CHAPTER XIX.

Among the Wounded.

There were many who strove in the battle of life, Who shared in the struggle and joined in the strife And fought to their uttermost breath; But some stood aside while the battle rolled by, And lifted to heaven an agonized cry-- "We are wounded," they said, "to the death!"

"Wrexham," said Isabel to her lover the next day, as they were sitting in the drawing-room in Prince's Gate, "I am going to make you unhappy, but I cannot help it."

Lord Wrexham's face grew anxious. "I know what it is; you caught cold last night, and you fear you are going to be ill. I was afraid there was a draught all the time."

"No, it isn't that--it is something much worse," replied Isabel gently; she was very patient with Wrexham now.

"Then tell me the worst at once. I cannot bear suspense where you are concerned."

"Please don't mind very much, dear," said Isabel, laying her hand caressingly on his coat-sleeve, "but I cannot marry you."

Lord Wrexham turned very white. "Cannot marry me? What ever do you mean?"

"I mean that I have been deceiving myself all along, and that I do not really love you, though I admire and esteem and respect you with all my heart."

"But, my dearest, I never for a moment supposed that you did love me. I used sometimes to pretend to myself that you did, because it made me so happy; but I really knew all the time that it was absurd to expect a brilliant and attractive woman like you to fall in love with such a stupid old fellow as I am. I only asked to be allowed to love you; and I ask that still."

"But it isn't fair to take the best that you have to offer, and only to give you scraps in return," cried Isabel.

"I am the best judge of that; and surely if I am content it is all right."

"But it isn't all right, Wrexham; I love some one else."

Lord Wrexham shaded his face with his hand. "Well?" was all he said, but the voice in which he said it was not his own.

Isabel's eyes were full of pity as she looked at him. "I will be candid with you at last," she said, "but please remember that it was myself I was deceiving, and not you. Even I could not sink so low as to wilfully deceive such a good man as you are."

"My dear, do not excuse yourself to me. Remember that whatever you do or leave undone I shall never blame you, nor allow any one else to do so. My queen can do no wrong."

"I was angry with Paul Seaton because I thought he had ceased to love me," continued Isabel hurriedly, "I had no right to think so, but I got the idea into my head and it would not go. And I was so wild with anger and misery, that I said hard and cruel things to him that can never be forgiven; and I drove him out of my life, and pretended that I did not mind."

"My poor, wayward, petulant child!"

"And then I persuaded myself that I did not care for the deeper things of life, but could be happy with money and rank and pleasure and such trifles as these. And people flattered me and admired me, and I thought that I was content, and that my love for Paul had been only a girlish fancy."

Lord Wrexham drew his breath hard, but he did not speak.

"But after a time I found myself growing hard and bitter, and I knew that my youth was going, and that I had nothing to show for it. And then you came by, and offered me everything that society counts worth having. I was a woman of the world, and I knew that if I became Lady Wrexham my apparent failure would be changed into a glorious success. So I accepted you."

"I see."

"Yet I was not altogether base," Isabel went on; "I love you in a restful, prosaic kind of way; and I thought that that would be enough, and that the sort of love I had given to Paul was a dream of the past which I could never dream again. But I was wrong. My love for Paul Seaton is no half-forgotten vision, but the strongest thing in me; and I cannot marry any other man."

"My darling, I quite understand," said Lord Wrexham; "it was only natural that a dull man like myself should fail to win your love. You could not help it any more than I could, so we are neither of us to blame."

Isabel shook her head. "It was not that; it had nothing to do with you. Whatever you had been, it would have made no difference. You were not Paul, and that was all that mattered to me."

"But Mr. Seaton is a clever man and a very brilliant writer," said Lord Wrexham generously, though he took care to use the prefix _Mr._

"That has nothing to do with it either. He is clever, I admit, and kind and good; but so are scores of other men that I have known. I cannot tell you why I love him so much. I only know that to me he is the only man in the whole world, and always will be."

"My dear, I hope you will be very happy with him." And the kind voice trembled.

"Oh! no, there is no chance of that. I have offended him past all forgiveness. Please don't think I have broken off my engagement with you because I am going to marry my old lover. I shall not marry anybody, but shall count as one of society's failures; and people will pity me as they see me growing old all by myself. Yet I shall not be altogether hard and bitter, because I have tasted what love is like; and having once tasted it (even though I dashed the cup from my lips with my own hands) I can never drink of any other. But, oh! Wrexham, how can I ever forgive myself for having hurt you?" And then Isabel's torrent of words was stopped by a torrent of tears.

Lord Wrexham rose from his chair and laid his hand on her bowed head. "My dear, there must never be any question of forgiveness between you and me, for I was yours to do what you liked with. We both made a mistake--you in thinking that you could be content with me, and I in dreaming that I could make you happy. But if ever you get tired of growing old alone, remember that there are always one man's heart and hand waiting for you, if you should choose to take them."

And before Isabel could answer him he was gone.

"Always one man's heart and hand waiting for me, even when I grow old and horrid," she said to herself through her tears, "and he never even remembered that there was Vernacre and a coronet as well. How good he is, and what a gentleman!"

During the next few weeks Isabel devoted herself to the comforting of Violet Esdaile, who accepted the consolation with the egotism of youth, never noticing that the heart of the comforter was even heavier than her own. To Violet the whole world was one huge background to Bobby Thistletown, and all other persons and events mere incidents therein; just as one sometimes sees prints of the Duke of Wellington with the battle of Waterloo and the Great Exhibition of '51 thrown in, as small adjuncts to the distant view, to add lustre to the central figure. We most of us have portraits of this kind hidden away somewhere in our hearts; and to a person with a sense of humour it would be interesting to note the relative importance of the figures and their surroundings. At first sight it seems funny that the University of Oxford should have been founded by King Alfred, and enriched by the art and learning of the centuries, merely to serve as a background for one particular graduate; or that London should have out-Babyloned Babylon, and become the greatest city in the world, in order to supply the near distance for the portrait of one special woman. But looked at with the seeing eye and the understanding heart these things are not really funny at all; any more than it is funny for the cluster of the Pleiades to take up apparently less space than an ordinary wedding-ring, or for the Great Nebula in Orion to seem more insignificant than the hand of a little child.

Many times a day did Isabel listen to a catalogue of Bobby's excellencies, and many times a day did she willingly say Amen to them all; for though Violet was too young to think that any man mattered except Bobby, Isabel was old enough to know that all men mattered because of Paul. So Isabel went down to Esdaile Court with her relations; and there spent her days in talking about Bobby and her nights in dreaming about Paul.

There was one dreadful day at Esdaile when Bobby's name appeared in the list of the wounded; and a glorious one when England rang with his praises, because the news came that he had received his wounds in going back under fire--after he had himself reached a place of safety--to rescue a fallen comrade.

Then followed one of those wretched weeks when the days are punctuated by telegrams and bulletins instead of by meal-times and sun-risings; and after a time there came one of those blessed seasons, known to most of us, when those who have come back from the gates of the grave combine the pathetic sacredness of the dead with the sweet familiarity of the living, and we feel that we can never be angry with their faults nor irritated by their follies any more. Of course we can, and are, and shall be, because there is much that is human both in us and them; but at first we do not believe it possible, because there is also in both of us something that is divine.

It was in this same summer--though rather earlier than the date of Lord Robert Thistletown's going to India--that the editor of _The Hours_ died; and it was generally supposed in literary circles that the brilliant young writer, Paul Seaton, would take his place. There were many who hoped for the post, as it was one which united great political influence with considerable pecuniary advantage; but there was no doubt in the minds of the initiated that Seaton was the man for the place; as, in addition to his qualifications as a man of letters, his political views were almost identical with those of Sir John Shelford, the proprietor of the paper.

Early in June Paul ran down home for a week, to discuss with his people the change in his life and fortunes which appeared imminent; for to Paul himself--as to the rest of his profession--his selection as editor of _The Hours_ seemed a foregone conclusion.

There were other reasons, besides the satisfying of his ambition, that made Paul greatly desire this appointment. As the editor of _The Pendulum_ he was a poor man, but as the editor of _The Hours_ he would be a rich one; and he specially wanted money just then, as things were looking dark in the Cottage at Chayford. For the last few months Joanna's health had been causing much anxiety to her parents, and Mrs. Seaton was not as strong as she had been; and it is in times of sickness and adversity that the pinch of poverty hurts most.

"Do you very much want to be the editor of _The Hours_?" asked Joanna one day.

"Yes," answered Paul; "more than I thought I should ever want anything again. Besides the pay--which it would be affectation to pretend that I am indifferent to--it is a position of such tremendous influence. The editor of _The Hours_ sways more opinions than I should like to say."

"You are very fond of power, Paul," said his mother.

Paul smiled sadly. "It is all that is left to me, you see; and a man must have something to set his heart upon."

One morning, when Paul was the last to appear at the breakfast-table, Joanna greeted him with the cry: "There is a letter for you from the office of _The Hours_, and I am sure it is to say that the appointment is yours."

Paul broke the seal and found it was a communication from Sir John Shelford. It was a kind enough letter, and full of regrets; but Sir John said that he could not conscientiously give a post of such far-reaching influence as that of editor of _The Hours_ to the man who wrote _Shams and Shadows_. Paul's political views, he added, were his own; Paul's literary style and knowledge, all that could be desired; nevertheless it would not be right for the man who had more to do, perhaps, with the forming of public opinion in England than any other, to be held responsible for the unsound political teaching and the untrue philosophy of life which were found in the pages of _Shams and Shadows_. Sir John went on to speak in most flattering terms of _Some Better Thing_, and to say that such a book placed its author in the first rank of living men of letters, "but," he continued, "you are too much a man of the world to need telling that _litera scripta manet_, and that what a man has written he has written;" and he showed that, because of _Shams and Shadows_, Paul could never realize his ambition and become the editor of _The Hours_.

There was silence for a few moments after Paul had ceased reading, and Mrs. Seaton began to cry quietly behind the coffee-pot.

"Never mind, mother," he said manfully, though his face was pale and tired, "it is no good making a trouble of things. I don't deny that it is a disappointment, but I can bear it all right if only you won't let it make you unhappy."

"But it is so hard," sobbed Mrs. Seaton, "that a man should be punished for a thing of which he repented long ago."

"But the world never forgives," sighed the minister; "it is only God and our mothers that can do that."

"I think that Shelford is an old beast," cried Joanna warmly, "and I hope that the new editor, whoever he is, will ruin the paper, and cause all the Shelfords to die in the workhouse."

Paul tried to smile. "I cannot help seeing that Shelford is right. The editor of _The Hours_ must be above suspicion, from a literary and political point of view, or else the prestige of the paper will go down at once. Men in positions of great influence should never have anything to explain away."

"Well, it seems to me a great shame," repeated Mrs. Seaton, wiping her eyes, "that people should be punished for things after they have been sorry, and have done all in their power to undo them."

"Still it is the way of the world," replied Paul, "when a wrong has once been done there is no undoing it, but the punishment must be borne and the debt paid to the uttermost farthing."

"It is a most disgusting piece of injustice!" exclaimed Joanna.

Paul pretended to go on with his breakfast. "No, it isn't; it is perfectly just. For everything we do or leave undone we must sooner or later pay the bill, and we should take this into account before we give our orders to Fate. I am now paying the bill for the writing of _Shams and Shadows_."

"But you are sorry that the book ever was written, aren't you?" asked Joanna.

"I should rather think I am; far sorrier than any one else can ever be. Still I was a free agent, and what I did I did with my eyes open, and now that the bill has come in, I mean to pay up like a man, and not grumble. It is only a fool that builds a tower or goes to war without counting the cost."

"The cost is very heavy this time," said Mr. Seaton; "it is bad enough when a thing costs only money, but it is worse when it costs other things."

"_Shams and Shadows_ has cost me a good deal more than money," said Paul.

"I know it has," replied his father, "and I hoped that the debt would have been forgiven you."

Paul smiled. "It is a vain hope now-a-days to imagine that when we go down into Egypt to buy corn, the money will be put back into our sacks' mouths. Sometimes it happens, but only to Fortune's favourites; and I have never been one of these. But if we are obliged to pay our bills, we need not talk about them, if you don't mind."

So the subject of conversation was changed; but for the rest of the day Joanna murmured to herself at intervals, when nobody was listening: "Old Shelford is a beast!"

When the minister and Joanna had gone for their usual walk, Paul sat in the dining-room with his mother and her knitting, and played with her ball of wool, just as he had done when he was a little boy.

"My dear, where is Isabel Carnaby now?" asked Mrs. Seaton suddenly.

Paul winced, but he answered quietly: "She is still in town, and is to be married to Lord Wrexham, I believe, at the end of this season".

"I was very fond of Isabel."

"I know you were, mother; so was I."

"What sort of a man is Lord Wrexham?"

"He is the best type of an English gentleman."

"Then you think he will make Isabel happy?" said Mrs. Seaton, with a sigh of relief.

"I did not say that," replied Paul, dropping the ball of wool on the floor, and diving after it.

"Do you think he will make her happy?" persisted Mrs. Seaton.

Paul was silent for a moment before he answered: "Not as happy as I could have made her".

"He won't understand her, I suppose?"

"No."

"Oh! Paul, why did you ever let her go?"

"Because I was a poor man. If her marriage with me had involved no sacrifice on her part, I would have fought to the death rather than give her up; and I would have made her marry me in spite of everything, for I know I could have made her happy. But I could not force her to accept poverty after I had seen that she hung back."

"But love matters more to a woman than anything else; and she would rather be poor with the man she loves than be rich without him."

"I don't think that you and Joanna quite understand how much wealth and rank and things of that kind matter to a woman brought up as Isabel has been," said Paul, "to you, they are outside considerations which do not enter into your inner life at all; but to her, they are the very air she breathes."

"Then, do you mean to say that she could not be happy without them?"

"No, I don't; I think, on the contrary, that it is not in the nature of such things to make Isabel happy. But she would have to resign them of her own free will. I could hardly force her to sacrifice them because I happened to think that she could be happy without them--especially as my own happiness depended upon her sacrifice,"

"I see what you mean; had she chosen poverty you would have made it sweet to her, but you did not feel at liberty to force poverty upon her against her will."

"That was just it," continued Paul; "as long as I saw that my love satisfied her, I knew that I held her happiness in the hollow of my hand, and I was not afraid of poverty for herself or for me; but when I found that she was beginning to shrink from the hard life she had chosen, I felt it was but manly to let her go."

"Do you know I was afraid at one time that you had been hard on her, my dear?"

"So I was at first--hard and bitter and proud; but when love comes on to the scene, pride has to knuckle under and hardness soon melts away. Just at first, I own, my pride held me back from her, because of some things she had said; but I soon forgave her, as I knew she was angry at the time and did not mean them; and I should have forgiven her just the same, even if she had," he added, smiling at himself.

"Do you still care for her?" asked Mrs. Seaton, knitting furiously in her excitement.

"Yes; nothing can ever alter that. Isabel will always be the one woman in the world to me."

"Then why, oh! why didn't you go and tell her so, and beg her to come back to you and let bygones be bygones?"

"I have told you--simply because she was rich and I was poor. If it had been the other way, I would have made her come back to me, and would have held her against the whole world. I could easily have put my own pride into my pocket; but her comfort was a different thing, and could not be so easily disposed of."

"But if she were rich and you were poor, you must remember also that she was a woman and you were a man, and that the first advances should have come from you. The pride of womanhood is a stronger instinct than the pride of poverty," persisted Mrs. Seaton; "and then you must not forget _Shams and Shadows_"

"I am hardly likely to do so," replied Paul rather bitterly, "at present there seems no necessity for me to keep a book-marker in that excellent work to prevent it from slipping from my memory altogether."

"But, my dear boy, do you mean to tell me that even after _Shams and Shadows_, with its cruel satire against a woman of fashion, was published, you expected Isabel to come back to you of her own accord?"

"Yes, I did."

"Ah! Paul, you do not understand women."

"Evidently not, worse luck for me!"

Mrs. Seaton's eyes filled with tears. "I am afraid you have made a great mistake, my dear."

"I am always making them; and I find they come very expensive in the end. But I think I'll go out for a walk now; I have got such a thundering headache," said Paul, rising from his chair.

"I would, love; it will do you good."

But when he had reached the door Paul turned back, and knelt down beside Mrs. Seaton's chair and put his arms round her, as he used to do when he was a little child. "I don't know how it is," he said, "but everything I care for turns to disappointment just as it seems to be within my grasp; I was so sure of myself, and meant to be such a brilliant success, and yet I have failed all along the line. Oh! mother, comfort me."

And his mother comforted him as only his mother could.