And now the author of the System was on trial under the eyes of the lady who loved him. What so kind as they? Yet are they very rigorous, those soft watchful woman’s eyes. If you are below the measure they have made of you, you will feel it in the fulness of time. She cannot but show you that she took you for a giant, and has had to come down a bit. You feel yourself strangely diminishing in those sweet mirrors, till at last they drop on you complacently level. But, oh, beware, vain man, of ever waxing enamoured of that wonderful elongation of a male creature you saw reflected in her adoring upcast orbs! Beware of assisting to delude her! A woman who is not quite a fool will forgive your being but a man, if you are surely that: she will haply learn to acknowledge that no mortal tailor could have fitted that figure she made of you respectably, and that practically (though she sighs to think it) her ideal of you was on the pattern of an overgrown charity-boy in the regulation jacket and breech. For this she first scorns the narrow capacities of the tailor, and then smiles at herself. But shouldst thou, when the hour says plainly, Be thyself, and the woman is willing to take thee as thou art, shouldst thou still aspire to be that thing of shanks and wrists, wilt thou not seem contemptible as well as ridiculous? And when the fall comes, will it not be flat on thy face, instead of to the common height of men? You may fall miles below her measure of you, and be safe: nothing is damaged save an overgrown charity-boy; but if you fall below the common height of men, you must make up your mind to see her rustle her gown, spy at the looking-glass, and transfer her allegiance. The moral of which is, that if we pretend to be what we are not, woman, for whose amusement the farce is performed, will find us out and punish us for it. And it is usually the end of a sentimental dalliance.
Had Sir Austin given vent to the pain and wrath it was natural he should feel, he might have gone to unphilosophic excesses, and, however much he lowered his reputation as a sage, Lady Blandish would have excused him: she would not have loved him less for seeing him closer. But the poor gentleman tasked his soul and stretched his muscles to act up to her conception of him. He, a man of science in life, who was bound to be surprised by nothing in nature, it was not for him to do more than lift his eyebrows and draw in his lips at the news delivered by Ripton Thompson, that ill bird at Raynham.
All he said, after Ripton had handed the letters and carried his penitential headache to bed, was: “You see, Emmeline, it is useless to base any system on a human being.”
A very philosophical remark for one who has been busily at work building for nearly twenty years. Too philosophical to seem genuine. It revealed where the blow struck sharpest. Richard was no longer the Richard of his creation — his pride and his joy — but simply a human being with the rest. The bright star had sunk among the mass.
And yet, what had the young man done? And in what had the System failed?
The lady could not but ask herself this, while she condoled with the offended father.
“My friend,” she said, tenderly taking his hand before she retired, “I know how deeply you must be grieved. I know what your disappointment must be. I do not beg of you to forgive him now. You cannot doubt his love for this young person, and according to his light, has he not behaved honourably, and as you would have wished, rather than bring her to shame? You will think of that. It has been an accident — a misfortune — a terrible misfortune”. . . .
“The God of this world is in the machine — not out of it,” Sir Austin interrupted her, and pressed her hand to get the good-night over.
At any other time her mind would have been arrested to admire the phrase; now it seemed perverse, vain, false, and she was tempted to turn the meaning that was in it against himself, much as she pitied him.
“You know, Emmeline,” he added, “I believe very little in the fortune, or misfortune, to which men attribute their successes and reverses. They are useful impersonations to novelists; but my opinion is sufficiently high of flesh and blood to believe that we make our own history without intervention. Accidents? — Terrible misfortunes? — What are they? — Good-night.”
“Good-night,” she said, looking sad and troubled. “When I said, ‘misfortune,’ I meant, of course, that he is to blame, but — shall I leave you his letter to me?”
“I think I have enough to meditate upon,” he replied, coldly bowing.
“God bless you,” she whispered. “And — may I say it? do not shut your heart.”
He assured her that he hoped not to do so, and the moment she was gone he set about shutting it as tight as he could.
If, instead of saying, Base no system on a human being, he had said, Never experimentalize with one, he would have been nearer the truth of his own case. He had experimented on humanity in the person of the son he loved as his life, and at once, when the experiment appeared to have failed, all humanity’s failings fell on the shoulders of his son. Richard’s parting laugh in the train — it was explicable now: it sounded in his ears like the mockery of this base nature of ours at every endeavor to exalt and chasten it. The young man had plotted this. From step to step Sir Austin traced the plot. The curious mask he had worn since his illness; the selection of his incapable uncle Hippias for a companion in preference to Adrian; it was an evident, well-perfected plot. That hideous laugh would not be silenced. Base, like the rest, treacherous, a creature of passions using his abilities solely to gratify them — never surely had humanity such chances as in him! A Manich?an tendency, from which the sententious eulogist of nature had been struggling for years (and which was partly at the bottom of the System), now began to cloud and usurp dominion of his mind. As he sat alone in the forlorn dead-hush of his library, he saw the devil.
How are we to know when we are at the head and fountain of the fates of them we love?
There by the springs of Richard’s future, his father sat: and the devil said to him: “Only be quiet: do nothing: resolutely do nothing: your object now is to keep a brave face to the world, so that all may know you superior to this human nature that has deceived you. For it is the shameless deception, not the marriage, that has wounded you.”
“Ay!” answered the baronet, “the shameless deception, not the marriage: wicked and ruinous as it must be; a destroyer of my tenderest hopes! my dearest schemes! Not the marriage — the shameless deception!” and he crumpled up his son’s letter to him, and tossed it into the fire.
How are we to distinguish the dark chief of the Manich?ans when he talks our own thoughts to us?
Further he whispered, “And your System:— if you would be brave to the world, have courage to cast the dream of it out of you: relinquish an impossible project; see it as it is — dead: too good for men!”
“Ay!” muttered the baronet: “all who would save them perish on the Cross!”
And so he sat nursing the devil.
By and by he took his lamp, and put on the old cloak and cap, and went to gaze at Ripton. That exhausted debauchee and youth without a destiny slept a dead sleep. A handkerchief was bound about his forehead, and his helpless sunken chin and snoring nose projected up the pillow, made him look absurdly piteous. The baronet remembered how often he had compared his boy with this one: his own bright boy! And where was the difference between them?
“Mere outward gilding!” said his familiar.
“Yes,” he responded, “I daresay this one never positively plotted to deceive his father: he followed his appetites unchecked, and is internally the sounder of the two.”
Ripton, with his sunken chin and snoring nose under the light of the lamp, stood for human nature, honest, however abject.
“Miss Random, I fear very much, is a necessary establishment!” whispered the monitor.
“Does the evil in us demand its natural food, or it corrupts the whole?” ejaculated Sir Austin. “And is no angel of avail till that is drawn off? And is that our conflict — to see whether we can escape the contagion of its embrace, and come uncorrupted out of that?”
“The world is wise in its way,” said the voice.
“Though it look on itself through Port wine?” he suggested, remembering his lawyer Thompson.
“Wise in not seeking to be too wise,” said the voice.
“And getting intoxicated on its drug of comfort!”
“Human nature is weak.”
“And Miss Random is an establishment, and Wild Oats an institution!”
“It always has been so.”
“And always will be?”
“So I fear! in spite of your very noble efforts.”
“And leads — whither? And ends — where?”
Richard’s laugh, taken up by horrid reverberations, as it were through the lengths of the Lower Halls, replied.
This colloquy of two voices in a brain was concluded by Sir Austin asking again if there were no actual difference between the flower of his hopes and yonder drunken weed, and receiving for answer that there was a decided dissimilarity in the smell of the couple; becoming cognizant of which he retreated.
Sir Austin did not battle with the tempter. He took him into his bosom at once, as if he had been ripe for him, and received his suggestions and bowed to his dictates. Because he suffered, and decreed that he would suffer silently, and be the only sufferer, it seemed to him that he was great-minded in his calamity. He had stood against the world. The world had beaten him. What then? He must shut his heart and mask his face; that was all. To be far in advance of the mass, is as fruitless to mankind, he reflected, as straggling in the rear. For how do we know that they move behind us at all, or move in our track? What we win for them is lost; and where we are overthrown we lie!
It was thus that a fine mind and a fine heart at the bounds of a nature not great, chose to colour his retrogression and countenance his shortcoming; and it was thus that he set about ruining the work he had done. He might well say, as he once did, that there are hours when the clearest soul becomes a cunning fox. For a grief that was private and peculiar, he unhesitatingly cast the blame upon humanity; just as he had accused it in the period of what he termed his own ordeal. How had he borne that? By masking his face. And he prepared the ordeal for his son by doing the same. This was by no means his idea of a man’s duty in tribulation, about which he could be strenuously eloquent. But it was his instinct so to act, and in times of trial great natures alone are not at the mercy of their instincts. Moreover it would cost him pain to mask his face; pain worse than that he endured when there still remained an object for him to open his heart to in proportion; and he always reposed upon the Spartan comfort of bearing pain and being passive. “Do nothing,” said the devil he nursed; which meant in his case, “Take me into you and don’t cast me out.” Excellent and sane is the outburst of wrath to men, when it stops short of slaughter. For who that locks it up to............