“Where better should I be?” she asked, with intensity. “I can do nothing here, but I should look ill elsewhere. Give me back my note, please. It does not say half I feel.” He gave it back, and stood watching her while she tore it in bits and threw it into the empty fireplace. “I have been wandering over the house,” she added. “Everything tells me of poor Roger.” She felt an indefinable need of protesting of her affection for him. “I never knew till now,” she said, “how much I loved him. I am sure you don’t know him, Hubert; not as I do. I don’t believe any one does. People always speak of him with a little air of amusement. Even Mrs. Keith is witty at his expense. But I know him; I grew to know him in thinking of him while I was away. There is more of him than the world knows or than the world would ever know, if it were left to his modesty and the world’s stupidity!” Hubert began to smile at her eloquence. “But I mean to put an end to his modesty. I mean to say, ‘Come, Roger, hold up your head and speak out your mind and do yourself justice.’ I have seen people without a quarter of his goodness who had twenty times his assurance and his success. I shall turn the tables! People shall have no favor from me, unless they are good to Roger. If they want me, they must take him too. They tell me I am a beauty, and I can do what I please. We shall see. The first thing I shall do will be to make them show him a great deal of respect.”
“I admire your spirit,” said Hubert. “Dr. Johnson liked a good hater; I like a good lover. On the whole, it’s more rarely found. But aren’t you the least bit Quixotic, with your terrible loyalty? No one denies that Roger is the best of the best of the best! But do what you please, Nora, you cannot make virtue entertaining. As a clergyman, you know, I have had to try it. But it’s no use; there’s a fatal family likeness between goodness and dulness. Of course you are fond of Roger. So am I, so is every one in his heart of hearts. But what are we to do about it? The kindest thing is to leave him alone. His virtues are his own affair. You describe him perfectly when you say that everything in the house here sings his praise,—already, before he has been here ten days! The chairs are all straight, the pictures are admirably hung, the locks are oiled, the winter fuel is stocked, the bills are paid! Look at the tidies pinned on the chairs. I will warrant you he pinned them with his own hands. Such is Roger! Such virtues, in a household, are priceless. He ought never to marry; his wife would die for want of occupation. What society cares for in a man is not his household virtues, but his worldly ones. I am talking now, of course, as a man of the world. Society wants to see things by the large end of the telescope, not by the small. ‘Be as good as you please,’ it says, ‘but unless you are interesting, I’ll none of you!’”
“Interesting!” cried Nora, with a rosy flush. “I have seen some very interesting people who have bored me to death. But if people don’t care for Roger, it’s their own loss!” Pausing a moment she fixed Hubert with the searching candor of her gaze. “You are unjust,” she said.
This charge was pleasant to the young man’s soul; he would not, for the world, have summarily rebutted it. “Explain, dear cousin,” he said, smiling kindly. “Wherein am I unjust?”
It was the first time he had called her cousin; the word made a sweet confusion in her thoughts. But looking at him still while she collected them, “You don’t care to know!” she cried. “Not when you smile so! You are laughing at me, at Roger, at every one!” Clever men had ere this been called dreadfully satirical by pretty women; but never, surely, with just that imperious naïveté. She spoke with a kind of joy in her frankness; the sense of intimacy with the young man had effaced the sense of difference.
“The scoffing fiend! That’s a pretty character to give a clergyman!” said Hubert.
“Are you, at heart, a clergyman? I have been wondering.”
“You have heard me preach.”
“Yes, a year ago, when I was a silly little girl. I want to hear you again.”
“No, I have gained my crown, I propose to keep it. I would rather not be found out. Besides, I am not preaching now; I am resting. Some people think me a clergyman, Nora,” he said, lowering his voice with a hint of mock humility. “But do you know you are formidable, with your fierce friendships and your jealous suspicions? If you doubt of me, well and good. Let me walk like an Homeric god in a cloud; without my cloud, I should be sadly ungodlike. Indeed, for that matter, I doubt of myself. But I don’t really undervalue Roger. I love him, I admire him, I envy him. I would give the world to be able to exchange my restless imagination for his silent, sturdy usefulness. I feel as if I were toiling in the sun, and he were sitting under green trees resting from an effort which he has never needed to make. Well, virtue, I suppose, is welcome to the shade. It’s cool, but it’s dreadfully obscure! People are free to find out the best and the worst of me! Here I stand, with all my imperfections on my head; tricked out with a surplice, baptized with a reverend, (Heaven save the mark!) equipped with platform and pulpit and text and audience,—erected into a mouthpiece of the spiritual aspirations of mankind. Well, I confess our sins; that’s good humble-minded work. And I must say, in justice, that when once I don my surplice (I insist on the surplice, I can do nothing without it) and mount into the pulpit, I feel conscious of a certain power. They call it eloquence; I suppose it is. I don’t know what it’s worth, but they seem to like it.”