They must be regarded as individuals; adown the vista of the world’s perspective we see them, splendid, but eternally alone in the centre of the stage, brilliant and brief, like the passing of a meteor coming from chaos, going—alas! almost inevitably—to tragedy; leaving a luminous trail to which trembling shades creep forth to light feeble lamps of imitation, by which to trace the footsteps of the Great Unknown.
But we never understand these people, who, great in their good or evil, baffle us always—defying the scalpel which would fain anatomize them—now and then, as by revelation, we catch a glimpse of their purpose, a hint of their significance, but when we would fix the impression it eludes us as the living sunshine mocks at the palette of the painter, and spends itself royally upon the roof-trees of peasants, when we would wish to fix it for ever in unfading pigments and hang it upon the walls of kings’ palaces.
In her degree Vashti Lansing was one of these baffling ones.
Compared with her cousin Mabella, she was like a beautiful impressionistic picture beside a carefully designed mosaic.
The one compound of daring and imagination, gorgeous in colour, replete with possibilities if barren of achievement, offending against every canon, yet suggesting a higher cult than the criticism which condemns it; the other typical of the most severe and elaborated convention, executed in narrow limits, yet charming by its delicacy and stability, an exponent of the most formal design, yet winning admiration for the conscientiousness with which its somewhat meagre possibilities have been materialized.
Yet Mabella Lansing’s face was eloquent.
It was composite of all the pure elements of womanhood—the womanhood which loves and bears and suffers but does not soar. In her eyes was the soft fire of conjugal and maternal love. With the tender, near-sighted gaze of the home-maker, her eyes were bent upon the simple joys and petty pains of every-day life.
Upon her countenance there shone a tender joyousness, veiled but not extinguished by a certain piteous apprehension; indeed, there was much of appeal in Mabella’s face, and bravery too—the bravery of the good soldier who faces death because of others’ quarrels and faults.
But above all it was the face of the Mother.
Surely no one would dispute the fact that motherhood is the crowning glory of woman, the great holy miracle of mankind; but while it is impious to deny this, it is unreasonable and absurd to say that for all women it is the highest good.