Chapter XXVII: A Question of Conscience

"Boxing-day.

"Well, my dear David, all our festivities are over, and,
having piloted our party safely into the calm waters of
Boxing-day afternoon, I am free to retire to the library,
and resume my talk with you.

"What a wonderful season is Christmas! It seems to
represent words entirely delightful. Light, warmth, gifts,
open hearts, open hands, goodwill--and, I suppose the
children would add: turkey, mince-pies, and plum-pudding.
Well, why not? I am by no means ashamed of looking forward
to my Christmas turkey; in fact I once mentioned it in a
vestry as an alluring prospect, to a stern young man in a
cassock! I must have had the courage of my convictions!

"No, the fact of the matter is, I was very young then,
David; very crude; altogether inexperienced. You would find
me older now; mellowed, I hope; matured. Family cares have
aged me.

"Yesterday, however, being Christmas-day, I threw off my
maturity, just as one gleefully leaves off wearing kid
gloves at the seaside, and became an infant with the
infants. How we romped, and how delightfully silly we were!
After the midday Christmas dinner, as we all sat round at
dessert, I could see Mrs. Mallory eying me with amazed
contempt, because I wore the contents of my cracker--a fine
guardsman's helmet, and an eyeglass, which I jerked out,
and screwed in again, at intervals, to amuse the children.
When I surprised Mrs. Mallory's gaze of pitying scorn, I
screwed in the eyeglass for her especial benefit, and
looked at her through it, saying: 'Don't I wear it as if to
the manner born, Mrs. Mallory?' 'Oh, quite,' said Mrs.
Mallory, with an appreciative smile. 'Quite, my dear Mrs.
Rivers; quite.' Which was so very 'quite quite,' that
nothing remained but for me to fix on my guardsman's helmet
more firmly, and salute.

"Mrs. Mallory's cracker had produced a jockey cap, in green
and yellow, and it would have delighted the children if she
had worn it jauntily on her elaborately crimped coiffure.
But she insisted upon an exchange with a dear little girl
seated next her, who was feeling delightfully grown-up, in
a white frilled Marie Antoinette cap, with pink ribbons.
This, on Mrs. Mallory's head, except that it was made of
paper, was exactly what she might have bought for herself
in Bond Street; so she had achieved the conventional, and
successfully avoided amusing us by the grotesque. The
jockey cap was exactly the same shape as the black velvet
one I keep for the little girls to wear when they ride the
pony in the park. The disappointment on the face of the
small owner of the pretty mob-cap, passed quite unnoticed
by Mrs. Mallory. Yet she _adores_ children. I, who only
tolerate them, saw it. So did the oldest of the boys--such
a nice little fellow. 'I say, Mrs. Rivers,' he said,
'Swapping shouldn't be allowed.' 'Quite right, Rodney,'
said I. 'Kiddies, there is to be no swapping!' 'Surely,'
remarked Mrs. Mallory, in her shocked voice, 'no one
present here, would think of _swapping_?' Rodney said,
'Crikey!' under his breath; and I haven't a notion, to this
hour, what meaning the elegant verb 'to swap' holds for
Mrs. Mallory.

"But here I go again, telling you of all sorts of
happenings in our home life, which must seem to you so
trivial. I wish I could write a more interesting letter;
especially this afternoon, David. This time last year you
and I were having our momentous talk. There was certainly
nothing trivial about that! I sometimes wish you could
know--oh, no matter what! It is useless to dwell
perpetually on vain regrets. And as we _are_ on the subject
of Mrs. Mallory, David, I want to ask your opinion on a
question of conscience which came up between her and
myself.

"Oh, David, how often I wish you were here to tackle her
for me, as you used to tackle poor old Chappie; only the
difficulties caused by Chappie's sins, were as nothing,
compared with the complications caused by Lucy Mallory's
virtues.

"She is such a gentle-looking little woman, in trailing
widow's weeds; a pink and white complexion, china blue
eyes, and masses of flaxen hair elaborately puffed and
crimped. She never knows her own mind, for five minutes at
a time; is never quite sure on any point, or able to give
you a straightforward yes or no. And yet, in some respects,
she is the most obstinate person I ever came across. My old
donkey, Jeshurun, isn't in it with Mrs. Mallory, when once
she puts her dainty foot down, and refuses to budge.
Jeshurun waxed fat and kicked, and did everything he
shouldn't; but always yielded to the seduction of a carrot.
But it is no good waving carrots at Mrs. Mallory. She won't
look at them! She reminds me of the deaf adder who stoppeth
her ears, lest she should hear the voice of the charmer.
And always about such silly little things, that they are
not worth a battle.

"But the greatest trial of all is, that she has a morbid
conscience.

"Oh, David! Did you ever have to live with a person who had
a morbid conscience?

"Now--if it won't bore you--may I just give you an instance
of the working of Mrs. Mallory's morbid conscience, and
perhaps you will help me, by making a clear pronouncement
on the matter. Remember, I only have her here because she
is a missionary's widow, left badly off; and not strong
enough to undertake school teaching, or any arduous post
involving long hours. I have tried to make her feel at home
here, and she seems happy. Sometimes she is a really
charming companion.

"The first evening she was here, she told me she had always
been 'a great Bible student.' She spends much time over a
very large Bible, which she marks in various coloured inks,
and with extraordinary criss-cross lines, which she calls
'railways'. She explained the system to me one day, and
showed me a new 'line' she had just made. You started at
the top of a page at the word _little_. Then you followed
down a blue line, which brought you to a second mention of
the word _little_. From there you zigzagged off, still on
blue, right across to the opposite page; and there found
_little_, again. This was a junction! If you started down a
further blue line you arrived at yet a fourth _little_, but
if you adventured along a red line, you found _less_.

"I had hoped to learn a lot from Mrs. Mallory, when she
said she was a _great_ Bible student, because I am so new
at Bible study, and have no one to help me. But I confess
these railway excursions from _little_ to _little_, and
from _little_ to _less_, appear to me somewhat futile! None
of the _littles_ had any connection with one another; that
is, until Mrs. Mallory's blue railway connected them. She
is now making a study of all the Marys of the Bible. She
has a system by which she is going to prove that they were
all one and the same person. I suggested that this would be
an infinite pity; as they all have such beautiful
individual characters, and such beautiful individual
histories.

"'Truth before beauty, my dear Mrs. Rivers,' said Mrs.
Mallory.

"'Cannot truth and beauty go together?' I inquired.

"'No, indeed,' pronounced Mrs. Mallory, firmly. 'Truth is a
narrow line; beauty is a snare.'

"According to which method of reasoning, my dear David, I
ought to have serious misgivings as to whether your
Christmas-eve sermon, which changed my whole outlook on
life, was true--seeing that it most certainly was
beautiful!

"Now listen to my little story.

"One morning, during this last autumn, Mrs. Mallory
received a business letter at breakfast, necessitating an
immediate journey to town, for a trying interview. After
much weighing of pros and cons, she decided upon a train;
and I sent her to the station in the motor.

"A sadly worried and distressed little face looked out and
bowed a tearful farewell to me, as she departed. I knew she
had hoped I should offer to go with her; but it was a
lovely October day, and I wanted a morning in the garden,
and a ride in the afternoon. It happened to be a very free
day for me; and I did not feel at all like wasting the
golden sunshine over a day in town, in and out of shops
with Mrs. Mallory; watching her examine all the things
which she, after all, could not 'feel it quite right to
buy.' She never appears to question the rightness of giving
tired shop people endless unnecessary labour. I knew she
intended combining hours of this kind of negative
enjoyment, with her trying interview.

"So I turned back into the house, sat down in the sunny bay
window of the breakfast room, and took _Times_; thankful
that the dear lady had departed by the earliest of the
three trains which had been under discussion during the
greater part of breakfast.

"But my conscience would not let me enjoy my morning paper
in peace. I had not read five lines before I knew that it
would have been kind to have gone with Mrs. Mallory; I had
not read ten, before I knew that it was unkind to have let
the poor little soul go alone. She was a widow and worried;
and she had mentioned the departed Philip, as a bitterly
regretted shield, prop, and mainstay, many times during
breakfast.

"I looked at the clock. The motor was, of course, gone; and
the quarter of an hour it would take to send down to the
stables and put in a horse would lose me the train. I could
just do it on my bicycle if I got off in four minutes, and
rode hard.

"Rodgers trotted out my machine, while I rushed up for a
hat and gloves. I was wearing the short tweed skirt,
Norfolk coat, and stout boots, in which I had intended to
tramp about the park and gardens; but there was not time to
change. I caught up the first hat I could lay hands on,
slipped on a pair of reindeer gloves as I ran downstairs,
jumped on to my bicycle, and was half-way down the avenue,
before old Rodgers had recovered his breath, temporarily
taken by the haste with which he had answered my pealing
bell.

"By dint of hard riding, I got into the station just in
time to fling my bicycle to a porter, and leap into the
guard's van of the already moving train.

"At the first stop, I went along, and found Mrs. Mallory,
alone and melancholy, in an empty compartment. Her surprise
and pleasure at sight of me, seemed ample reward. She
pressed my hand, in genuine delight and gratitude.

"'I couldn't let you go alone,' I said. Then, as I sat down
opposite to her, something--it may have been her own dainty
best attire--made me suddenly conscious of the shortness of
my serviceable skirt, and the roughness of my tweed. 'So I
am coming with you, after all,' I added; 'unless you think
me too countrified, in this get-up; and will be ashamed to
be seen with me in town!'

"Mrs. Mallory enveloped me, thick boots and all, in
grateful smiles.

"'Oh, of _course not_!' she said. '_Dear_ Mrs. Rivers! Of
course not! You are quite _too_ kind!'

"Now, will you believe it, David? Weeks afterwards she came
to me and said there was something she _must_ tell me, as
it was hindering her in her prayers, and she could not
enjoy 'fully restored communion,' until she had confessed
it, and thus relieved her mind.

"I thought the dear lady must, at the very least, have
forged my signature to a cheque. I sat tight, and told her
to proceed. She thereupon reminded me of that October
morning, and said that she _had_ thought my clothes
countrified, and _had_ felt ashamed to be seen with me in
town.

"Oh, David, can you understand how it hurt? When one had
given up the day, and raced to the station, and done it all
to help her in her trouble. It was not so much that she had
noticed that which was an obvious fact. It was the
pettiness of mind which could dwell on it for weeks, and
then wound the friend who had tried to be kind to her, by
bringing it up, and explaining it.

"I looked at her for a moment, absolutely at a loss what to
reply. At last I said: 'I am very sorry, Mrs. Mallory. But
had I stopped, on that morning, to change into town
clothes, I could not have caught your train.'

"'Oh, I know!' she cried, with protesting hands. 'It did
not matter at all. It is only that I felt I had not been
absolutely truthful.'

"Now, David--you, who are by profession a guide of doubting
souls, an expounder of problems of casuistry, a discerner
of the thoughts and intents of the heart--will you give me
a pronouncement on this question? In itself it may be a
small matter; but it serves to illustrate a larger problem.

"Which was the greater sin in Mrs. Mallory: to have lapsed
for a moment from absolute truthfulness; or, to wound
deliberately a friend who had tried to be kind to her? Am I
right in saying that such an episode is the outcome of the
workings of a morbid conscience? It is but one of many.

"I am often tempted to regret my good old Chappie, though
she was not a Bible student, had not a halo of fluffy
flaxen hair, and never talked, with clasped hands, of the
perfections of departed Philips. I am afraid Chappie used
to lie with amazing readiness; but always in order to
please one, or to say what she considered the right thing.

"By the way, Chappie and Mr. Inglestry dined here the other
night. Whenever I see them, David, I am reminded of how we
laughed in the luncheon-car, on our wedding-day, over
having left Chappie at the church, with two strings to her
bow. I remember you said: 'Two beaux to her string' more
exactly described the situation; a pun for which I should
have pinched you, had my spirits on that morning been as
exuberant as yours. Poor old Inglestry does not look as
well as he used to do. There may be a chance for god-papa,
yet!

* * * * *

"What an epistle! And it seems so full of trivialities, as
compared with the deep interest of yours. But it is not
given unto us all to build churches. Some of us can only
build cottages--humble little four-roomed places, with
thatched roof and anxious windows. I try to cultivate a
little garden in front of mine, full of fragrant gifts and
graces. But, just as I think I have obtained some promise
of bloom and beauty, Mrs. Mallory annoys me, or something
else goes wrong, and my quick temper, like your early
hippopotamus, dances a devastating cake-walk in the garden
of my best intentions, and tramples down my oleanders.

"Mrs. Mallory spends most of her time building a mausoleum
to the memory of the Rev. Philip. Just now, she is gilding
the dome. I get so tired of hearing of Philip's
perfections. It almost tempts me to retaliate by suddenly
beginning to talk about you. It would be good for Mrs.
Mallory to realise that she is not the only person in the
world who has married a missionary, and lost him. However,
in that case, my elaborate parrying of many questions would
all be so much time wasted. Besides, she would never
understand you and me, and our--friendship.

"When the late Philip proposed to her, he held her hand for
an hour in blissful silence, after she had murmured 'yes';
then, bent over her and asked whether she took sugar in her
tea; because, if she did, they must take some out with
them; it was difficult to obtain in the place to which they
were going! Philip was evidently a domesticated man. I
should have _screamed_, long before the hour of silence was
up; and flatly refused to go to any country where I could
not buy sugar at a moment's notice!

"Oh, David, I must stop! You will consider this flippant.
But Uncle Falcon enjoys the joke. He is looking more amused
than I have seen him look for many months. He would have
liked to see Philip trying to hold my hand. Uncle Falcon's
amber eyes are twinkling.

"Talking of cottages, I was inspecting the schools the
other day, and the children recited 'po-tray' for my
benefit. They all remarked together, in a sing-song nasal
chant: 'The cottage was a thatched one,' with many
additional emphatic though unimportant facts. I suggested,
when it was over, that 'The cottage was a _thatched_ one,'
might better render the meaning of the poet. But the
schoolmaster and his wife regarded me doubtfully; saying,
that in the whole of their long experience it had always
been: 'The cottage _was_ a thatched one.' I hastily agreed
that undoubtedly a long established precedent must never be
disregarded; and what _has been_ should ever--in this good
conservative land of ours--for that reason, if for no
other, continue to be. Then I turned my attention to the
drawing and needlework.

"How my old set would laugh if they knew how often I spend
a morning inspecting the schools. But many things in my
daily life now would be incomprehensible to them and,
therefore, amusing.

"How much depends upon one's point of view. I jumped upon a
little lady in the train the other day, travelling up to
town for a day's shopping, for saying with a weary sigh and
dismal countenance, that she was 'facing Christmas'! Fancy
approaching the time of gifts and gladness and thought for
others, in such a spirit! I told her the best 'facing' for
her to do, would be to 'right about face' and go home to
bed, and remain there until Christmas festivities were
over! She pulled her furs more closely around her, and
tapped my arm with the jewelled pencil-case with which she
was writing her list of gifts. 'My dear Diana,' she said,
'you have always been so fatiguingly energetic.' This gave
me food for thought. I suppose even the sight of the energy
of others is a weariness to easily exhausted people. A
favourite remark of Chappie's used to be, that the way I
came down to breakfast tired her out for the day.

"Well, as I remarked before, I must close this long
epistle. I am becoming quite Pauline in my postscripts. As
I think of it on its way to you, I shall have cause to
recite with compunction: 'The letter _was_--a long one!'

"Good-bye, my dear David.

"May all best blessings rest upon the Church of the Holy
Star, and upon your ministry therein.

"Affectionately yours,

Diana Rivers."

"P.S. Don't you think you might relieve my natural wifely
anxiety, by giving me a few details as to your general
health? And please remember to answer my question about
Mrs. Mallory's conscience."