Windyridge Part 17

"Oh, please stop this!" I pleaded, but Rose said: "Let him ramble on,"

and he continued:

"The one whom I judge to be the elder is tall and well proportioned.

She has a fairly deep brow which indicates some intellectual power, but whether this is modified or intensified by cranial depressions and protuberances, a ma.s.s of dark hair, arranged in a fas.h.i.+on that beggars my feeble powers of description, hides from my eyes.

"Her mouth is firm, and set above a determined chin, which would lead me to conclude that she has a will of her own and is accustomed to exercise it; but her eyes are tender and pleading, and so near the reservoir of her emotions that the waters readily overflow, and this in some measure counteracts the qualities of the chin. She has a pretty wit and a ready tongue--usually--and has lived long enough to be convinced of her own powers; rather masterful with the world at large, but not mistress of herself."

"Thank you!" I interrupted. He bowed.

"She dresses with taste and has tidy and methodical habits; is ever ready with sympathy, but would never care deeply for anybody who did not show her a heap of affection."

"Do I cross your hand with silver?" I inquired.

He ignored my interruption and turned his whimsical gaze upon Rose.

"Her companion, whom I have had fewer opportunities of observing, is slight, fair, and small of stature. I should say she might be scheduled as 'dangerous,' for she flashes most unexpectedly. She is rather proud of her self-possession, and delights in appearing cool and unemotional, but in reality she is neither. She has simply cultivated repression for the sake of effect. She is intense in her likes and dislikes and quite capable of hating those whom she regards with aversion, whilst she would apotheosise anyone for whom she really cared. Her wit is more brilliant but also more superficial than that of her friend, and her mental outlook is clearer and consequently more optimistic. She prides herself on unconventionality, and is at heart the slave of conventionalism. In a word she is a paradox, but a very agreeable and fascinating one."

"I had much rather be a paradox than a paragon," said Rose; "but after your very inadequate delineation of my character I am trying to determine in which pigeon-hole of my carefully concealed emotions I am to docket you."

"Is that quite true, Miss Fleming?" inquired the Cynic, looking at her keenly. "I should have said you made up your mind on that point last evening."

The tan upon her cheeks and the cloak of twilight covered Rose's blushes to a large extent, but I am sure the colour deepened, and I am convinced the Cynic saw it.

He rose and gathered up the wraps. "It is getting chilly," he observed; "shall we be moving?"

I turned the conversation into another channel. "You are going to town this week-end. Is most of your time spent there?"

"Yes," he replied, "my work lies in London, though Broadbeck is my home, and I ran down very often, merely, I believe, to breathe the murky air and refresh my soul with the Yorks.h.i.+re burr. I go back refreshed without knowing why. I have no relatives here now, and few friends, but the few I have, though they do not guess it, are my greatest comfort."

"Comfort!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Rose; "what can you know of the need of comfort?

You, at any rate, are self-centred and self-possessed. You have evidently a sufficient income and lots of the good things of life; you are entirely your own master, and on the high-road to fame; what more can you want?"

"Much," he replied simply; "and chiefly the sympathy which understands without explanations, and I get that only amongst my own folk. Do you know what that means? I have all the things you speak of: an increasing practice, an adequate income, good health, work that brings its own pleasure, an appreciation of life, consequent, no doubt, upon all these things, and an ardent longing for the relief which only real sympathy affords."

"I don't understand," said Rose, "notwithstanding my clear outlook on life."

"Do you?" The Cynic turned to me.

"Partially," I replied. "I can understand that none of these things satisfies in itself, and that you may have 'all things and abound,' and yet crave something you cannot work for and earn. But I should have thought your profession would have left you little time for sentiment, even if it afforded scope for it."

"You know, then, what my profession is?"

"You are a barrister, and, as Rose says, on the high-road to fame."

"Well," he replied, "I suppose that is true. I have as much work as I can undertake and I am well paid for it. Success, in that sense, has come, though slowly, and I am considered by many a lucky fellow. My future is said to be full of promise. I have, in the sense in which you spoke, 'all things and abound,' and when I step into the arena of conflict I am conscious of this, and of this only. In the heat of the fray the joy of battle comes upon me, and I am oblivious to all else.

"Then comes the after-thought, when the fray is ended and the arena has been swept clean for the next encounter. 'What lack I yet?' In the process of gaining the whole world am I going to lose myself? And the throng presses upon me and slaps my back and shakes my hand and shouts, 'Lucky dog!' into my ear, and I smile and look pleased--am pleased--until my Good Spirit drives me north, where the air is not soft, but biting, and men speak their minds without circ.u.mlocution and talk to you without deference, and give you a rough but kindly thrust if they think you need it. And there I find vision and comfort."

"You are utterly beyond me," said Rose. "You are soaring in the clouds miles above my head, and I cannot yet understand why you need comfort."

"Do you remember the young ruler who went away sorrowful?" he replied.

He was looking straight ahead, with a sad, fixed look in his eyes such as I had not seen there before. "I wonder if he went north and found a friend who understood, and from him gained comfort. You see, he _knew_ that something was lacking, but could not make up his mind to pay the price of the remedy, and even the Great Physician, whilst He gave the unwelcome prescription, pitied and loved him. The world called him a lucky dog, and he called himself one--with a reservation. And he wanted comfort; not the comfort which simply says, 'Buck-up, old man!'

but that which says, 'Brace-up, old man! If to sell all is the summum bonum, go, see the broker now and have done with it.' I wonder if he went eventually."

This was a new mood, and I glanced at the Cynic curiously. What had become of his cynicism? He was speaking quietly, contemplatively, and I felt sure there was meaning behind his words.

I said nothing, but Rose shook her head and muttered: "You speak in parables."

"Let me give you a parable," he continued. "Once upon a time a certain boy on leaving school left also a large number of marbles. These were claimed by two of his companions, and one of the two took possession of them. Then arose a great outcry on the part of him who would have taken them if he could, and he dragged his fellow before a council of their peers. The monitor was judge, and two sharp young fellows who were good in debate and of ready tongue acted as counsel for the claimant and his foe respectively.

"In the end judgment was given for the claimant, who carried off triumphantly the spoils of battle. And this judgment was given, not because the defendant had no right to the marbles, but because the lad who championed his cause was not so glib of speech nor so ready in argument as the fellow on the other side. Now it came to pa.s.s that the lad who won the case for his friend discovered soon after, what he had suspected all along--that the latter had no real claim to the marbles at all, and that they had been taken unjustly from the lad to whom they rightfully belonged. Yet the judgment of the court could not be upset.

What was he to do?"

"Nothing," replied Rose promptly.

"Why?" inquired the Cynic.

"It was the fortune of war," she answered; "the case was properly tried by an impartial court, and the defendant should have taken care to secure the services of the smarter advocate. It would be a lesson to him for the future. The world would never get on if everyone worried about things of that sort."

"And you?" he said, turning to me.

"Was there no chance of reversing the judgment?" I inquired.

"None: it was irrevocable."

"Had the plaintiff's counsel reason to suspect, did you say, that his client's cause was unjust before the verdict was given?"

"He became practically convinced of it as the case proceeded, but not absolutely certain. Yet he fought for his client with might and main."

"Had the plaintiff's counsel any marbles of his own?" I continued.

"He had. Quite a fair store."

"Sufficient to pay back the lad who had suffered the unjust judgment?"

"About sufficient; no more."

My heart thumped painfully, but I did not hesitate to answer: "I think he ought to have parted with his own marbles, and so redressed the wrong and saved his soul."

There was silence for a moment before the Cynic spoke: "I think so, too." Then, irrelevantly: "There is something about this northern air that is very bracing."

CHAPTER XVII

GRACE BECOMES DEJECTED