The Farringdons

by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler

  CHAPTER XV

  LITTLE WILLIE

  He that beginneth may not end, And he that breaketh can not mend.

  The summer which brought fame to Elisabeth, brought something betterthan fame to Willie Tremaine. All through the winter the child had grownvisibly feebler and frailer, and the warmer weather seemed to bringadditional weakness rather than strength. In vain did Alan try topersuade himself that Willie was no worse this year than he had beenother years, and that he soon would be all right again. As a matter offact, he soon was all right again; but not in the way which his fathermeant.

  Caleb Bateson's wisdom had been justified. Through his passionate lovefor little Willie, Alan had drawn near to the kingdom of God; not as yetto the extent of formulating any specific creed or attaching himself toany special church--that was to come later; but he had learned, by themystery of his own fatherhood, to stretch out groping hands toward thegreat Fatherhood that had called him into being; and by his own love forhis suffering child to know something of the Love that passethknowledge. Therefore Alan Tremaine was a better and wiser man than hehad been in times past. A strong friendship had gradually grown upbetween himself and Christopher Thornley; and it was a friendship whichwas good for both of them. Though Christopher never talked about hisreligious beliefs, he lived them; and it is living epistles such as thiswhich are best known and read of all thoughtful men, and which--far morethan all the books and sermons ever written--are gradually convertingthe kingdoms of this world into the kingdoms of our Lord and of HisChrist. Alan would have refuted--to his own satisfaction, if not toChristopher's--any arguments which the latter might have brought forwardin favour of Christianity; but he could not refute the evidence of alife which could never have been lived but for that Other Life lived inJudaea nineteen centuries ago. Perhaps his friendship with Christopherdid as much for Alan as his love for Willie in opening his eyes to thehidden things of God.

  The intercourse with the Tremaines was, on the other hand, of greatadvantage to Christopher, as it afforded him the opportunity of meetingand mixing with men as clever and as cultivated as himself, which is notalways easy for a lonely man in a provincial town who devotes hisloneliness to intellectual pursuits. Christopher was fast becoming oneof the most influential men in Mershire; and his able management of theOsierfield had raised those works to a greater height of prosperity thanthey had ever attained before, even in the days of William and JohnFarringdon.

  But now the shadows were darkening around Alan Tremaine, as day by dayWillie gradually faded away. Felicia, too, at last awoke to the realstate of the case, and, in her way, was almost as anxious as herhusband.

  During the spring-time, as Willie's life grew shorter with thelengthening days, the child's chiefest delight lay in visits fromChristopher. For Elisabeth's sake Christopher had always felt aninterest in little Willie. Had not her dear hands fondled the child,before they were too busy to do anything but weave spells to charm thewhole world? And had not her warm heart enfolded him, before her successand her fame had chilled its fires? For the sake of the Elisabeth thatused to be, Christopher would always be a friend to Willie; and he didnot find it hard to love the child for his own sake, since Christopherhad great powers of loving, and but little to expend them upon.

  As Willie continually asked for Elisabeth, Felicia wrote and told herso; and the moment she found she was wanted, Elisabeth came down to theWillows for a week--though her fame and the London season were alike attheir height--and went every day to see Willie at the Moat House. Heloved to have her with him, because she talked to him about things thathis parents never mentioned to him; and as these things were drawingnearer to Willie day by day, his interest in them unconsciouslyincreased. He and she had long talks together about the country on theother side of the hills, and what delightful times they would have whenthey reached it: how Willie would be able to walk as much as he liked,and Elisabeth would be able to love as much as she wanted, and lifegenerally would turn out to be a success--a thing which it so rarelydoes on this side of the hills.

  Christopher, as a rule, kept away from the Moat House when Elisabethwas there; he thought she did not wish to see him, and he was not thetype of man to go where he imagined he was not wanted; but one afternoonthey met there by accident, and Christopher inwardly blessed the Fatewhich made him do the very thing he had so studiously refrained fromdoing. He had been sitting with Tremaine, and she with Felicia andWillie; and they met in the hall on their way out.

  "Are you going my way?" asked Elisabeth graciously, when they had shakenhands. It was dull at Sedgehill after London, and the old flirtingspirit woke up in her and made her want to flirt with Christopher again,in spite of all that had happened. With the born flirt--as with all bornplayers of games--the game itself is of more importance than thepersonality of the other players; which sometimes leads to unfortunatemistakes on the part of those players who do not rightly understand therules of the game.

  "Yes, Miss Farringdon, I am," said Christopher, who would have beengoing Elisabeth's way had that way led him straight to ruin. With himthe personality of the player--in this case, at least--matteredinfinitely more than any game she might choose to play. As long as hewas talking to Elisabeth, he did not care a straw what they were talkingabout; which showed that he really was culpably indifferent to--if notabsolutely ignorant of--the rules of the game.

  "Then we might as well walk together." And Elisabeth drew on her longSuede gloves and leisurely opened her parasol, as they strolled down thedrive after bidding farewell to the Tremaines.

  Christopher was silent from excess of happiness. It was so wonderful tobe walking by Elisabeth's side again, and listening to her voice, andwatching the lights and shadows in those gray eyes of hers whichsometimes were so nearly blue. But Elisabeth did not understand hissilence; she translated it, as she would have translated silence on herown part, into either boredom or ill-temper, and she resented itaccordingly.

  "You are very quiet this afternoon. Aren't you going to talk to me?" shesaid; and Christopher's quick ear caught the sound of the irritation inher voice, though he could not for the life of him imagine what he haddone to bring it there; but it served to silence him still further.

  "Yes--yes, of course I am," he said lamely; "what shall we talk about? Iam afraid there is nothing interesting to tell you about the Osierfield,things are going on so regularly there, and so well."

  How exactly like Christopher to begin to talk about business when shehad given him the chance to talk about more interestingsubjects--herself, for instance, Elisabeth thought; but he never had amind above sordid details! She did not, of course, know that at thatidentical moment he was wondering whether her eyes were darker than theyused to be, or whether he had forgotten their exact shade; he couldhardly have forgotten their colour, he decided, as there had never beena day when he had not remembered them since he saw them last; so theymust actually be growing darker.

  "I'm glad of that," said Elisabeth coldly, in her most fine-ladylikemanner.

  "It was distinctly kind of you to find time to run down here, in themidst of your London life, to see Willie! He fretted after you sadly,and I am afraid the poor little fellow is not long for this world." AndChristopher sighed.

  Elisabeth noted the sigh and approved of it. It was a comfort to findthat the man had feelings of any sort, she said to herself, even thoughonly for a child; that was better than being entirely immersed inself-interest and business affairs.

  So they talked about Willie for a time, and the conversation ran moresmoothly--almost pleasantly.

  Then they talked about books; and Elisabeth--who had grown into thehabit of thinking that nobody outside London knew anything--wassurprised to find that Christopher had read considerably more books thanshe had read, and had understood them far more thoroughly. But this partof the conversation was inclined to be stormy; since Christopher as arule disliked the books that Elisabeth liked, and this she persisted inregarding as tantamount to disliking herself.

&n
bsp; Whereupon she became defiant, and told stories of her life in London ofwhich she knew Christopher would disapprove. There was nothing in thefacts that he could possibly disapprove of, so she coloured them upuntil there was; and then, when she had succeeded in securing hisdisapproval, she was furious with him on account of it. Which wasmanifestly unfair, as Christopher in no way showed the regret which hecould not refrain from experiencing, as he listened to Elisabeth makingherself out so much more frivolous and heartless than she really was.

  "This is the first time I have had an opportunity of congratulating youon your success," he said to her at last; "we are all very proud of itat Sedgehill; but, believe me, there is no one who rejoices in it atithe as much as I do, if you will allow me to say so."

  Elisabeth was slightly mollified. She had been trying all the time, asshe was so fond of trying years ago, to divert the conversation intomore personal channels; and Christopher had been equally desirous ofkeeping it out of the same. But this sounded encouraging.

  "Thank you so much," she answered; "it is very nice of you all to bepleased with me! I always adored being admired and praised, if youremember."

  Christopher remembered well enough; but he was not going to tell thiscrushing fine lady how well he remembered. If he had not exposed hisheart for Elisabeth to peck at in the old days, he certainly was notgoing to expose it now; then she would only have been scientificallyinterested--now she would probably be disdainfully amused.

  "I suppose you saw my picture in this year's Academy," Elisabeth added.

  "Saw it? I should think I did. I went up to town on purpose to see it,as I always do when you have pictures on view at any of the shows."

  "And what did you think of it?"

  Christopher was silent for a moment; then he said--

  "Do you want me to say pretty things to you or to tell you the truth?"

  "Why, the truth, of course," replied Elisabeth, who considered that thetwo things were synonymous--or at any rate ought to be.

  "And you won't be angry with me, or think me impertinent?"

  "Of course not," answered Elisabeth, who most certainly would; andChristopher--not having yet learned wisdom--believed her.

  "I thought it was a distinctly powerful picture--a distinctly remarkablepicture--and if any one but you had painted it, I should have beendelighted with it; but somehow I felt that it was not quite up to yourmark--that you could do, and will do, better work."

  For a second Elisabeth was dumbfounded with amazement and indignation.How dare this one man dispute the verdict of London? Then she said--

  "In what way do you think the work could have been done better?"

  "That is just what I can't tell you; I wish I could; but I'm not anartist, unfortunately. It seems to me that there are other people (notmany, I admit, but still some) who could have painted that picture;while you are capable of doing work which no one else in the world couldpossibly do. Naturally I want to see you do your best, and am notsatisfied when you do anything less."

  Elisabeth tossed her head. "You are very hard to please, Mr. Thornley."

  "I know I am, where your work is concerned; but that is because I haveformed such a high ideal of your powers. If I admired you less, I shouldadmire your work more, don't you see?"

  But Elisabeth did not see. She possessed the true artist-spirit whichcraves for appreciation of its offspring more than for appreciation ofitself--a feeling which perhaps no one but an artist or a mother reallyunderstands. Christopher, being neither, did not understand it in theleast, and erroneously concluded that adoration of the creator absolvesone from the necessity of admiration of the thing created.

  "I shall never do a better piece of work than that," Elisabeth retorted,being imbued with the creative delusion that the latest creation is ofnecessity the finest creation. No artist could work at all if he did notbelieve that the work he was doing--or had just done--was the best pieceof work he had ever done or ever should do. This is because his work,however good, always falls short of the ideal which inspired it; and,while he is yet working, he can not disentangle the ideal from thereality. He must be at a little distance from his work until he can dothis properly; and Elisabeth was as yet under the influence of thatcreative glamour which made her see her latest picture as it should berather than as it was.

  "Oh, yes, you will; you will fulfil my ideal of you yet. I cherish nodoubts on that score."

  "I can't think what you see wrong in my picture," said Elisabethsomewhat pettishly.

  "I don't see anything wrong in it. Good gracious! I must have expressedmyself badly if I conveyed such an impression to you as that, and youwould indeed be justified in writing me down an ass. I think it is awonderfully clever picture--so clever that nobody but you could everpaint a cleverer one."

  "Well, I certainly couldn't. You must have formed an exaggeratedestimate of my artistic powers."

  "I think not! You can, and will, paint a distinctly better picture someday."

  "In what way better?"

  "Ah! there you have me. But I will try to tell you what I mean, though Ispeak as a fool; and if I say anything very egregious, you must let myignorance be my excuse, and pardon the clumsy expression of myintentions because they are so well meant. It doesn't seem to me to beenough for anybody to do good work; they must go further, and do thebest possible work in their power. Nothing but one's best is reallyworth the doing; the cult of the second-best is always a degrading formof worship. Even though one man's second-best be intrinsically superiorto the best work of his fellows, he has nevertheless no right to offerit to the world. He is guilty of an injustice both to himself and theworld in so doing."

  "I don't agree with you. This is an age of results; and the world'sbusiness is with the actual value of the thing done, rather than withthe capabilities of the man who did it."

  "You are right in calling this an age of results, Miss Farringdon; butthat is the age's weakness and not its strength. The moment men begin tojudge by results, they judge unrighteous judgment. They confound thegreat man with the successful man; the saint with the famous preacher;the poet with the writer of popular music-hall songs."

  "Then you think that we should all do our best, and not bother ourselvestoo much as to results?"

  "I go further than that; I think that the mere consideration of resultsincapacitates us from doing our best work at all."

  "I don't agree with you," repeated Elisabeth haughtily. But,nevertheless, she did.

  "I daresay I am wrong; but you asked me for my candid opinion and I gaveit to you. It is a poor compliment to flatter people--far too poor everto be paid by me to you; and in this case the simple truth is a fargreater compliment than any flattery could be. You can imagine what ahigh estimate I have formed of your powers, when so great a picture asThe Pillar of Cloud fails to satisfy me."

  The talk about her picture brought to Elisabeth's mind the remembranceof that other picture which had been almost as popular as hers; and,with it, the remembrance of the man who had painted it.

  "I suppose you have heard nothing more about George Farringdon's son,"she remarked, with apparent irrelevance. "I wonder if he will ever turnup?"

  "Oh! I hardly think it is likely now; I have quite given up all ideas ofhis doing so," replied Christopher cheerfully.

  "But supposing he did?"

  "In that case I am afraid he would be bound to enter into his kingdom.But I really don't think you need worry any longer over that unpleasantcontingency, Miss Farringdon; it is too late in the day; if he weregoing to appear upon the scene at all, he would have appeared beforenow, I feel certain."

  "You really think so?"

  "Most assuredly I do. Besides, it will not be long before the limit oftime mentioned by your cousin is reached; and then a score of GeorgeFarringdon's sons could not turn you out of your rights."

  For a moment Elisabeth thought she would tell Christopher about hersuspicions as to the identity of Cecil Farquhar. But it was as yetmerely a suspicion, and she knew by experien
ce how ruthlesslyChristopher pursued the line of duty whenever that line was pointed outto him; so she decided to hold her peace (and her property) a littlelonger. But she also knew that the influence of Christopher was even yetso strong upon her, that, when the time came, she should do the rightthing in spite of herself and in defiance of her own desires. And thisknowledge, strange to say, irritated her still further against theinnocent and unconscious Christopher.

  The walk from the Moat House to Sedgehill was a failure as far as there-establishment of friendly relations between Christopher and Elisabethwas concerned, for it left her with the impression that he was lessappreciative of her and more wrapped up in himself and his own opinionsthan ever; while it conveyed to his mind the idea that her success hadonly served to widen the gulf between them, and that she was moreindifferent to and independent of his friendship than she had ever beenbefore.

  Elisabeth went back to London, and Christopher to his work again, andlittle Willie drew nearer and nearer to the country on the other side ofthe hills; until one day it happened that the gate which leads into thatcountry was left open by the angels, and Willie slipped through it andbecame strong and well. His parents were left outside the gate, weeping,and at first they refused to be comforted; but after a time Alan learnedthe lesson which Willie had been sent to teach him, and saw plain.

  "Dear," he said to his wife at last, "I've got to begin life over againso as to go the way that Willie went. The little chap made me promise tomeet him in the country over the hills, as he called it; and I've neverbroken a promise to Willie and I never will. It will be difficult forus, I know; but God will help us."

  Felicia looked at him with sad, despairing eyes. "There is no God," shesaid; "you have often told me so."

  "I know I have; that was because I was such a blind fool. But now Iknow that there is a God, and that you and I must serve Him together."

  "How can we serve a myth?" Felicia persisted.

  "He is no myth, Felicia. I lied to you when I told you that He was."

  And then Felicia laughed; the first time that she had laughed sinceWillie's death, and it was not a pleasant laugh to hear. "Do you thinkyou can play pitch-and-toss with a woman's soul in that way? Well, youcan't. When I met you I believed in God as firmly as any girl believed;but you laughed me out of my faith, and proved to me what a string oflies and folly it all was; and then I believed in you as firmly asbefore I had believed in God, and I knew that Christianity was a fable."

  Alan's face grew very white. "Good heavens! Felicia, did I do this?"

  "Of course you did, and you must take the consequences of your ownhandiwork; it is too late to undo it now. Don't try to comfort me, evenif you can drug yourself, with fairy-tales about meeting Willie again. Ishall never see my little child again in this life, and there is noother."

  "You are wrong; believe me, you are wrong." And Alan's brow was dampwith the anguish of his soul.

  "It is only what you taught me. But because you took my faith away fromme, it doesn't follow that you can give it back to me again; it has goneforever."

  "Oh, Felicia, Felicia, may God and you and Willie forgive me, for I cannever forgive myself!"

  "I can not forgive you, because I have nothing to forgive; you did me nowrong in opening my eyes. And God can not forgive you, because therenever was a God; so you did Him no wrong. And Willie can not forgiveyou, because there is no Willie now; so you did him no wrong."

  "My dearest, it can not all have gone from you forever; it will comeback to you, and you will believe as I do."

  Felicia shook her head. "Never; it is too late. You have taken away myLord, and I know not where you have laid Him; and, however long I live,I shall never find Him again."

  And she went out of the room in the patience of a great despair, andleft her husband alone with his misery.