LITMIR.BIZ

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selfishness, yet in self and for self alone she lived; and while she had force of will for any so-called ‘self-denial,’ and would fast herself cross and stupefied, and quite enjoy kneeling thinly clad and barefoot on the freezing chapel-floor on a winter’s morning, yet her fastidious delicacy revolted at sitting, like Honoria, beside the bed of the ploughman’s consumptive daughter, in a reeking, stifling, lean-to garret, in which had slept the night before, the father, mother, and two grown-up boys, not to mention a new-married couple, the sick girl, and, alas! her baby.  And of such bedchambers there were too many in Whitford Priors.

      The first evening that Lancelot came downstairs, Honoria clapped her hands outright for joy as he entered, and ran up and down for ten minutes, fetching and carrying endless unnecessary cushions and footstools; while Argemone greeted him with a cold distant bow, and a fine-lady drawl of carefully commonplace congratulations.  Her heart smote her though, as she saw the wan face and the wild, melancholy, moonstruck eyes once more glaring through and through her; she found a comfort in thinking his stare impertinent, drew herself up, and turned away; once, indeed, she could not help listening, as Lancelot thanked Mrs. Lavington for all the pious and edifying books with which the good lady had kept his room rather than his brain furnished for the last six weeks; he was going to say more, but he saw the colonel’s quaint foxy eye peering at him, remembered St. Francis de Sales, and held his tongue.

      But, as her destiny was, Argemone found herself, in the course of the evening, alone with Lancelot, at the open window.  It was a still, hot, heavy night, after long easterly drought; sheet-lightning glimmered on the far horizon over the dark woodlands; the coming shower had sent forward as his herald a whispering draught of fragrant air.

      ‘What a delicious shiver is creeping over those limes!’ said Lancelot, half to himself.

      The expression struck Argemone: it was the right one, and it seemed to open vistas of feeling and observation in the speaker which she had not suspected.  There was a rich melancholy in the voice;—she turned to look at him.

      ‘Ay,’ he went on; ‘and the same heat which crisps those thirsty leaves must breed the thunder-shower which cools them?  But so it is throughout the universe: every yearning proves the existence of an object meant to satisfy it; the same law creates both the giver and the receiver, the longing and its home.’

      ‘If one could but know sometimes what it is for which one is longing!’ said Argemone, without knowing that she was speaking from her inmost heart: but thus does the soul involuntarily lay bare its most unspoken depths in the presence of its yet unknown mate, and then shudders at its own abandon as it first tries on the wedding garment of Paradise.

      Lancelot was not yet past the era at which young geniuses are apt to ‘talk book’ at little.

      ‘For what?’ he answered, flashing up according to his fashion.  ‘To be;—to be great; to have done one mighty work before we die, and live, unloved or loved, upon the lips of men.  For this all long who are not mere apes and wall-flies.’

      ‘So longed the founders of Babel,’ answered Argemone, carelessly, to this tirade.  She had risen a strange fish, the cunning beauty, and now she was trying her fancy flies over him one by one.

      ‘And were they so far wrong?’ answered he.  ‘From the Babel society sprung our architecture, our astronomy, politics, and colonisation.  No doubt the old Hebrew sheiks thought them impious enough, for daring to build brick walls instead of keeping to the good old-fashioned tents, and gathering themselves into a nation instead of remaining a mere family horde; and gave their own account of the myth, just as the antediluvian savages gave theirs of that strange Eden scene, by the common interpretation of which the devil is made the first inventor of modesty.  Men are all conservatives; everything new is impious, till we get accustomed to it; and if it fails, the mob piously discover a divine vengeance in the mischance, from Babel to Catholic Emancipation.’

      Lancelot had stuttered horribly during the latter part of this most heterodox outburst, for he had begun to think about himself, and try to say a fine thing, suspecting all the while that it might not be true.  But Argemone did not remark the stammering: the new thoughts startled and pained her; but there was a daring grace about them.  She tried, as women will, to answer him with arguments, and failed, as women will fail.  She was accustomed to lay down the law à la Madame de Staël, to savants and non-savants and be heard with reverence, as a woman should be.  But poor truth-seeking Lancelot did not see what sex had to do with logic; he flew at her as if she had been a very barrister, and hunted her mercilessly up and down through all sorts of charming sophisms, as she begged the question, and shifted her ground, as thoroughly right in her conclusion as she was wrong in her reasoning, till she grew quite confused and pettish.—And then Lancelot suddenly shrank into his shell, claws and all, like an affrighted soldier-crab, hung down his head, and stammered out some incoherencies,—‘N-n-not accustomed to talk to women—ladies, I mean.  F-forgot myself.—Pray forgive me!’  And he looked up, and her eyes, half-amused, met his, and she saw that they were filled with tears.

      ‘What have I to forgive?’ she said, more gently, wondering on what sort of strange sportsman she had fallen.  ‘You treat me like an equal; you will deign to argue with me.  But men in general—oh, they hide their contempt for us, if not their own ignorance, under that mask of chivalrous deference!’ and then in the nasal fine ladies’ key, which was her shell, as bitter brusquerie was his, she added, with an Amazon queen’s toss of the head,—‘You must come and see us often.  We shall suit each other, I see, better than most whom we see here.’

      A sneer and a blush passed together over Lancelot’s ugliness.

      ‘What, better than the glib Colonel Bracebridge yonder?’

      ‘Oh, he is witty enough, but he lives on the surface of everything!  He is altogether shallow and blasé.  His good-nature is the fruit of want of feeling; between his gracefulness and his sneering persiflage he is a perfect Mephistopheles-Apollo.’

      What a snare a decently-good nickname is!  Out it must come, though it carry a lie on its back.  But the truth was, Argemone thought herself infinitely superior to the colonel, for which simple reason she could not in the least understand him.

      [By the bye, how subtly Mr. Tennyson has embodied all this in The Princess.  How he shows us the woman, when she takes her stand on the false masculine ground of intellect, working out her own moral punishment, by destroying in herself the tender heart of flesh, which is either woman’s highest blessing or her bitterest curse; how she loses all feminine sensibility to the under-current of feeling in us poor world-worn, case-hardened men, and falls from pride to sternness, from sternness to sheer inhumanity.  I should have honoured myself by pleading guilty to stealing much of Argemone’s character from The Princess, had not the idea been conceived, and fairly worked out, long before the appearance of that noble poem.]

      They said no more to each other that evening.  Argemone was called to the piano; and Lancelot took up the Sporting Magazine, and read himself to sleep till the party separated for the night.

      Argemone went up thoughtfully to her own room.  The shower had fallen, and the moon was shining bright, while every budding leaf and knot of mould steamed up cool perfume, borrowed from the treasures of the thundercloud.  All around was working the infinite mystery of birth and growth, of giving and taking, of beauty and use.  All things were harmonious—all things reciprocal without.  Argemone felt herself needless, lonely, and out of tune with herself and nature.

      She sat in the window, and listlessly read over to herself a fragment of her own poetry:—

SAPPHO

      She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;

      Above her glared the moon; beneath, the sea.

      Upon the white horizon Athos’ peak

      Weltered in burning haze; all airs were dead;

      The sicale slept among the tamarisk’s hair;

      The birds sat dumb and drooping.  Far below

      The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun:

      The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings;

      The

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