Hugh moved impatiently, with a shrug of his shoulders. He had shifted his seat on the grass, so that he sat sideways to her and could look at her, and he saw that her mouth was trembling a little.
“Anger frightens me,” she said, “and makes me afraid; that is why it and fear seem to me like twins. The atmosphere of it is so dreadful; it is heavy and close as before a thunderstorm. I can’t breathe in it, and whether you are angry with me or with him or with anyone else, it is only a question of degree. There is poison about. It is such a waste of time, too. One enjoys nothing when one is angry; the hours just shrivel up and die, instead of putting out flowers. I can’t help being proud of and loving the first motive that put anger into your heart, dear, but that is quite inconsistent and quite wrong of me. But for the rest——”
“Oh, but you are wrong,” said Hugh. “I enjoyed being angry this afternoon. It put out some beautiful flowers.”
“But what part of you enjoyed it?” she asked. “Not the part I love and am so proud of.”
She leaned forward to him and spoke more gently.
“Oh, Hugh, let us be kind,” she said. “Don’t let us try to improve people, or tell them that they are wrong, and narrow, and bigoted, and Puritanical. Let them be all that if they wish; it really is their business and not ours. But do let us be kind, for that beyond any doubt is our business, and leave it to others to be good for them. It is so frightfully easy to be good for other people and to speak sharply to them when we think they are behaving absurdly, but generally our motives for doing that are a little mixed; we do it because we are sour and angry ourselves, and rather enjoy spoiling their pleasure.”
The spell was beginning to work. Hugh had ceased fidgeting, and looked at her with the quiver of a smile on his mouth.
“Besides, it is such fun being kind and not bitter,” she said, “and being big and not small. Yes, small, for angry people are always small and narrow, and for an angry man to call another one narrow is for the pot to call the kettle black.”
Hugh had a slight relapse for a moment, and groaned.
“But think what a state of holy exultation he will be in,” he said, “if you meekly say you will write another paper and I, well—I suppose you mean me to express regret for what I said. Edith, I don’t think I can bear the thought of it. He will feel that he is being an instrument for good, and that his efforts and his bravery and his determination to speak out at whatever personal cost are being blessed. They aren’t, they aren’t, they are not! Are they!”