by W. W. Jacobs
That is gravely to our disadvantage. Overmuch in action, the man ofaffairs may win the admiration of a surface-seeing world; may capturethe benefits of strong purpose, of wealth, and of position. But he isin danger of utterly losing the fruits that only by the inner, theoriginal, and true self can be garnered.
Life presents for our pursuit two sets of treasures. The one may be hadby the labours of the hands; the other by exercise of the intellect--thetrue self. And at once this may be said: that the treasures heaped bythe hands soil the hands, and the stain sinks deep. The stain enters theblood and, thence oozing, pigments every part of the being--the face,the voice, the mind, the thoughts. For we cannot labour overlong in thefields without besweating the brow; and certainly we cannot ceaselesslytoil after the material treasures of life without gathering the tracesof that labour upon our souls. It stains, and the stain is ugly.
Coming to treasures stored by exercise of the intellect, the trueself, these also put their mark upon the possessor; but the action isdifferent and the results are different. Here the pigment that coloursthe life does not come from without but distils from within. Man doesnot stoop to rend these treasures from the earth; he rises to them. Theydo not bow; they uplift. They are not wrenched in trampling strugglefrom the sties where men battle for the troughs; they are absorbed fromthe truths of life that are as breezes upon the little hills. They arein the face of Nature and in Nature's heart; they are in the writtenthoughts of men whose thoughts rushed upward like flames, notdropped like plummet-stones--soared after truth and struck it to ourunderstanding, not made soundings for earthy possessions showing howthese might be gained.
Yet it is not to be urged that the quest of material treasures is tobe despised, or that life properly lived is life solely dreaming amongtruths. The writer who made the story of the Israelites sickening ofmanna, wrapped in legend the precept that man to live must work forlife. We are not living if we are not working. We cannot have strengthbut we win meat to make strength.
No; my protest is against the heaping of material treasure to theneglect of treasure stored by the true self. Material treasure is notours. We but have the enjoyment of it while we can defend it from theforces that constantly threaten it. Misfortune, sorrow, sickness--theseare ever in leash against us; may at any moment be slipped. Misfortunemay whirl our material treasures from us; sorrow or sickness may cankerthem, turn them to ashes in the mouth. They are not ours; we hold themupon sufferance. But the treasures of the intellect, the gift ofbeing upon nodding terms with truth, these are treasures that are ourimpregnable own. Nothing can filch them, nothing canker them: they areour own--imperishable, inexhaustible; never wanting when called upon;balm to heal the blows of adversity, specific against all things malign.Cultivate the perception of beauty, the knowledge of truth; learn todistinguish between the realities of life and the dross of life; and youhave a great shield of fortitude of which certainly man cannot rob you,and against which sickness, sorrow, or misfortune may strike tremendousblows without so much as bruising the real you.
And it is in the life that is called uneventful that there is the mostopportunity for storing these treasures of the intellect. Perhaps thereis also the greater necessity. In the dull round of things we are thrownin upon ourselves, and by every lightest thought and deed either arestrengthening that inner self or are sapping it. Either we are readingthe thoughts of men whose thoughts heap a priceless store within us,or we are reading that which--though we are unaware--vitiates and putsfurther and further beyond our grasp the truths of life; either we arewatching our lives and schooling them to feed upon thoughts and deedsthat will uplift them, or we are neglecting them, and allowing themto browse where they will upon the rank weeds of petty spites, pettyjealousies, petty gossipings and petty deeds. In action we may have notime to waste over this poisonous herbage; but in dulness most certainlywe do have the temptation--and as we resist or succumb so shall weconduct ourselves when the larger events of life call us into the lists.
CHAPTER II
Margaret Fishes; Mary Prays.
I.
Mary's first month at Herons' Holt was uneventful: need not be recorded.We are following the passage of the love 'twixt her and George; andwithin the radius of Mr. Marrapit's eye love durst not creep. She sawlittle of her George. They were most carefully circumspect in theirattitude one to another, and conscience made their circumspection treblystiff. There are politenesses to be observed between the inmates of ahouse, but my Mary and my George, in terror lest even these should bemisconstrued, studiously neglected them.
The aloofness troubled Margaret. This girl wrapped her sentiment aboutMary; delighting in one who, so pretty, so young, so gentle-voiced, mustface life in an alien home. The girls came naturally together, and itwas not long before Margaret bubbled out her vocation.
The talk was upon books. Margaret turned away her head; said in thevoice of one hurrying over a commonplace: "I write, you know."
She tingled for the "Do you?" from her companion, but it did not come,and this was very disappointing.
She stole a glance at Mary, sitting with a far-away expression in hereyes (the ridiculous girl had heard an engine whistle; knew it to be thetrain that was taking her George to London). Margaret stole a glance atMary; repeated louder: "I write, you know."
It fetched the delicious response. Mary started: "Do you?"
Margaret said hurriedly: "Oh, nothing worth speaking of."
Mary said: "Oh!"; gave her thoughts again to the train.
It was wretched of her. "Poems," said Margaret, and stressed the word"_Poems_."
Mary came flying back from the train. "Oh, how interesting that is!"
At once Margaret drew away. "Oh, it is nothing," she said, "nothing."She put her eyes upon the far clouds; breathed "Nothing" in a long sigh.
From this it was not a far step to reading, with terrible reluctance,her poems to Mary; nor from this again was it other than an obvious stepto telling of Bill. Her pretty verses were so clearly written at someheart which throbbed responsive, that Mary must needs put the question.It came after a full hour's reading--the poet sitting upon her bed in alitter of manuscripts, Mary in a low chair before her.
In a tremulous voice the poet concluded the refrain of an exquisiteverse:
"Beat for beat, your heart, my darling, Beats with mine. Skylarks carol, quick responsive, Love divine."
The poet gave a little gulp; laid down her paper.
Mary also gulped. From both their pretty persons emotion welled in agreat flood that filled the room.
"I'm sure that is written _to_ somebody," Mary breathed.
Margaret nodded. This girl was too ravished with the grip of the thingto be capable of words.
Mary implored: "Oh, do tell me!"
Then Margaret told the story of Bill--with intimate details and in thebeautiful phrases of the poet mind she told it, and the flooding emotionpiled upwards to the very roof.
Love has rightly been pictured as a naked babe. Men together willexamine a baby--if they must--with a bashful diffidence that pulls downthe clothes each time the infant kicks; women dote upon each inch of itschubby person. And so with love. Men will discuss their love--if theymust--with the most prudish decorum; women undress it.
It becomes essential, therefore, that what Margaret said to Mary mustnot be discovered.
When she had ceased she put out a hand for the price of her confidence:"And have you--are you--I know practically nothing about you, Mary,dear. _Do_ tell me, are _you_ in love?"
Bang went the gates of Mary's emotion. Here was awful danger. Shelaughed. "Oh, I've no time to fall in love, have I?"
Margaret sighed her sympathy; then gazed at Mary.
Mary read the gaze aright. These were women, and they read one anotherby knowledge of sex. Mary knew Margaret's gaze to be that of an archersighting at his mark, estimating the chances of a hit. She saw the arrowthat was to come speeding at her breast; gathered her emotions so thatshe should not fl
inch at the wound.
Margaret twanged the bow-string. "No time to fall in love?" shemurmured. She fitted the shaft; let fly. "Do you like George, dear?"
Mary stooped to her shoe-laces. Despite her preparations the arrow hadpierced, and she hid her face to hide the blood.
"George?" said she, head to floor.
"Yes, George. Do you like George?"
My Mary sat up, brazen. "George? Oh, you mean your cousin? I daresayhe's very nice. Practically I've never even spoken to him since I'vebeen here."
"I know. Of course he's very busy just now. Do you think you would likehim if you did know him?"
It was murderous work. Mary was beginning to quiver beneath the arrows;was in terror lest she should betray the secret. A desperate kick wasnecessary. She wildly searched for a foothold; found it; kicked:
"I'm sure I shouldn't like him."
The poet softly protested: "Oh why, Mary?"
"He's clean-shaven."
"And you don't like a--"
"I can't stand a--"
"But if he had a--"
"Oh, if he had a--Margaret, I hear Mr. Marrapit calling. I must fly."She fled.
Upon a sad little sigh the poet moved to her table; drew heliotropepaper towards her; wrote:
"Why are your hearts asunder, ye so fair?"
A thought came to her then, and she put her pen in her mouth; pursuedthe idea. That evening she walked to the gate and met George upon hisreturn. After a few paces, "George," she asked, "do you like Mary?"
George was never taken aback. "Mary? Mary who?"
"Miss Humfray."
"Oh, is her name Mary?"
"Of course it is." Margaret slipped her arm through George's; gazed upat him. "Do you like her, George?"
"Like whom?"
"Why, Mary--Miss Humfray."
"Oh, I think she's a little better than Mrs. Major--in some ways. Ifthat's what you mean."
Margaret sighed. Such mulish indifference was a dreadful thing to thisgirl. But she had set her heart on this romance.
"George, dear, I wish you would do something for me."
"Anything."
"How nice you are! Will you grow a moustache?"
She anxiously awaited the answer. George took his handkerchief from hispocket and wiped his eyes. He did not speak.
She asked him: "What is the matter?"
He said brokenly: "You know not what you ask. I cannot grow a moustache.It is my secret sorrow, my little cross. There is only one way. It isby pushing up the hairs from inside with the handle of a tooth-brushand tying a knot to prevent them slipping back. You have to do it everymorning, and I somehow can never remember it."
Margaret slipped her arm free; without a word walked to the house.
She was hurt. This girl had the artistic temperament, and the artistictemperament feels things most dreadfully. It even feels being keptwaiting for its meals.
II.
George followed the pained young woman into the house; set down in thehall the books he carried; left the house again; out through the gate,and so, whistling gaily along roads and lanes, came to the skirts ofan outlying copse. By disused paths he twisted this way and that toapproach, at length, a hut that once was cottage, whose dilapidated airadvertised long neglect.
It was a week after Mary's arrival at Herons' Holt that, quite bychance, George had stumbled upon this hut. He had taken his books intothe copse, had somehow lost his way in getting out, and through thickundergrowth had plumped suddenly upon the building. Curiosity had takenhim within, shown him an outer and an inner room, and, in the second, asight that had given him laughter; for he discovered there sundry emptybottles labelled "Old Tom," a glass, an envelope addressed to Mrs.Major. It was clear that in this deserted place--somehow chancedupon--the masterly woman had been wont, safe from disturbance, to meetthe rascal who, taken to Herons' Holt on that famous night, had sovillainously laid her by the heels.
Nothing more George had thought of the place until the morning of thisday when, leaving for hospital, his Mary had effected a brief whisperedmoment to tell him that Mr. Marrapit had thought her looking pale, hadtold her to take a long walk that afternoon. Immediately George gave herdirections for the hut; there he would meet her at five o'clock; therenot the most prying eye could reach them.
Now he approached noiselessly; saw his pretty Mary, back towards him,just within the threshold of the open door. It was their first secludedmeeting since she had come to Herons' Holt.
Upon tip-toe George squirmed up to her; hissed "I have thee, girl";sprang on his terrified Mary; hugged her to him.
"The first moment together in Paltley Hill!" he cried. "The first holykiss!"
His Mary wriggled. "George! You frightened me nearly out of my life.It's not holy. You're hurting me awfully."
"My child, it is holy. Trust in me."
"George, you _are_ hurting."
"Scorn that. It is delicious!"
He let her from his arms; but he held her hands, and for a space,looking at one another, they did not speak. Despite he was in wildspirits, despite her roguishness, for a space they did not speak. Hishands were below hers and about hers. The contact of their palms wasthe junction whence each literally could feel the other's spirit beingreceived and pouring inwards. The metals were laid true, and withouthitch or delay the delectable thrill came pouring; above, between theireyes, on wires invisible they signalled its safe arrival.
They broke upon a little laugh that was their utmost expression of theintoxication of this draught of love, just as a man parched with thirstwill with a little sigh put down the glass that has touched him back tovigour. Dumb while they drank, their innate earthiness made them dumbbefore effort to express the spiritual heights to which they had beenwhirled. In that moment when, spirit mingling with spirit through themedium of what we call love, all our baseness is driven out of us, weare nearest heaven. But our vocabulary being only fitted for the needsabout us, we have no words to express the elevation. Debase love and wecan speak of it; let it rush upwards to its apotheosis and we must bedumb.
With a little laugh they broke.
"Going on all right, old girl?" George asked.
"Splendidly."
"Happy?"
She laughed and said: "I will give the proper answer to that. How can Ibe other than happy, oh, my love, when daily I see your angel form?"
"I forgot that. Yes, you're a lucky girl in that way--very, very lucky.Beware lest you do not sufficiently prize your treasure. Cherish it,tend it, love it."
"Oh, don't fool, George. Whenever we have two minutes together you wastethem in playing the goat. Georgie, tell me--about your exam."
"To-morrow."
She was at once serious. "To-morrow?"
"To-morrow I thrust my angel form into the examination room. To-morrowmy angel voice trills in the examiners' ears."
"I thought you had a paper first, before the viva?"
"Do not snap me up, girl. I speak in metaphors. To-morrow my angel handglides my pen over the paper. On Thursday my angel tongue gives forth mywisdom with the sound of a tinkling cymbal."
"The paper to-morrow, the viva on Thursday?"
He bowed his angel head.
"George, don't, _don't_ fool. Are you nervous? Will you pass?"
"I shall rush, I shall bound. I shall hurtle through like a greatboulder."
"_Georgie!_ Will you?"
He dropped his banter. "I believe I shall, old girl. I really think Ishall. I've simply sweated my life out these weeks--all for you."
She patted his hand. "Dear old George! How I shall think of you! Andthen?"
"Then--why, then, we'll marry! Mary, I shall hear the result immediatelyafter the viva. Then I shall rush back here and tackle old Marrapit atonce. If he won't give me the money I think perhaps he'll lend it, andthen we'll shoot off to Runnygate and take up that practice and livehappily ever after."
With the brave ardour of youth they discussed the delectable picture;arranged the rooms they h
ad never seen; planned the daily life of whichthey had not the smallest experience.
Twice in our lives we can play at Make-Believe--once when we arechildren, once when we are lovers. And these are the happiest timesof our lives. We are not commoners then; we are emperors. We touch thesceptre and it is a magic wand. We rule the world, shaping it as wewill, dropping from between our fingers all the stony obstacles thatwould interfere with its plasticity. Between childhood and love, andbetween love and death, the world rules us and bruises us. But inchildhood, and again in love, we rule the world.
So they ruled their world.
III.
That night Mary prayed her George might pass his examination--a prayerto make us wise folk laugh. The idea of our conception of the Divinitydeliberately thrusting into George's mind knowledge that he otherwisehad not, the idea of the Divinity deliberately prompting the examinersto questions that George could answer--these are ludicrous to us inour wisdom. We have the superiority of my simple Mary in point ofintelligence; well, let us hug that treasure and make the most of it.Because we miss the sense of confidence with which Mary got from herknees; passed into her dreams. With our fine intellects we should lieawake fretting such troubles. These simple, stupid Marys just hand thetangle on and sleep comforted. They call it Faith.
Yes, but isn't it grand to be of that fine, brave, intellectual,hard-headed, business-like stamp that trusts nothing it cannot see andprove? Rather!