe has done for the best."

  "But the Lord didn't make him with a brown face and yellow hair; that'sjust the point," interrupted Elisabeth, who regarded the bullying ofChristopher as her own prerogative, and allowed no one else to indulgein that sport unpunished.

  "No, my love; that's true enough," Mrs. Bateson said soothingly: "atruer word than that never was spoken. But I wish you could borrow someof Master Christopher's roses--I do, indeed. For my part, I like to seelittle girls with a bit of colour in their cheeks; it looks morecheerful-like, as you might say; and looks go a long way with somefolks, though a meek and quiet spirit is better, taking it all round."

  "Now Miss Elisabeth does look delicate, and no mistake," assented Mrs.Hankey; "she grows too fast for her strength, I'll be bound; and herpoor mother died young, you know, so it is in the family."

  Christopher looked at Elisabeth with the quick sympathy of a sensitivenature. He thought it would frighten her to hear Mrs. Hankey talk inthat way, and he felt that he hated Mrs. Hankey for frighteningElisabeth.

  But Elisabeth was made after a different pattern, and was not in theleast upset by Mrs. Hankey's gloomy forebodings. She was essentiallydramatic; and, unconsciously, her first object was to attract notice.She would have preferred to do this by means of unsurpassed beauty orunequalled talent; but, failing these aids to distinction, an earlydeath-bed was an advertisement not to be despised. In her mind's eye shesaw a touching account of her short life in Early Days, winding up witha heart-rending description of its premature close; and her mind's eyegloated over the sight.

  The hostess gazed at her critically. "She is pale, Mrs. Hankey, there'sno doubt of that; but pale folks are often the healthiest, though theymayn't be the handsomest. And she is wiry, is Miss Elisabeth, though shemay be thin. But is your tea to your taste, or will you take a littlemore cream in it?"

  "It is quite right, thank you, Mrs. Bateson; and the pork-pie is justbeautiful. What a light hand for pastry you always have! I'm sure I'vesaid over and over again that I don't know your equal either for makingpastry or for engaging in prayer."

  Mrs. Bateson, as was natural, looked pleased. "I doubt if I ever made abetter batch of pies than this. When they were all ready for baking,Bateson says to me, 'Kezia,' he says, 'them pies is a regularpicture--all so smooth and even-like, you can't tell which fromt'other.' 'Bateson,' said I, 'I've done my best with them; and if onlythe Lord will be with them in the oven, they'll be the best batch ofpies this side Jordan.'"

  "And so they are," said Elisabeth; "they are perfectly lovely."

  "I'm glad you fancy them, my love; take some more, deary, it'll do yougood."

  "No, thanks; I'd rather have a wig now." And Elisabeth helped herself toone of the three-cornered cakes, called "wigs," which are peculiar toMershire.

  "You always are fortunate in your pigs," Mrs. Hankey remarked; "suchfine hams and such beautiful roaded bacon I never see anywhere equal toyours. It'll be a sad day for you, Mrs. Bateson, when swine fever comesinto the district. I know no one as'll feel it more."

  "Now you must tell us all about your niece's wedding, Mrs. Hankey," Mrs.Bateson said--"her that was married last week. My word alive, but yoursister is wonderful fortunate in settling her daughters! That's what Icall a well-brought-up family, and no mistake. Five daughters, and eachone found peace and a pious husband before she was five-and-twenty."

  "The one before last married a Churchman," said Mrs. Hankeyapologetically, as if the union thus referred to were somewhatmorganatic in its character, and therefore no subject for pride orcongratulation.

  "Well, to be sure! Still, he may make her a good husband."

  "He may or he may not; you never can tell. It seems to me that husbandsare like new boots--you can't tell where they're going to pinch you tillit's too late to change 'em. And as for creaking, why, the boots thatare quietest in the shop are just the ones that fairly disgrace you whenyou come into chapel late on a Sunday morning, and think to slip inquietly during the first prayer; and it is pretty much the same withhusbands--those that are the meekest in the wooing are the mostmasterful to live with."

  "What was the name of the Churchman your niece married?" asked Mrs.Bateson. "I forget."

  "Wilkins--Tom Wilkins. He isn't a bad fellow in some respects--he issteady and sober, and never keeps back a farthing of his wages forhimself; but his views are something dreadful. I can not stand them atany price, and so I'm forever telling his wife."

  "Dear me! That's sad news, Mrs. Hankey."

  "Would you believe it, he don't hold with the good old Methodist habitof telling out loud what the Lord has done for your soul? He saysreligion should be acted up to and not talked about; but, for my part, Ican't abide such closeness."

  "Nor I," agreed Mrs. Bateson warmly; "I don't approve of treating theLord like a poor relation, as some folks seem to do. They'll go to Hishouse and they'll give Him their money; but they're fairly ashamed ofmentioning His Name in decent company."

  "Just so; and that's Tom Wilkins to the life. He's a good husband and aregular church-goer; but as for the word that edifieth, you might aswell look for it from a naked savage as from him. Many a time have Isaid to his wife, 'Tom may be a kind husband in the time of prosperity,as I make no doubt he is--there's plenty of that sort in the world; butyou wait till the days of adversity come, and I doubt that then you'llbe wishing you'd not been in such a hurry to get married, but had waitedtill you had got a good Methodist!' And so she will, I'll be bound; andthe sooner she knows it the better."

  Mrs. Bateson sighed at the gloomy prospect opening out before young Mrs.Wilkins; then she asked:

  "How did the last daughter's wedding go off? She married a Methodist,surely?"

  "She did, Mrs. Bateson; and a better match no mother could wish for herdaughter, not even a duchess born; he's a chapel-steward and amaster-painter, and has six men under him. There he is, driving to workand carrying his own ladders in his own cart, like a lord, as you maysay, by day; and there he is on a Thursday evening, letting andreletting the pews and sittings after service, like a real gentleman. AsI said to my sister, I only hope he may be spared to make Susan a goodhusband; but when a man is a chapel-s
teward at thirty-four, and driveshis own cart, you begin to think that he is too good for this world, andthat he is almost ripe for a better one."

  "You do indeed; there's no denying that."

  "But the wedding was beautiful: I never saw its equal--never; and as forthe prayer that the minister offered up at the end of the service, Ionly wish you'd been there to hear it, Mrs. Bateson, it was sointeresting and instructive. Such a lot of information in it about loveand marriage and the like as I'd never heard before; and when hereferred to the bridegroom's first wife, and drew a picture of how she'dbe waiting to welcome them both, when the time came, on the furthershore--upon my word, there wasn't a dry eye in the chapel!" And Mrs.Hankey wiped hers at the mere remembrance of the scene.

  "But what did Susan say?" asked Elisabeth, with great interest. "Iexpect she didn't want another wife to welcome them on the furthershore."

  "Oh! Miss Elisabeth, what a naughty, selfish little girl you are!"exclaimed Susan's aunt, much shocked. "What would Miss Farringdon thinkif she heard you? Why, you don't suppose, surely, that when folks get toheaven they'll be so greedy and grasping that they'll want to keepeverything to themselves, do you? My niece is a good girl and a memberof society, and she was as pleased as anybody at the minister'sbeautiful prayer."

  Elisabeth was silent, but unconvinced.

  "How is your sister herself?" inquired Mrs. Bateson. "I expect she's abit upset now that the fuss is all over, and she hasn't a daughter leftto bless herself with."

  Mrs. Hankey sighed cheerfully. "Well, she did seem rather low-spiritedwhen all the mess was cleared up, and Susan had gone off to her ownhome; but I says to her, 'Never mind, Sarah, and don't you worryyourself; now that the weddings are over, the funerals will soon begin.'You see, you must cheer folks up a bit, Mrs. Bateson, when they'refeeling out of sorts."

  "You must indeed," agreed the lady of the house, feeling that her guesthad hit upon a happy vein of consolation; "it is dull without daughterswhen you've once got accustomed to 'em, daughters being a sight morecomfortable and convenient than sons, to my mind."

  "Well, you see, daughters you can teach to know theirselves, and sons;you can't. Though even daughters can never rest till they've gotmarried, more's the pity. If they knowed as much about men as I do,they'd be thanking the Lord that He'd created them single, instead offorever fidgeting to change the state to which they were born."

  "Well, I holds with folks getting married," argued Mrs. Bateson; "itgives 'em something to think about between Sunday's sermon andThursday's baking; and if folks have nothing to think about, they thinkabout mischief."

  "That's true, especially if they happen to be men."

  "Why do men think about mischief more than women do?" asked Elisabeth,who always felt hankerings after the why and wherefore of things.

  "Because, my dear, the Lord made 'em so, and it is not for us tocomplain," replied Mrs. Hankey, in a tone which implied that, had therole of Creator been allotted to her, the idiosyncrasies of the male sexwould have been much less marked than they are at present. "They've nosense, men haven't; that's what is the matter with them."

  "You never spoke a truer word, Mrs. Hankey," agreed her hostess; "thevery best of them don't properly know the difference between their soulsand their stomachs; and they fancy that they are a-wrestling with theirdoubts, when really it is their dinners that are a-wrestling with them.Now take Bateson hisself, and a kinder husband or a better Methodistnever drew breath; yet so sure as he touches a bit of pork, he begins toworn hisself about the doctrine of Election till there's no living withhim."

  "That's a man all over, to the very life," said Mrs. Hankeysympathetically; "and he never has the sense to see what's wrong withhim, I'll be bound."

  "Not he--he wouldn't be a man if he had. And then he'll sit in the frontparlour and engage in prayer for hours at a time, till I says to him,'Bateson,' says I, 'I'd be ashamed to go troubling the Lord with aprayer when a pinch o' carbonate o' soda would set things straightagain.'"

  "And quite right, Mrs. Bateson; it's often a wonder to me that the Lordhas patience with men, seeing that their own wives haven't."

  "And to me, too. Now Bateson has been going on like this for thirtyyears or more; yet if there's roast pork on the table, and I say a wordto put him off it, he's that hurt as never was. Why, I'm only too gladto see him enjoying his food if no harm comes of it; but it's drearywork seeing your husband in the Slough of Despond, especially when it'syour business to drag him out again, and most especially when youparticularly warned him against going in."

  Mrs. Hankey groaned. "The Bible says true when it tells us that men areborn to give trouble as the sparks fly upward; and it is a funnyProvidence, to my mind, as ordains for women to be so bothered with 'em.At my niece's wedding, as we were just speaking about, 'Susan,' I says,'I wish you happiness; and I only hope you won't live to regret yourmarriage as I have done mine.' For my part, I can't see what girls wantwith husbands at all; they are far better without them."

  "Not they, Mrs. Hankey," replied Mrs. Bateson warmly; "any sort of ahusband is better than none, to my mind. Life is made up of naughts andcrosses; and the folks that get the crosses are better off than thosethat get the naughts, though that husbands are crosses I can't pretendto deny; but I haven't patience with single women, I haven't--they havenothing to occupy their minds, and so they get to talking about theirhealth and such-like fal-lals."

  "Saint Paul didn't hold with you," said Mrs. Hankey, with reproach inher tone; "he thought that the unmarried women minded the things of theLord better than the married ones."

  "Saint Paul didn't know much about the subject, and how could he beexpected to, being only a bachelor himself, poor soul? But if he'd had awife, she'd soon have told him what the unmarried women were thinkingabout; and it wouldn't have been about the Lord, I'll be bound. Now takeJemima Stubbs; does she mind the things of the Lord more than you and Ido, Mrs. Hankey, I should like to know?"

  "I can't say; it is not for us to judge."

  "Not she! Why, she's always worrying about that poor little brother ofhers, what's lame. I often wish that the Lord would think on him andtake him, for he's a sore burden on Jemima, he is. If you're a woman youare bound to work for some man or another, and to see to his food and tobear with his tantrums; and, for my part, I'd rather do it for a husbandthan for a father or a brother. There's more credit in it, as you mightsay."

  "There's something in that, maybe."

  "And after all, in spite of the botheration he gives, there's somethingvery cheerful in having a man about the house. They keep you alive, domen. The last time I saw Jemima Stubbs she was as low as low could be.'Jemima,' I says, 'you are out of spirits.' 'Mrs. Bateson,' says she,'I am that. I wish I was either in love or in the cemetery, and I don'tmuch mind which.'"

  "Did she cry?" asked Elisabeth, who was always absorbingly interested inany one who was in trouble. With her, to pity was to love; and it wasdifficult for her ever to love where she did not pity. Christopher didnot understand this, and was careful not to appeal to Elisabeth'ssympathy for fear of depressing her. Herein, both as boy and man, hemade a great mistake. It was not as easy to depress Elisabeth as it wasto depress him; and, moreover, it was sometimes good for her to bedepressed. But he did unto her as he would she should do unto him; and,when all is said and done, it is difficult to find a more satisfactoryrule of conduct than this.

  "Cry, lovey?" said Mrs. Bateson; "I should just think she did--fit tobreak her heart."

  Thereupon Jemima Stubbs became a heroine of romance in Elisabeth's eyes,and a new interest in her life. "I shall go and see her to-morrow," shesaid, "and take her something nice for her little brother. What do youthink he would like, Mrs. Bateson?"

  "Bless the child, she is one of the Good Shepherd's own lambs!"exclaimed Mrs. Bateson, with tears in her eyes.

  Mrs. Hankey sighed. "It is the sweetest flowers that are the readiestfor transplanting to the Better Land," she said; and once againChristopher hated her.

&nb
sp; But Elisabeth was engrossed in the matter in hand. "What would he like?"she persisted--"a new toy, or a book, or jam and cake?"

  "I should think a book, lovey; he's fair set on books, is JohnnieStubbs; and if you'd read a bit to him yourself, it would be a finetreat for the lad."

  Elisabeth's eyes danced with joy. "I'll go the first thing to-morrowmorning, and read him my favourite chapter out of The Fairchild Family;and then I'll teach him some nice games to play all by himself."

  "That's a dear young lady!" exclaimed Mrs. Bateson, in an ecstasy ofadmiration.

  "Do you think Jemima will cry when I go?"

  "No, lovey; she wouldn't so far forget herself as to bother the gentrywith her troubles, surely."

  "But I shouldn't be bothered; I should be too sorry for her. I always amfrightfully interested in people who are unhappy--much more interestedthan in people who are happy; and I always love everybody when I've seenthem cry. It is so easy to be happy, and so dull. But why doesn't Jemimafall in love if she wants to?"

  "There now!" cried Mrs. Bateson, in a sort of stage aside to animaginary audience. "What a clever child she is! I'm sure I don't know,dearie."

  "It is a pity that she hasn't got a Cousin Anne," said Elisabeth, hervoice trembling with sympathy. "When you've got a Cousin Anne, it makeseverything so lovely."

  "And so it does, dearie--so it does," agreed Mrs. Bateson, who did notin the least understand what Elisabeth meant.

  On the way home, after the tea-party was over, Christopher remarked:

  "Old Mother Bateson isn't a bad sort; but I can't stand Mother Hankey."

  "Why not?"

  "She says such horrid things." He had not yet forgiven Mrs. Hankey forher gloomy prophecies respecting Elisabeth.

  "Not horrid, Chris. She is rather stupid sometimes, and doesn't knowwhen things are funny; but she never means to be really horrid, I amsure."

  "Well, I think she is an old cat," persisted Christopher.

  "The only thing I don't like about her is her gloves," added Elisabeththoughtfully; "they are so old they smell of biscuit. Isn't it funnythat old gloves always smell of biscuit. I wonder why?"

  "I think they do," agreed Christopher; "but nobody except you would everhave thought of saying it. You have a knack of saying what everybodyelse is thinking; and that is what makes you so amusing."

  "I'm glad you think I'm amusing; but I can't see much funniness in justsaying what is true."

  "Well, I can't explain why it is funny; but you really are simplykilling sometimes," said Christopher graciously.

  The next day, and on many succeeding ones, Elisabeth duly visited JemimaStubbs and the invalid boy, although Christopher entreated her not toworry herself about them, and offered to go in her place. But he failedto understand that Elisabeth was goaded by no depressing sense of duty,as he would have been in similar circumstances; she went because pitywas a passion with her, and therefore she was always absorbinglyinterested in any one whom she pitied. Strength and success andsuch-like attributes never appealed to Elisabeth, possibly because sheherself was strong, and possessed all the qualities of the successfulperson; but weakness and failure were all-powerful in enlisting hersympathy and interest and, through these, her love. As Christopher grewolder he dreamed dreams of how in the future he should raise himselffrom being only the nephew of Miss Farringdon's manager to a position ofwealth and importance; and how he should finally bring all his gloriesand honours and lay them at Elisabeth's feet. His eyes were not openedto see that Elisabeth would probably turn with careless laughter fromall such honours thus manufactured into her pavement; but if he came toher bent and bruised and brokenhearted, crushed with failure instead ofcrowned with success, her heart would never send him empty away, butwould go out to him with a passionate longing to make up to him for allthat he had missed in life.

  A few days after Mrs. Bateson's tea-party he said to Elisabeth, forabout the twentieth time:

  "I say, I wish you wouldn't tire yourself with going to read to thatStubbs brat."

  "Tire myself? What rubbish! nothing can tire me. I never felt tired inmy life; but I shouldn't mind it just once, to see what it feels like."

  "It feels distinctly unpleasant, I can tell you. But I really do wishyou'd take more care of yourself, or else you'll get ill, or haveheadaches or something--you will indeed."

  "No, I shan't; I never had a headache. That's another of the things thatI don't know what they feel like; and yet I want to know what everythingfeels like--even disagreeable things."

  "You'll know fast enough, I'm afraid," replied Christopher; "but even ifit doesn't tire you, you would enjoy playing in the garden more thanreading to Johnnie Stubbs--you know you would; and I can go and read tothe little chap, if you are set on his being read to."

  "But you would much rather play in the garden than read to him; andespecially as it is your holidays, and your own reading-time will soonbegin."

  "Oh! _I_ don't matter. Never bother your head about _me_; remember I'mall right as long as you are; and that as long as you're jolly, I'mbound to have a good time. But it riles me to see you worrying andoverdoing yourself."

  "You don't understand, Chris; you really are awfully stupid aboutunderstanding things. I don't go to see Jemima and Johnnie because Ihate going, and yet think I ought; I go because I am so sorry for themboth that my sorriness makes me like to go."

  But Christopher did not understand, and Elisabeth could not make him doso. The iron of duty had entered into his childish soul; and,unconsciously, he was always trying to come between it and Elisabeth,and to save her from the burden of obligation which lay so heavily uponhis spirit. He was a religious boy, but his religion was of too stern acast to bring much joy to him; and he was passionately anxious thatElisabeth should not be distressed in like manner. His desire was thatshe should have sufficient religion to insure heaven, but not enough tospoil earth--a not uncommon desire on behalf of their dear ones amongpoor, ignorant human beings, whose love for their neighbour will surelyatone in some measure for their injustice toward God.

  "You see," Elisabeth continued, "there is nothing that makes you so fondof people as being sorry for them. The people that are strong and happydon't want your fondness, so it is no use giving it to them. It is theweak, unhappy people that want you to love them, and so it is the weak,unhappy people that you love."

  "But I don't," replied Christopher, who was always inclined to argue apoint; "when I like people, I should like them just the same as if theywent about yelling Te Deums at the top of their voices; and when I don'tlike them, it wouldn't make me like them to see them dressed from headto foot in sackcloth and ashes."

  "Oh! that's a stupid way of liking, I think."

  "It may be stupid, but it's my way."

  "Don't you like me better when I cry than when I laugh?" askedElisabeth, who never could resist a personal application.

  "Good gracious, no! I always like you the same; but I'd much rather youlaughed than cried--it is so much jollier for you; in fact, it makes mepositively wretched to see you cry."

  "It always vexes me," Elisabeth said thoughtfully, "to read abouttournaments, because I think it was so horrid of the Queen of Beauty togive the prize to the knight who won."

  Christopher laughed with masculine scorn. "What nonsense! Who else couldshe have given it to?"

  "Why, to the knight who lost, of course. I often make up a tale tomyself that I am the Queen of Beauty at a tournament; and when thevictorious knight rides up to me with his visor raised, I just laugh athim, and say, 'You can have the fame and the glory and the cheers of thecrowd; that's quite enough for you!' And then I go down from my dais,right into the arena where the unhorsed knight is lying wounded, andtake off his helmet, and lay his head on my lap, and say, 'You shallhave the prize, because you have got nothing else!' So then that knightbecomes my knight, and always wears my colours; and that makes up to himfor having been beaten at the tournament, don't you see?"

  "It would have been a rotten sort of tourname
nt that was carried on inthat fashion; and your prize would have been no better than abooby-prize," persisted Christopher.

  "How silly you are! I'm glad I'm not a boy; I wouldn't have been asstupid as a boy for anything!"

  "Don't be so cross! You must see that the knight who wins is the bestknight; chaps that are beaten are not up to much."

  "Well, they are the sort I like best; and if you had any sense you'dlike them best, too." Whereupon Elisabeth removed the light of heroffended countenance from Christopher, and dashed off in a royal rage.

  As for him, he sighed over the unreasonableness of the weaker sex, butaccepted it philosophically as one of the rules of the game; and Chrisplayed games far too well to have anything but contempt for any one whorebelled against the rules of any game whatsoever. It was a man'sbusiness, he held, not to argue about the rules, but to play the gameaccording to them, and to win; or, if that was out of his power, to losepluckily and never complain.