“I hope you are not a Socialist, Mr. Ramsay?” said Lady Cheriton, with an alarmed air.
“Not much; but I acknowledge that there are points where my ideas touch the boundary line of Socialism. I don’t want impossibilities. I have no dream of a day when there shall be no more millionaires, no great patrons of art or great employers of labour, but only a dead level of small means and shabby dwellings, and sordid colourless lives. No, there must be butterflies as well as ants—if it were only that the ants may have something pretty to look at. What I should like to see is a stronger bond of friendship and sympathy between the two classes—a real knowledge and understanding of each other between rich and poor, and the twin demons Patronage and Sycophancy exorcised for ever and ever.”
The tea-tables were brought out upon the lawn by this time; Sir Godfrey Carmichael was carried off by his nurse; and the two young men sat down with Lady Cheriton and her daughter under the tree beneath which Juanita and her husband had sat on that one blissful day which they had spent together at the Priory as man and wife. They seemed a very cheery and pleasant quartette as they sat in the sultry afternoon atmosphere, with the level lawn and flower-beds stretching before them, and the wide belt of old timber shutting out all the world beyond. Cuthbert Ramsay was the chief talker, full of animal spirits, launching the wildest paradoxes, the most unorthodox opinions. The very sound of his strong full voice, the very ring of his buoyant laugh, were enough to banish gloomy thoughts and sad memories.
Lady Cheriton was delighted with this new acquaintance; first, because he was dexterous in handling a baby; next on the score of general merits. She was not a deeply read person, but she had a profound respect for culture in other people; and she had an idea that a scientific man was a creature apart, belonging to a loftier world than that which she and her intellectual equals inhabited. Theodore had told her of his friend’s claims to distinction, his hard work in several cities, and seeing this earnest worker boyish and light-hearted, interested in the most frivolous subjects, she was lost in wonder at his condescension.
She begged him to go to Cheriton with Theodore at the earliest opportunity—an invitation which he accepted gladly.
“I have long wished to know Lord Cheriton,” he said.
The two young men left soon after tea. Cuthbert’s high spirits deserted him at the Priory gates, and both men were thoughtful during the homeward drive.
“Well, Cuthbert, what do you think of my cousin, now that you have seen her?” Theodore asked, when he had driven the first mile.
“I can only agree with you, my dear fellow. She is a very lovely woman. I think there could hardly be two opinions upon that point.”
“And do you think—as I do—that it is hopeless for any man to spend his life in worshipping her? Do you think her heart is buried with her dead husband?”