Chapter XXXIII

“Women are strongest; but above all things
Truth beareth away the victory.”

I. BOOK OF ESDRAS.

Everything was really going well. Lady Middleton, casting her eyes over the large and spacious rooms, the wide staircase and the cosy nooks, thinking also of the well-prepared little tables, in a not too distant dining-room, felt a thrill of positive elation. When one could depend on one’s cook and trust one’s florist, life became simple.

She turned to mingle among her guests, when Mr. and Mrs. Field were announced; and she stood confronted by a dream. Rosamonde was facing her, dressed in pale sea-green with masses of white chiffon, three perfect roses on her shoulder, her fair, fluffy hair framing her appealing blue eyes. For a moment Vera’s one fixed idea, was of a primitive order; she longed to tear the white chiffon on her younger sister’s dress. The thin smile that crept in a tight band across her lips witnessed to the march of civilization.

“My dear Rosamonde,” she murmured, “how well you’re looking.” Sir Henry Middleton came forward.

“Introduce me to your sister, Vera,” he said, and Rosamonde, taking his arm, went the round of the room. Arthur Field lingered by his hostess.

“It was kind of you to ask her,” he said in a grave undertone. Vera lifted her eyebrows; she could tell by his voice that after all, they had received an invitation.

“I wanted to do all I could,” she murmured; “it’s so brave of you.”

She had no intention of punishing the wrong person when she could punish the right, but if Daphne _was_ the right person—then Daphne’s punishment lay in her hand. Arthur Field frowned, and left her. Looking over the brilliant scene before him, he soon discovered Daphne; she was dancing, of course, and as he watched her, he felt within him the glow of his old pride in her. She danced so beautifully, her dress of palest yellow made him think of young spring flowers, and their gracefulness. She was dancing with Reggie Cheston; he watched them as the waltz closed stroll towards the dimly-lighted conservatory. Then, with a rigid effort, he turned back to the thought of Rosamonde.

“I don’t think I am going to stay on at the hospital,” Daphne said to Reggie. “I wish you cared more for the Church, Reggie,” she added, “it’s such a help.”

“It must be,” said Reggie; “does he preach very well?” Daphne’s eyes flashed, then she laughed a little under her breath.

“He is a tremendously good man, Reggie,” she said, “and you don’t know what I’ve been feeling lately. It would be such a relief to know that I was doing something really helpful.”

“It is a little difficult to catch what you mean,” said Reggie; “but if you feel that marriage with a clergyman is a kind of spiritual vocation, I should advise you to be careful; the bonds are for life, and you are not my ideal of a parson’s wife; besides, you must remember he has a vocation too.”

“Oh, of course he cares for me,” pursued Daphne; “we have a great deal in common.” She sat down gracefully beneath a huge fern. Reggie stood beside her with a peculiarly dogged expression on his face.

“Do you think you are quite fair?” he asked her.

“What do you mean?” said Daphne in real surprise; “I can assure you, Reggie, I am not playing with him. If I say yes I will stick to it. I feel that I ought to explain. I have lived such a worldly, artificial life. No wonder you think that, in spite of my hospital experience, I am only fitted for a ball-dress and an evening party! But, indeed, I am learning many things! Philip Mitchell’s position is not an easy one, but his work is the noblest in the world, an attempt to let sunshine into dark lives! Think what it means. Oh! if I could tell you how the faces of the poor haunt me! How the call of their miseries comes up to me, you would understand! And then, Reggie—I have never forgotten David! He loved me and suffered because he loved. I can see this man is beginning to care for me, and I feel that it is partly _because_ of David that I could make him happy. I have no right to ruin two lives! After all, what does it matter whether I am happy or not?”

“It does not matter at all whether you are happy or not,” said Reggie, sitting down quietly by her side. “But that is not the question you know, the question is whether it’s right?” It did not please Daphne that he should be as willing to sacrifice her happiness as she was herself, but she could not admit this.

“Yes,” she said, “that is what I feel.”

“May I tell you what I think?”

“Of course,” said Daphne surprised.

“Let us begin from the beginning,” said Reggie in a measured voice, looking straight in front of him at a pink geranium. “You were unhappy with Vera, so you shipped her—for your uncle?”

“It was against—— I couldn’t possibly stay here after my father’s death,” said Daphne.

“Exactly,” Reggie continued. “So you went to your uncle’s and found it rather dull there. Then you thought it would be easier to marry David.”

“I had especial reasons for that!” Daphne pleaded.

“Especial reasons then,” said Reggie, “pointed to David. I may add, in passing, that you didn’t care for him, and that he was giving you all he had, and you were giving him nothing at all except ‘especial reasons’—a little thin that for a marriage settlement!”

“Reggie!”

“Let me go on,” pursued the young man gravely. “After your little cousin’s death, you threw over your uncle and aunt, and went to the hospital with your friend. Circumstances arose showing you an objectionable weakness in David, so you threw over David. Now you talk of giving up your friend, and the hospital, in order to go and work in the slums. Marriage again, you notice, with a man you don’t care for, because you are haunted by the faces of the poor. Are you quite sure that you are fitted for the work? Or that it is sufficient to offer a man in return for the best that is in him, a friendly interest in his parish? Do you know what anything _real_ means?” Daphne was breathless with anger; she could not get up and go away, and for a moment she could think of no suitable reply.

Reggie had taken her so absolutely by surprise. She had always considered him an admiring friend, a little weak perhaps, but in a good-natured, boyish way, and very fond of her. Of course, very fond of her—most of her friends were that. Imperceptibly she had all her life leaned on what her friends thought of her. The likeness was too flattering to be true, but it was impossible to look with comfort upon a likeness too true to be flattering, and it was this that Reggie held up inexorably before her. But her motives were so good. Taken one by one, her every action had been so kindly, unselfish, so high-principled! This picture of Reggie’s looked as if he held in his hand a list of posings, the posings of a heartless egoist!

“Do you know what anything real means?” he repeated, with his eyes upon that terrible pink geranium. She was looking at it now, it appeared so very artificial.

“I—Reggie, do you really think I am like that?” she gasped. She was too ashamed to look at him, so she did not see his lips twitch, nor the new, kind light in his eyes.

“I think you have thought that you were a princess in a fairy-tale, Daphne, and that it was merely a question of flowers, and favours, and magic words, and it isn’t a fairy-tale. Men aren’t like that. Most girls are brought up in the fairy-tale fashion, and it’s awfully hard on us; you play with fire, and you won’t have anything more to do with us if you see sparks. You are always throwing gloves into an arena of lions, because you don’t quite understand lions! I don’t like talking to you in this way, but when I hear you speak of marrying a man who loves you—in order to help the poor, you are putting the wrong things together. Love earns one thing and that only—love—you can’t give anything else instead. Esteem, affection, help, by all means give them in exchange for—esteem, affection—help, but don’t try to barter the respectables, in exchange for love. It’s an attempt to stop the tide with sand-castles. Sell yourself if you like, but be frank about it, and don’t call it by grand names. Flirtation is a repulsive system of theft; you take all you can get, real things mind you, not names, and you give worthless trash back, for your part of the bargain. Be shocked at drink and play, and then intoxicate with your eyes, and gamble with your complexion—and say that ‘The poor boy behaved very badly’; I used to think better things of you, Daphne!”

“Oh! for Heaven’s sake, stop!” cried Daphne; “do you think I am a flirt?”

“Yes,” said Reggie, “I do.”

“Then take me back at once to Vera!” cried Daphne. “Oh! how _dare_ you say such things to me? Reggie—how can you?” Reggie looked miserably at the pink geranium. He was asking himself the same question. He had never talked so much in his life before, but he could bear no longer, the ache in his heart, and what gave fire and force to his condemnation, made it more than impossible to explain.

“I am sorry,” he said at last, “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“Like it?” flashed Daphne. Then she rose to her feet. “You have behaved intolerably,” she said, “good-bye.” And she swept past him alone, into the glitter of the great ball-room. Reggie picked the geranium and put it in his button-hole.