Part 6

There are some women who must be martyrs at all cost, if not in earnest, then in make-believe. Generally there is more folly and egotism in their martyrdom than high-minded purpose, but sometimes there is a touch of the genuine angel. Now, I never met a more serious martyr than Mrs. Marshall Meek, and if there was a good deal of the fool about her self-sacrifice, there was something, too, of the angel—no ordinary woman could have been so absolutely without resentment with so much just cause. Whatever she suffered, and Heaven knows she must have suffered as few women in her station of life are called upon to suffer, never was she known to utter complaint. No indignity, no deprivation, could provoke her to reproach her husband; and when I have heard her sons and daughters grumble at their position, she would always chide them gently, and expect pity for their father’s misfortunes. For herself she sought none. God in His own good time would pity her, she would say, till then it was her duty to submit patiently.

But was this just either to herself or her children? For herself, it must rest with her own conscience whether she has made the best use of her life, debasing her soul to the service of a worthless man, be he husband a thousand times over. But for her children, has she not grossly abused her responsibilities? She has sacrificed them to a father who has squandered the most brilliant opportunities, and degraded all their lives. Had she agreed to the wishes of her relatives to separate judicially from her worthless husband, whose downward course she was powerless to stay, she might have restored her children to their proper social position, and secured to them all the advantages of education. But she allowed herself to become estranged from those who could have helped her, and to beg for alms from friends whose purses were of less capacity than their hearts. And, oh! the terrible struggles of her life, the humiliation, the injustice, the pity of it.

Then when the inevitable _delirium tremens_ cut off, in what should have been its prime, a life once so full of promise so grievously unfulfilled, it was all too late to repair the terrible mischief done. The children, who had been dragged up anyhow, lived anyhow, and were married anyhow to those who dragged them down still lower in the social scale. And their mother, the widowed martyr to her sense of wifely duty, ignored by proud and offended relatives, neglected by children whose gratitude she had never encouraged, and, weary of all, has hidden herself away in some obscure lodging to await, as patiently and submissively as she has lived, the coming of easeful death.

And there will always be women like this to soften men’s lives by their own self-submission; but, thank goodness, there be also women who know how to live their own lives, and to stimulate, as well as smooth, the lives of men.

_THE “AWFULLY JOLLY” GIRL_

Mabel Flirtington is still in the age of gigglehood, a period of life through which every well-regulated girl must pass. If a girl cannot enjoy a good giggle, there must be something very much the matter, she must be suffering severe personal affliction of some kind or another, or, may be, she is a changeling, or perchance the stars went wrong at her birth. A positively serious young girl is an anomaly; she cannot be tolerated. Youth is naturally joyous, and, if the girl be mother to the woman, what a depressing maturity will be that of the girl who cannot giggle. I say this because I have frequently heard _passée_ women and disagreeable men speak contemptuously of the “giggling girl,” and with great injustice. I reverence youth myself, and in this I imply no disrespect to old age, which, when it is delightful, is delightful indeed, though old people are not always companionable. Young people, on the contrary, have not had time to lose their illusions or to suffer all the ills that age is heir to. Nor, on the other hand, have they acquired the wisdom, charity, and experience of years; therefore they offer the charms of simplicity, frankness, and enthusiasm. Their companionship is a refreshment, and I am prepared to endorse all that the poets have written in eulogy of youth.

I have a firm faith in the poets; they anticipate all my noblest thoughts, and all my freshly perceived truths. So when Tom Moore long ago sang “There’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,” he merely expressed my present opinion. But one only fully realises the inestimable beauty and value of youth when one’s hair is getting thin on the top, one’s ruddy-brown beard is beginning to melt into grey, and one’s limbs do not move as actively as of yore. It is middle-age, not old-age, that really laments over lost youth. Old age has almost forgotten its charm, and only wants peace, quiet, and comfort; but middle age is still active enough to want to be younger. It is a beautiful thing to be young, and have all our responsibilities in embryo, with all the world before us, fair and full of hope, promise, and possibility. I think there is no more engaging sight than a pretty girl at her first ball, or a gallant youth in uniform for the first time. They are ready to conquer the world, and perhaps after all they only make a conquest of each other, but they are just as happy.

When I get into one of those melancholy moods to which lonely bachelors are occasionally liable, nothing so effectually restores me to my usual equanimity as a verbal rally with Mabel Flirtington. She is of that essentially British type of young lady that may be classified as the “awfully jolly” girl. I do not believe you would find a Mabel Flirtington of any other country in the world. She is indigenous to the British Isles, and the British Isles can boast no richer product than the “awfully jolly” girl.

Mabel Flirtington is an _ingénue_ of the most _fin-de-siècle_ order, one with a will of her own and a brain that is wide awake. Indeed, she is a natural product of the time that makes for individualism in both sexes. She is bored or amused with equal discrimination, and selects her own entertainment and occupation accordingly, just as she selects her own friends. She has a keen sense of humour and a power of sarcasm, and, as she is always on the alert for any fun, and ever ready to dare anything requiring pluck and strength, she is the admired of all youthful admirers. There is not an honest-hearted, clean-minded young man of Mabel’s acquaintance, or a girl that is worthy of a man’s respect, who will not without hesitation describe her as an “awfully jolly” girl, by which is meant all that is frank, and brave, and comradelike. She is a girl to command instant respect and admiration from all those capable of understanding her; but to the meaner-minded she will present no favourable view, for she will tread on their mental corns, so to speak. Her self-reliance will to them appear mere conceit, her ready repartee will sound like impertinence, and her fearlessness seem only swagger.

For myself, I love to see Mabel among a number of young folk, to hear her asserting the profound opinions of eighteen, and to watch how her very attitude of independence lends persuasion to her illogical utterances. I enjoy her ingenuous way of playing the despot, and it is delightful to see how thoroughly she recognises her power, and how she revels in its exercise. Last year was her initial “season,” and yet, to see her at her first ball, to witness the experienced skill with which she played off her partners against each other, amusing herself by lighting little sparks of jealousy, and then discreetly fanning them into tiny flames sufficient to leave burning embers for the next occasion, one might have imagined she had been going to balls for years past, and had served a long apprenticeship in flirtation. Mabel adores dancing with all the enthusiasm of eighteen, but she is nothing if not candid, and she told one partner bluntly that she would rather sit down as he could not dance, and then she signalled to me, as an old friend, to go and rescue her. Mabel was certainly the most self-possessed _débutante_ I ever saw—the end-of-the-century _ingénue_ is never shy, mark you—and she made more harmless heart-havoc in a single evening than her good Aunt Gertrude had made in a lifetime.

The position of father confessor to an erratic young lady like Mabel is not a very difficult one, for her confessions are very innocent, although she sometimes thinks she is making terrible avowals, but they are at least exceedingly amusing. She flirts for pure fun and sport, there is no question of heart in it. Her heart she keeps for something more serious, though she does not know that—she is not yet awake to it, and I doubt if she thinks at all seriously of the possibilities of love and marriage. Certainly at the present time she has no desire to be married, although I know one or two goodly youths who entertain hopes of her. Not that she gives them any encouragement; on the contrary, she delights to tantalise them, and which of them, if any, will be the successful rival I scarcely think she quite knows herself, though one may guess. However, at present she only regards the tender passion from the point of view of entertainment, and as accessory to the more serious pursuits of riding, boating, tennis or dancing. These are the business of her life, and she will tire herself utterly in pursuing them. Flirting is merely a relaxation.

To see Mabel at her best, you must be with her up the river. You must see the dexterous manner in which she handles her canoe, or the graceful skill with which she propels her punt. An artist who should make his happy sketching-ground that particular part of the Thames where Mabel spends the summer months, and should persuade her to submit to being frequently sketched, might bring away a veritable wealth of pictorial material. He would have to be up very early in the morning to see her, in her dainty red bathing costume, take her matutinal dive from the landing stage opposite the cottage where she stays—though he had better not let her know he is within sight, for her swimming is the admiration of only very privileged connoisseurs.

Then he should see her paddling her canoe up stream, her red shirt and the crimson cushions making a brilliant note of colour against the dark green of the foliage on the banks. If he watch till she turns round the bend near the lock, he will see some canoeing of no amateurish kind, for those rapids make heavy demands on the pluck and skill of the fair canoeist. That is the place to sketch her, for it is a ready-made picture. Then let him see her, later in the morning, mounting her horse for a canter across country, with so sure a seat and such a command of the animal, one would not be surprised to see her flying over any five-barred gate. What a look of pride is on the face of the young cavalry officer who rides by her side; for not another fellow in the regiment ever rode out with a finer horsewoman, or a prettier girl to boot.

Then, again, what a picture she makes, as, flushed with her ride, she leaps from her saddle, and holding her habit with one hand, she strides up the garden walk, with her dogs bounding by her side and jumping for her caresses, for she loves animals as they love her. Could any painter wish for a more perfect type of pure, healthy girlhood? Perhaps, though, he will see more opportunities for his pencil when, clad in a loose-fitting silk shirt of old rose colour, and a white alpaca skirt, she is displaying all the supple grace of her figure on the tennis lawn. How active she is, how skilful and confident her play, how her face glows with pleasure and excitement, and with what cheery banter she keeps up the spirit of the game. While she is playing her personality dominates the lawn, for every bit of her vitality goes into what she is doing at the moment; while she works physically at the play, her merry little mind is finding vent in a quip to this player, a bit of playful sarcasm to another, or a repartee to some comment from the onlookers. No wonder that after tennis she may be seen lolling in a hammock, under shady trees, fast asleep. And how lovely she looks! Our friend the artist should come upon her there, and make a study for a Sleeping Beauty, for painter’s fancy has never yet done justice to the subject, and never will, until he paints the beautiful princess as a fair English girl, asleep in a hammock in a shady garden by the silver Thames.

But he must make haste with his sketch, for the sun is going down, and, as the sweet, grey evening comes on apace, Mabel awakes refreshed from her half-hour’s nap, makes her way down to the water, and springs into her punt. The young soldier lounges on the cushions, and she, pricking the bed of the river with the long bamboo, sends the flat-bottomed craft through the water with splendid speed, while her grace and strength suggest some Greek athlete of old rather than a modern English girl. Her figure, with the long pole in her hands, stands out clear against the sky, which is brightest in that hour “between the moondawn and the sundown,” when the spirit of romance is beginning to flit about, whispering its secrets to those hearts that are willing to hear. And who knows whether Mabel’s heart hears or not? She is dreamily silent, and the idle youth in the punt has been bluntly told not to talk, for he could not interpret for her the beautiful mysteries of this hour, “when the twilight hangs half starless.” She is not sentimental, and the romance of her life is as yet the romance of comedy; but there are moments, even for an “awfully jolly girl” like Mabel, when the simple eloquence of Nature is all-sufficient, and any ordinary talk is an intrusion.

Now Mabel takes her punt up a picturesque bit of backwater, where the trees stretch their branches across from bank to bank and clasp each other, and the water-rats are boldly sportive, and here she stops and listens to the many-voiced silence, forgetful of her companion. But the spell of the hour and the river is upon him, and in his boyish blundering way he blurts out his love and asks Mabel to marry him—which is just the last thing he should have done under the circumstances, if he wanted to remain “chums” with her. As it is, he puts her out of humour, and she makes for home as speedily as possible. Then these two do not speak all the evening; she devotes herself to somebody else, and he is very wretched. Next day she does not ride with him, nor does she take him out in her punt. At last he has to beg her forgiveness, which she grants on condition that he never talks “nonsense” again. But they have not been quite on the same frank terms since, and I hardly think they ever will be again unless he remains constant for a little while—say two or three years, perhaps—and bides his time to ask her again.

There is a sweet and tender strain of womanliness in Mabel’s nature, and when, as her amateur father confessor, I questioned her about her obvious difference with the young soldier, and she told me the facts, I fancied I recognised a tone of pity not unmixed with pleasure, which augured well for the boy’s chances. She is a wilful, erratic, delightful girl now; and I feel sure she will make a splendid woman. Cares and sorrows will overtake her soon enough, and force upon her the serious side of life, and her womanhood will not fail to rise to the occasion. In the meanwhile, let her continue to regard the world as a playground, where all is sweetness and light and pleasure. Let her retain her illusions as long as possible, and enjoy the delights of girlhood. Let her, in fact, extract all possible pleasure from any sport, any amusement. It will all react beneficially on her nature, and, when she awakens to the responsibilities of life, she will bear them all the more cheerfully that her youth has been happy and uncrossed and “awfully jolly.”

_THE NUN_

Strange as it may sound, some of the happiest hours I have ever known have been spent within the precincts of a convent, while of the friendships which have been a joy in my life, none has made me prouder than that of Sister Annunciata. It may appear curious for a man-of-the-world to count a nun among his friends, but no one who has not been privileged to enjoy it, can understand the pure solace of conversing familiarly with a woman who, having renounced the world for what she deems a higher purpose of life, lives entirely apart from our every-day existence, and has no intercourse with it save through the ingenuous medium of young girls’ gossip. For Sister Annunciata belongs to one of the educational orders of sisterhood, and, though she has taken solemn vows for life, and may never go beyond the boundaries of the convent grounds, or again come in contact with the passions and ambitions inseparable from the struggle for life, she yet has a fruitful field of affection among the convent pupils, and thus she keeps her human sympathies in constant activity. Moreover, Sister Annunciata is the favourite of the convent, the beloved of all the girls, and though this naturally leads to certain jealousies, this very human trait of human nature makes an effective contrast with the general placidity of the place. The perfect faith in Divine grace, which is the ruling spirit of the convent, appears beautifully wonderful to one who moves amid the scepticism of the age, but how much more beautiful is it in conjunction with the humanity of these girls, their jealous love for their favourite nun, her impossible efforts not to show preference, and the striving of the other nuns to be equally loved? Though they have given up the large world, they have still their own little one. The beautiful natural craving for affection will not be renounced.

It was Sister Annunciata’s supremacy in the regard of her pupils that procured me her friendship, for, being on a visit with some friends in the neighbourhood of the convent, the young daughters of the house were eager to take me to see their “dear Sister Annunciata.” They were never tired of talking of her, and of the many virtues which endeared her to them, and they would not rest until I knew her too.

The idea of visiting a convent, and talking to a real live nun, was peculiarly fascinating to me, for my notions of convent life were vague and mysterious, and I regarded all nuns as uncanny creatures, living dismal lives in chilly cloisters. That they had renounced the world was sufficient, in my eyes, to invest them with a kind of unearthliness. Therefore, I approached the convent with a weird curiosity which I cannot describe.

The convent stands amid beautiful spacious grounds, composed of lovely gardens, groves, and grottoes, all picturesque and peaceful, with splendid views of sea and mountain around. As we entered the gates, and walked up the broad path leading to the grey stone building, the calm influence of the place began to work its spell upon me, and, as I saw here and there among the trees the black figures of the nuns, walking singly or in couples, suggestions of mediæval romance flitted across my mind. It was vacation time, all the pupils, save one or two, who were orphans, had gone to their homes, and the nuns were enjoying their hours of relaxation in the sunshine. There seemed to be a quiet happiness about the place, which quite upset my preconceived notions about nunneries.

The parlour in which we awaited the coming of Sister Annunciata, was severely simple in its furniture and adornment. But as soon as the Sister entered, I forgot the plainness of the room. I might have been sitting on the most luxurious couch, instead of a stiff horsehair chair, for all it mattered. She seemed to exhale a sweet cheerfulness, and the room was filled with a personality and a life that were entirely new to me. She greeted my girl-companions with warm affection, and joined in their girlish jokes, while she talked to me with an absolute frankness and simplicity I had never met before. She led us out into the grounds, and her merry laughter sounded strangely incongruous with her sombre garb, but as we walked along, I noticed that all the other nuns seemed anxious to show that they were quite happy. And, verily, they seemed so, as they walked among the flowers, or plucked the fruit, or read their books in shady spots, or basked in the sunshine, and talked or meditated. One of them, a good-natured, roundfaced nun, who had been gossiping gaily with my young friends, but had for a long time kept shyly aloof from me, suddenly came up to me and told me that they were all as happy as the days were long.

And it was a place to be happy in, I thought, as I stood in a beautiful grove, where the sunlight peeped through the trees and patched the grass with silver, near to a little sloping eminence whereon rested the chapel, in which the dead Sisters sleep eternally, while beyond some yellow cornfields reached away to the grey walls that marked the convent boundaries, and the further hazy blue sea appeared to carry the picture away into dreamland.

And here, I reflected, these women live away from the world we know, and they find happiness without a struggle, without—but Sister Annunciata is standing by me, and perhaps at this moment she is thinking of the old days before she gave up her life to religion. Yes, I have been talking to her of the outer world, and have named one that she knew long ago as a youth, and I tell her he is now a famous man. And the mention of her boy-playmate awakens old memories, and she tells me of her girlhood.

We are always apt—we worldly folk—to think that no woman becomes a nun, unless she has had some bitter disappointment in love, or seeks to do penance for wordly error, or to escape from sorrow or suffering. Sister Annunciata sought the religious life for none of these reasons. She had enjoyed a happy, careless girlhood, the world had offered her no trials; the pleasures of youth were open to her, as were the joys of happy womanhood. But her sensibilities were not yet awakened, she had never known what love meant, though she had been sought in marriage. So the ordinary social gaieties took but slight hold upon her, and life meant nothing to her but home affections and a passion for the arts.