CHAPTER XXI.

As it was in the Beginning.

Sometimes mortals find the portals Of the fairy-land; And they straightway through the gateway Enter, hand in hand.

There was a long silence; then Joanna said gently, "And you doubted if he loved you after this?"

Isabel only sobbed.

"My dear, I am very glad you have told me," Joanna continued, as she softly stroked Isabel's hair; "it is an unspeakable joy to me to find that Paul never really fell below himself after all. But you mustn't tell any one else; it is now Paul's secret and not yours."

"Oh! I must; I must tell the whole world how good Paul has been, and how vilely and cruelly it has misjudged him."

"You must do nothing of the kind. If Paul has jeopardized his literary reputation to keep a secret, no one has a right to tell that secret without his permission. Don't you see how it is? He has thought nothing in the whole world of so much importance as the screening of you; therefore it would be cruel indeed of you to undo his life-work in a fit of hysterical conscientiousness."

"But it would serve me right for people to know how horrid and selfish and cowardly I have been," cried Isabel.

"Probably it would; but now I am considering what is due to Paul, and not what is due to you, my dear."

"Oh, Joanna, can you ever forgive me?"

"I am afraid I couldn't have done so when I was strong and well; but, as I told you, things are different with me now. Yes, I forgive you, Isabel; though I confess it isn't in me to forgive as Paul forgives, nor to love as Paul loves; but I cannot in the least understand how either of you did what you have done--you are both incomprehensible to me. Tell me how it happened."

"After I had quarrelled with Paul, I was in an awfully bitter mood, because I thought he was hard and cold and did not love me as I loved him. I was ashamed of caring for a man more than he cared for me, don't you see?"

"I am afraid I don't see, but never mind."

"Don't you see that if a man gives his love unrequited, he establishes at once a claim upon one woman's gratitude and all women's sympathy; while if a woman does the same thing, she is despised by one man and derided by the rest?"

"It wouldn't strike me in that light, but go on."

"Then it occurred to me that I would write a book which should convince Paul that I was a shallow, heartless woman of the world, and that I was incapable of really loving him or any other man. It was agony to my pride to feel that perhaps Paul had only cared for me because I was considered a good match; and I meant to turn the tables on him, and wound his pride, by making him believe that I had only been playing with him all the time just to amuse myself."

"A severe punishment on Paul for the freaks of your own imagination, my child!"

"All the time I was writing the book, I thought only of him and of how I could manage to hurt him. I did not care a straw whether the novel were a success or not, or whether anybody read it except Paul. But when it came out it made a hit, as you know, and everybody was talking about it."

"Yes; I remember."

"Though people thought it clever they did not really like it, and they said nasty things about the author."

Joanna nodded. Nobody knew better than she did the nasty things that had been said; yet she did not remove her caressing hand from the bent head.

"And then," continued Isabel, "I was in a perfect frenzy of fear lest they should find out that I had written it, and should begin to look shy at me. I cared so much for approval and admiration, that I thought it would kill me to be disapproved of as society disapproved of the author of _Shams and Shadows_. I used to lie awake at night wondering whatever I could do to put people off the scent."

"Well, and what happened then?"

"One day, when my terror was at its height, I heard that Paul had told Lord Robert Thistletown that he had taken the name of Angus Grey. I saw in a flash what that meant; it meant that the man, whom I had wounded and insulted, understood better even than I did what a disadvantage the authorship of _Shams and Shadows_ would be to me; and had therefore shielded me at the expense of his own literary reputation, and had taken my punishment upon himself."

Joanna's eyes were shining. "It was a fine thing to do; for Paul's literary reputation was no light matter to him."

"I know it wasn't; it was the best thing he had, and he gave it up to save me."

That night Joanna lay awake, thinking over the strange story she had heard. "It must be wonderful to be loved like that!" she said to herself. And because nothing this side heaven can quite stifle the cry of the human heart for human love (if the human heart happen to be a woman's) there were tears on Joanna's lashes when at last she fell asleep.

Isabel also lay awake that night, torn by the conflicting emotions of love and pride. And because, when these two come into conflict, the result is a foregone conclusion, she wrote the next day to Paul:--

"MY DEAR PAUL,

"Will you forgive me? Not because I deserve it, but because I love you.

"Yours as you would, "ISABEL CARNABY."

Then followed a season of great anguish of mind on Isabel's part. She now felt absolutely certain that Paul no longer loved her, and would therefore humiliate her by refusing his forgiveness; and she decided that she should at once hide herself from the world in a sisterhood, and spend the remainder of her disappointed days in conventual seclusion. She even went so far as to decide that she should call herself "Sister Marah," because life had proved so bitter to her. Isabel was nothing if not dramatic.

The answer to her letter came by telegraph:--

"Expect me Thursday.--PAUL."

Isabel was alone when this telegram was brought to her, and as she read it she flushed with joy.

"He hasn't wasted a minute," she said to herself. "He must have started as soon as he had my letter, and be travelling night and day without stopping."

Then she looked at her reflection in a mirror and laughed softly, because she was still young and a man loved her. She was very human, even at her best.

But when Thursday came she was dreadfully frightened. It was one thing to feel conscious of her power over Paul while half a continent divided them, and quite another to feel conscious of his power over her when she was expecting to see him face to face every minute.

When at last he did arrive, Joanna went into the hall to meet him; but Isabel was stricken with that paralyzing form of shyness which so often seizes us when our heart's desire is within our grasp, and makes us wish, for one mad moment, to throw it away because we have longed for it so passionately. So she remained alone in the salon and looked out of the window, and her knees felt as if they were made of muslin, like the knees of dolls. Then some one opened the door and shut it behind him; and at that her heart beat so violently that the very snow-clad mountains outside began to tremble and shake as she looked at them. With a supreme effort she turned round, and tried to repeat the appeal for forgiveness which she had prepared; but she could not utter a word, because Paul's arms were holding her fast; and there was no need to utter a word, because she had seen Paul's face.

Life's attar-of-roses is as rare as it is precious, and it takes the sunshine of many summers and the braving of many thorns to produce a single drop. But that drop, when produced, is worth all that it cost, and the perfume of it will last for ever. So Paul and Isabel thought during the next half-hour.

After the lovers had returned to earth, Isabel said: "I shall now tell the whole world that I wrote that horrid book, and that it has misjudged you all along; and then every one will know how splendidly you have behaved."

"You shall do nothing of the kind, sweetheart." And Paul kissed her again.

"But I must. I could not bear for you to bear the blame any longer."

"Still, you will have to bear it, my darling. I could not bear any one to have it in his power to blame you, and I must have my own way this time."

"But it isn't fair."

"I can't help that I can stand it very well when people say things against me, but I could not stand it at all if people said things against you; so I am acting from purely selfish motives when I say that the secret must always be kept for my sake."

"But, Paul, how can I show my gratitude to you, and my penitence?"

"Simply by doing what I ask, and by giving no one any excuse for finding fault with my wife."

"It was a horrid book," said Isabel sadly.

"I know it was, dear heart, but you did not mean a word of it, you know."

"I wrote it in a temper--a vile, hateful, disgusting temper."

"I know you did; but the world might not understand this as well as I do, and therefore might misjudge you; and the world shall not have the chance."

"I really was frightfully angry with you," said Isabel, now revelling in the contemplation of dangers past, "I used to rack my brains for things that I could write to vex you."

"When did you begin to love me again?" queried Paul.

Isabel pondered for a moment. "I think I really must have loved you all the time, or else I could not have hated you so."

Paul laughed. Life had been so serious to him of late that it was delightful to hear a woman talk nonsense again.

"And will you go on loving me always?" he asked.

"I shan't be able to help it; when I once care for any one I am like a five-pound note on Sundays--there is no possibility of changing me."

"My dear one, how sweet you are!"

"How did you find out that I was the author?" asked Isabel, trying to tie a knot in Paul's watch-chain.

"I knew it at once; I also knew that you had written it to hurt me; and, what is more, that you had succeeded beyond your wildest expectations."

"Poor old Paul! Did it make you very angry?"

"Not angry; but I confess it hurt me more than I had believed I was capable of being hurt. But I soon forgot this in my fear of the secret's coming out as to who was the author, and my knowledge of how much the disclosure of this secret would hurt you."

"And then you decided to pretend that you had written it?"

"It seemed to me the only thing to do to ensure your permanent safety; as, when people once know a thing, they naturally cease to speculate about it; and they had already come to the conclusion that the book must have been written by some one in your set. Of course I knew that your publishers any day might show up my false pretences and disgrace me in the eyes of the world, which would never believe in the purity of my motives, but would condemn me as an arrant impostor to the end of the chapter. But I also knew that your publishers would not do this without permission from you; and, angry as you were with me, I did not think you would deal me this final and irrevocable blow, because I felt sure you would understand my reasons, and would know that I had done this somewhat doubtful action solely out of consideration for you."

"I understood this at once."

"I knew you would," Paul continued, "but, you see, dear, other people might not have done so; and they might have fancied I was no better than a literary thief, trading upon a reputation which really was not mine."

Isabel was silent for a moment; then she said: "I told Joanna; I could not help it."

Paul's face fell; he could not bear to feel that even his sister should have the right to sit in judgment upon Isabel.

"And you must also tell your father and mother," persisted Isabel, "I could not be happy if I felt that they still misunderstood you."

"I don't know about that."

"But I do. If you will give way to me just in this, I will do what you want about everything else; and no one but your own people shall ever know that I wrote _Shams and Shadows_."

And Paul reluctantly consented.

"_Shams and Shadows_ made a lot of money," said Isabel, "but I could not touch a penny of it. I hated it so much that I gave it all to charity."

Paul could not help laughing. "A somewhat strange reason, dear heart, but by no means an uncommon one," he said.

Then followed a very happy week. Paul and Isabel were naturally in a state of bliss; and Joanna rejoiced too--and on her own account--for the doctors told her that the air of Davos had done for her all that they had hoped and far more than they had expected; and assured her that she would get quite strong and well again. And this fact doubled the happiness of the other two: for Paul loved his sister very dearly; and Isabel's heart was filled with thanksgiving to feel that she had been allowed to be, in a measure, the means of Joanna's recovery, and so had done something for Paul in return for all that he had done for her.

But Paul could not stay with them for more than a week, so he went back to his work, promising to return for Joanna and Isabel when spring returned to England.

When he had been back in London for about three weeks his father wrote to tell him that Miss Dallicot was very ill, and had expressed a great wish to see the minister's son once more. So Paul ran down home for a day or two.

Things were brighter at the Cottage than they had been for some time, for Mrs. Seaton began to gain strength as soon as she heard that all was well with her children, and that health had returned to Joanna and happiness to Paul; and her husband felt better and younger because she did.

Paul had written to tell his mother that all was right again between himself and Isabel. He gave no explanations, nor did Mrs. Seaton require any: for she was wise enough to know that if people love each other, explanations are never needed; and if they don't love each other, no explanations will mend matters.

When Paul went to see Miss Dallicot he found her extremely weak, and shrivelled up into a little raisin of a woman. But her diction was as choice as ever.

"It is unspeakably gratifying to me to see your countenance once again, my dear young friend," she began, "and excessively kind of you to snatch a brief moment from the busy round of your incessant and onerous duties, to give such pleasure to an infirm and aged woman, who perhaps overstepped the rights of friendship in putting you to such trouble."

"Not at all, Miss Drusilla. I am awfully glad to see you again, and I only wish that I could see you looking better."

"That, my dear Paul, is a wish which can never be fulfilled in this world. But the young should not be made gloomy by the contemplation of sombre and serious subjects; therefore let us divert our thoughts into a more invigorating and cheering channel."

So Paul told the old lady about Isabel and Joanna and their life at Davos, and about his work in London, and his hope that he and Isabel would be married some time during the year then beginning; while Miss Drusilla listened with the greatest interest, and made her usual long-winded comments.

At last she said, "I feel that I owe it to you, my dear young friend, to offer some explanation of the fact of my so specially desiring to see your face once more, and of my venturing to put you to the trouble and fatigue of a journey from London, by the oracular expression of this desire on my part."

"It is a pleasure rather than a trouble," said Paul kindly, "it was very good of you to want to see me and I was very pleased to come." But all the same he really was surprised, as naturally Miss Dallicot had never been a special friend of his.

"The fact of the matter is," continued the little spinster, "you bear a strong facial resemblance to some one for whom I entertained a warm regard a considerable number of years ago. I daresay to your sound and vigorous judgment an accidental physical likeness appears a somewhat unsound basis for interest or attachment; but the fact remains that it does form such a basis in my case, though I should agree with you that from an intellectual standpoint the position is untenable."

"Oh! I can understand as much as that; for actually I once held a poor woman's baby for her while she scrambled up to the top of a London omnibus--and an extremely unattractive and unfanciable little brat it was--simply because the woman looked tired, and her eyes reminded me of Isabel's."

"Dear me, how very interesting! I trust that you informed Miss Carnaby of this somewhat romantic incident, as it would surely have proved most gratifying to her."

"Oh! no, it wouldn't; she would have been dreadfully hurt at being considered to resemble the middle-aged wife of an impecunious artisan. Women are never pleased at being thought like anybody who isn't well dressed, I have discovered. I remember Isabel was quite angry once when I showed her a peasant girl by Greuze, and said it reminded me of her; and she told me that if I'd said she was like a fashion-plate she should have been far better pleased--and she really would," added Paul, laughing at the remembrance.

"The feminine mind has certainly some strange inconsistencies," murmured Miss Drusilla, unconsciously straightening her cap.

"Of course it has; that is why it is so fascinating. I would not give a fig for a woman who had no bewitching little vanities. And the funny thing is that they are not vain of the things which really are a credit to them, but of the things which are a credit to their dressmakers. Now, take Isabel; she is awfully pleased with herself when she has got a new frock on, but she never knows that it is her figure which makes the frock look so well; and she thinks far more about the colour of her gowns than about the colour of her eyes."

(But here Paul was mistaken.)

"I should have imagined that men, with their robuster minds and sounder common sense, would have despised such small vanities as these," remarked Miss Dallicot.

"Not we; we like them."

"I always used to think that a profound and scholarly mind would not find happiness apart from profound and scholarly companionship, and would experience an extreme distaste for what I might call foolish and frivolous society. But I learnt afterwards that these views of mine were incorrect."

"I am afraid they were."

A far-away look came into Miss Drusilla's faded eyes; her thoughts had gone back to the long-ago.

"When I was comparatively young," she said dreamily, "I was honoured by the friendship of a most cultured and accomplished man. He was a great scholar; and under his tuition I made myself proficient in both Greek and Latin. It is true that I loved learning for its own sake, but I loved it still better for his; and I worked long and late in order to render myself more fit for his companionship and more congenial to his taste. As you will perceive, I felt it only natural that so profound a mind should shrink from the society of the flippant and the unlearned."

"I see," said Paul, and his voice was very tender.

"My friend's profession was tutorial," continued Miss Dallicot, "and in later life he became the headmaster of one of our great public schools. He and I were so intimately acquainted that I speculated much as to his future; and I felt sure that--if he ever did enter the holy estate of matrimony--he would naturally require a helpmeet who could assist him in the fulfilment of his scholastic duties, and accompany him in his ceaseless pursuit after knowledge."

Paul felt very pitiful; the world is so full of sad little mistakes like this, which are too pathetic to be comedies and too commonplace to be tragedies.

"Did you study very hard?" he asked.

"Indeed I did. I overcame the difficulties of the Greek and Latin tongues with amazing rapidity--at least so my dear master said; and he counted me his most successful pupil."

"And then?" said Paul.

"Then it happened that a young lady came to pay a lengthy visit to friends in our neighbourhood. She was well born, and possessed considerable personal charm; but her ignorance was something appalling. I recall that she once asked, before a room full of people, whether Homer wrote Greek or Latin, and if Cæsar were a poet." And Miss Dallicot fairly shuddered.

Paul could not forbear smiling, Miss Drusilla was so intensely shocked at the mere memory of these atrocities.

"Yet in spite of all this," continued Miss Dallicot, "my friend married her. Why he did so was always incomprehensible to me, as they two could not have had a single idea or interest in common. Yet he did it. I shall never forget a visit I once paid to them not long after their marriage. She endeavoured to make use of a Latin quotation, and actually--yes, actually, my dear Paul--she made a false quantity; and she the wife of a headmaster!"

"Good gracious!" said Paul; "what ever did the bridegroom do?"

"It was then that he showed the marvellous nobility and patience which always struck me so much in my contemplation of his character. I realized what he must have suffered, as a false quantity was always torture to his cultivated and sensitive ear; if one of his boys were guilty of such a thing, he straightway chastised the offender; when I made a false quantity, he blamed me severely, and said that his nerves could not stand it."

"Then what did he do to his bride?"

"My dear, his amiability was something marvellous. I was so grieved for him--so ashamed--that I could scarcely look up; but he rose to the occasion. He said not one single word of reproof--though I knew that many were burning upon his tongue--but he just laughed, and went up to his wife and kissed her. Did you ever hear of an instance of more heroic self-restraint?"

Paul thought that he had, but he did not say so. He sympathized with Miss Drusilla; but he also sympathized with the headmaster.

"Did she seem very much ashamed?" he asked.

"Not at all. That was the most painful part of that most painful scene. The careless young thing was as callous as she was illiterate. She merely laughed, as if it were nothing more than a joke, and called my dear friend 'a silly boy'. It struck me, and it strikes me still, as a most unseemly epithet for any right-minded woman to apply to her husband, especially when he was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, and one of the greatest Greek scholars of his day."

"Where is your friend now?"

Miss Dallicot sighed. "I grieve to say that his earthly career was closed some years ago. His wife was taken first, and he survived her only for the space of a few months. Some persons, not intimately acquainted with the parties concerned, said that his death was due to sorrow for hers; but I think this statement must have been incorrect, as so uneducated and frivolous a woman could never have been a thoroughly congenial companion to so erudite and wise a man. Therefore I conjecture that the approximation in the respective dates of his and her demise was merely a coincidence."

Paul did not feel so sure of this; he could imagine that a world depopulated of Isabel would be quite too desolate for human habitation. But all he said was: "It is an interesting little story."

So it was; but the interesting part of it was the part that poor little Miss Dallicot was incapable of seeing. People who tell us a story often tell far more than they intend, and, in fact, far more than they themselves know. They open the door that we may have a peep into their back-garden, and they have no idea that to us that peep includes a distant and extensive view, which their shortsighted eyes have never beheld.

"My friend was a most fascinating individual," continued Miss Drusilla dreamily, "endowed with unusual natural gifts, which were perfected by most assiduous study. He was withal the most modest man I have ever met. In person, my dear Paul, you strongly resemble him; it seems, perchance, strange for so trifling a detail to remain in one's mind for a period of over forty years, yet I can still vividly recall the colour of his hair, which was precisely of the same shade as yours."

Then Paul said good-bye to the little spinster, as she was growing too tired to talk any more. And he never saw her again.

A fortnight after his visit to Chayford Miss Drusilla died, and when her will came to be read it was found that she had left her entire fortune--amounting to some thirty thousand pounds--to Paul Seaton.