Geoffrey Hamstead Part 20

"Just so," answered Geoffrey lightly. "There's the rub. How's a fellow to cultivate a great happiness when he never can catch up to it. I don't know of any path in which I have not sought for the jade, but I can look back upon a life largely devoted to this chase and honestly say that beyond a few gleams of poor triumph I never think of my existence except as a period during which I have been forced to kill time."

"That is because you are not spiritually minded," said Margaret, smiling.

"I suppose you mean consistently spiritually minded," said Geoffrey. "No doubt some who live for an exalted hereafter may sometimes know what actual joy is, but this can only approach continuity where one has great imaginative ambition and weak primitive leanings. For most people the chances of happiness in spirituality are not good. Happily, the savage mind can not grasp the intended meaning of either the promised rewards or punishments continually, if at all; and this inability saves them from going mad. Of course the more men improve themselves the more they may rejoice, both for themselves and their posterity, but mere varnished savages like myself have a poor chance to gain happiness in consistent spirituality. It is foolish to suppose that we are free agents. A high morality and its own happiness are an heirloom--a desirable thing--which our forefathers have constructed for us."

"I have sometimes thought," said Margaret, "that if happiness depends upon one's goodness it is not necessarily that goodness which we are taught to recognize as such. Goodness seems to be relative and quite changeable among different people. Some of the best people under the Old Testament would not s.h.i.+ne as saints under the New Testament, yet the older people were doubtless happy enough in their beliefs. Desirable observances necessary to a Mohammedan's goodness are not made requisite in any European faith, and yet our people are not unhappy on this account. n.o.body can doubt that pagan priests were, and are, completely happy when weltering in the blood of their fellow-creatures, and, if it be true that conscience is divinely implanted in all men, that under divine guidance it is an infallible judge between good and evil, that one may be happy when his conscience approves his actions, and that therefore happiness comes from G.o.d, how is it that the pagan priest while at such work is able to think himself holy and to rejoice in it with clearest conscience? It would seem, from this, that there must be different goodnesses diametrically opposed to each other which are equally-pleasing to Him and equally productive of happiness to individuals."

Geoffrey smiled at her, as they talked on in their usual random way, for it seemed that she was capable of piecing her knowledge together in the same sequence (or disorder) that he did himself. One is well-disposed toward a mind whose processes are similar to one's own. He smiled, too, at her attempts to reconcile facts with the idea of beneficence toward individuals on the part Of the powers behind nature. For his part, he had abandoned that attempt.

"I have a rule," he said, "which seems to me to explain a good deal, namely, if a person can become persuaded that he is rendered better or more spiritual by following out his natural desires, he is one of the happiest of men. The pagan priest you mentioned was gratifying his natural desires, his love of power and love of cruelty--which in conjunction with his beliefs made him feel more G.o.dly. Mohammed built his vast religion on the very corner-stone of this rule. Priests are taught from the beginning to guard and increase the power of the Church.

This is their first great trust, and it becomes a pa.s.sion. Their natural love of power is utilized for this purpose. For this object, history tells us that no human tie is too sacred to be torn asunder and trampled on. Natural love of dominion in a man can be trained into such perfect accord with the desired dominion of a priesthood that he may feel not only happy but spiritually improved in carrying out anything his Church requires him to do--no matter what that may be."

Geoffrey-stopped, as he noticed that Margaret shuddered. "You are feeling cold," he said.

"No, I was only thinking of some of the priests' faces. They terrify me so. I don't want to interrupt you, but what do you think makes them look like that?"

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know," he answered. "Perhaps interpreting the supernatural has with some of them a bad effect upon the countenance. All one can say is that many of them bear in their faces what in other cla.s.ses of men I consider to be unmistakable signs that their greatest happiness consists in something which must be concealed from the public." Hampstead spoke with the tired smile of one who on an unpleasant subject thinks more than he will say.

"Let us not speak of them. They make me think of Violet Keith, and all that sort of thing. Go back to what you were saying. It seems to me that the most refined and educated followers of different faiths do not gain happiness in spirituality in the way you suggest. Your rule does not seem to apply to them."

"I think it does," answered Geoffrey, with some of that abruptness which in a man's argument with a woman seems to accept her as a worthy antagonist from the fact that politeness is a trifle forgotten. "You refer to men whose mental temperament is stronger in controlling their daily life than any other influence--men with high heads, who seem made of moral powers--ideality, conscientiousness, and all the rest of them.

They have got the heirloom I spoke of. They are gentle from their family modification. These few, indeed, can, I imagine, be happy in religion, for this reason. There has been in their families for many generations a production of mental activity, which exists more easily in company with a high morality than with satisfactions which would only detract from it. With such men it may be said that their earlier nature has partly changed into what the rule applies to equally well. With ordinary social pressure and their own temperaments they would still, even without religion, be what they are; because any other mode of life does not sufficiently attract them. Their ancestors went through what we are enduring now."

"But," said Margaret--and she continued to offer some objections, chiefly to lead Geoffrey to talk on. However incomplete his reasoning might be, his strong voice was becoming music to her. She did not wish it to stop. Both her heart and her mind seemed impelled toward both him and his way of thinking by the echo of the resonant tones which she heard within herself. Being a woman, she found this pleasant. "But," she said, "people who are most imperfect surely may have great happiness in their faith?"

"At times. Yes," replied he. "But their happiness is temporary, and necessarily alternates with an equal amount of misery. The loss of a hope capable of giving joy must certainly bring despair in the same proportion, inversely, as the hope was precious. All ordinary men with any education alternate more or less between the enjoyment of the energetic mental life and the duller following of earlier instincts, and when, in the mental life, they allow themselves to delight in immaterial hopes and visions, there is unhappiness when the brain refuses to conjure up the vision, and most complete misery after there has occurred that transition to their older natures which must at times supervene, unless they possess the great moral heirloom, or perhaps a refining bodily infirmity to a.s.sist them. Ah! this struggle after happiness has been a long one. Solomon, and all who seek it in the way he did, find their mistake. Pleasure without ideality is a paltry thing and leads to disgust. Religion-makers have hovered about the idea contained in my rule to make their creeds acceptable. In this idea Mohammed pleased many. Happiness in spirituality can only be continuous for men when they come to have faces like some pa.s.sionless but tender-hearted women, and still retain the wish to imagine themselves as something like G.o.ds."

Geoffrey paused.

"Go on," said Margaret, turning her eyes slowly from looking at the running water without seeing it. She said very quietly: "Go on; I like to hear you talk." The spell of his presence was upon her. There was the soft look in her eyes of a woman who is beginning to find it pleasant to be in some way compelled, and for a moment her tones, looks, and words seemed to be all a part of a musical chord to interpret her response to his influence. Geoffrey looked away. The time for trusting himself to look into the eyes that seemed very sweet in their new softness had not arrived. For the first time he felt certain that he had affected her favorably. Almost involuntarily he took a couple of steps to the water's edge and back again.

"What is there more to say?" said he, smiling. "We neither hope very much nor fear very much nowadays. Men who have no scientific discovery in view or who can not sufficiently idealize their lives gradually cease expecting to be very happy. To men like myself religions are a more or less developed form of delusion, bringing most people joy and despair alternately and leading others to insanity. We know that religions commenced in fear and in their later stages have been the result of a seeking for happiness and consolation. To us the idea of immortality is but a development of the inherent conceit we notice in the apes. We do not allow ourselves the pleasing fantasy that because brain power multiplies itself and evolves quickly we are to become as G.o.ds in the future. If we do not hope much neither do we despair. Still, there is a capacity for joy within us which sometimes seems to be cramped by the level and unexciting mediocrity of existence. We do not readily forget the beautiful hallucinations of our youth; and for most of us there will, I imagine, as long as the pulses beat, be an occasional and too frequent yearning for a joy able to lift us out of our humdrum selves."

Margaret felt a sort of sorrow for Geoffrey. Although he spoke lightly, something in his last words struck a minor chord in her heart. "Your words seem too sad," she said after a pause.

"I do not remember speaking sadly," said he.

"No; but to believe all this seems sad when we consider the joyful prospects of others. You seem to put my vague ideas into coherent shape.

The things you have said seem to be correct, and yet" (here she looked up brightly) "somehow they don't seem to exactly apply to me. I never had strong hopes nor visions about immortality. They never seemed necessary for my happiness. Small things please me. I am nearly always fairly happy. Small things seem worth seeking and small pleasures worth cultivating."

"Because you have not lived your life. Do you imagine that you will always be content with small pleasures?" asked Geoffrey quickly as he watched her thoughtful face.

Margaret suddenly felt constraint. After the many and long interviews she had had with Geoffrey she had always come away feeling as if she had learned something. What it was that she had learned might have been hard for her to say. His conversation seemed to her to have a certain width and scope about it, and to her he seemed to grasp generalities and present them in his own condensed form; but she had been unconsciously learning more than was contained in his conversation. His words generally appealed in some way to her intellect; but tones of voice go for a good deal. Perhaps in making love the chief use of words is first to attract the attention of the other person. Perhaps they do not amount to much and could be dispensed with entirely, for we see that a dozen suitors may unsuccessfully plead their cause with a young woman in similar words until some one appears with tones of voice to which she vibrates. Perhaps it matters little what he says if he only continues to speak--to make her vibrate. Certainly Cupid studied music before he ever studied etymology. Hampstead had never said a word to her about love, but the resonant tones, his concentration, and the magnetism of his presence, were doing their work without any usual formulas.

The necessity of answering his question now brought the idea to her with a rush that Geoffrey had taught her perhaps too much--that he had taught her things different from what she thought she was learning--that the simplicity of her life would never be quite the same again. She became conscious of a movement in her pulses before unknown to her that made her heart beat like a prisoned bird against its cage, that made her whole being seem to strain forward toward an unknown joy which left all the world behind it. In the whirl of feeling came the impulse to conceal her face lest he should detect her thoughts, and she bent her head to arrange her lace shawl, as if preparatory to going away. She looked off over the water, so that she could answer more freely. Her answer came haltingly.

"Something tells me," she said, "that the small pleasures I have known will not always be enough for me." Then faster: "But, of course, all young people feel like this now and then. I think our conversation has excited me a little."

She arose, and walked a step or two, trying to quell the tumult within her.

"We must be going. It is late," she said in a way that showed her self-command.

Geoffrey arose also, to go away, and they walked to the higher ground.

Suddenly Margaret felt that for some reason she wished to remember the appearance of this place for all her life, and she turned to view it again. The moon was silvering the tracery of vines and foliage and the surface of the twisting water, and giving dark-olive tones to the shadowed underbrush close by. The large hotels could be seen through a gap in the islands with their many lights twinkling in the distance; a lighthouse, not far off, sent a red gleam twirling and twisting across the current toward them, and a whip-poor-will was giving forth its notes, while the waltz music from the far-away island floated dreamily on the soft evening breeze. Geoffrey said nothing. He, too, was under the influence of the scene. For once he was afraid to speak to a woman--afraid to venture what he had to say--to win or lose all. He thought it better to wait, and stood beside her almost trembling. But Margaret had had no experience in dealing with the new feelings that warred for mastery within her, and she showed one of her thoughts, as if in soliloquy. She was too innocent. The vague pressures were too great to allow her to be silent, and the words came forth with hasty fervor.

"No, no! You must be wrong when you say there is nothing in the world worth living for?"

"No, not so," interrupted Geoffrey. "I did not say that. I said that life, for many of us, was mediocre, because ideals were scarce and imaginations did not find scope. But there is a better life--I know there is--the better life of sympathy--of care--of joy--of love."

As she listened, each deep note that Geoffrey separately brought forth filled her with an overwhelming gladness. When he spoke slowly of sympathy, care, joy, and love, the words were freighted with the musical notes of a strong man's pa.s.sion, and they seemed to bring a new meaning to her, one deeper than they had ever borne before.

Earth and heaven seemed one, Life a glad trembling on the outer edge Of unknown rapture.

What a transparent confession the love of a great nature may be suddenly betrayed into! The tears welled up into Margaret's eyes, and, partly to check the speech that moved her too strongly, and partly to steady herself, and chiefly because she did not know what she was doing, she laid her hand upon his arm.

He trembled as he tried to continue calmly with what he had been saying.

He did not move his arm or take her hand, but her touch was like electricity.

"I know there is such a life--a perfect life--and that there might be such a life for me, a life that more than exhausts my imagination to conceive of. You were wrong in saying that I said--that is, I only said--oh, I can't remember what I said--I only know that I wors.h.i.+p you, Margaret--that you are my heaven, my hereafter--the only good I know--with power to make or mar, to raise me from myself and to gild the whole world for me--"

Margaret put up her hand to stay the torrent of his utterance. She had to. For, now that he gave rein to his wish, the forceful words seemed to overwhelm her and seize and carry off her very soul. He took her hand between both of his, and, still fearful lest she might give some reason for sending him away, he pleaded for himself in low tones that seemed to bring her heart upon her lips, and when he said: "Could you care for me enough to let me love you always, Margaret?" she looked half away and over the landscape to control her voice. Her tall, full figure rose, like an Easter lily, from the folds of the lace shawl which had fallen from her shoulders. Her eyes, dewy with overmuch gladness and wide with new emotions, turned to Geoffrey's as she said, half aloud--as if wondering within herself:

"It must be so, I suppose."

When she looked at him thus, Geoffrey was beyond speech. He drew her nearer to him, touching her reverently. He did not know himself in the fullness Of the moment. To find himself incoherent was new to him. She was so peerless--such a vision of loveliness in the moonlight! The thought that he now had a future before him--that soon she would be with him for always--that soon they would be the comfort, the sympathy, the cheer, and the joy of one another! It was all unspeakable.

Margaret placed both her hands upon his shoulder as he drew her nearer, and, as she laid her cheek upon her wrists, she said again, as if still wondering within herself:

"It must be so, I suppose. I did not know that I loved you, Geoffrey.

Oh, why are you so masterful?"

A little while after this they approached the island, where the ball was at its height, and it seemed to Margaret that all this illumination of Chinese lanterns, ascending in curving lines to the tree tops--that all the music, dancing, and gayety were part of the festival going on within her. As Geoffrey strode into the ball-room with Margaret on his arm he carried his head high. A man who appeared well in any garb, in evening dress he looked superb. Some who saw him that night never forgot how he seemed to typify the majesty of manhood, and how other people seemed dwarfed to insignificance when Margaret and he entered. If only a modified elasticity appeared in her step, the wonder was she did not skip down the room on her toes. They went toward Mrs. Dusenall, who came forward and took Margaret by the elbows and gave them a little shake.

"You naughty girl, how late you are! Dear child, how beautiful you look!

Where--?"

Some imp of roguery got into Margaret. She bent forward and whispered to her motherly friend.

"Dear mother," she whispered, "we landed on an island, and Geoffrey kissed me."

"Heavens!" cried Mrs. Dusenall, not knowing what to think. "Why--but of course it's all right. Of course he did, my dear--he could not do anything else--and so will I. And so you are engaged?"

At this Margaret tried to look grave and to shock Mrs. Dusenall again.