“And a very fine thing they make of it,” said Edgar, reflectively, as the young reformer paused for breath. “Miss Thornleigh, when you begin to work upon the young ladies, I think I ought to have a try at the men. We might go halves in a crusade. We should disagree in this, though—for I am quite satisfied with the ladies. You are all very nice; you are just what you ought to be.”
“Mr. Arden, I hate compliments,” said Helena, growing red with indignation. “When you make those sort of speeches I should like to do something disagreeable. We are not in the least nice. Oh, I don’t believe in your crusade; you are not half earnest enough. You laugh and jibe and then you ask us to believe that you have a serious meaning. That is not how I should take it up. You don’t half understand, you don’t realise how serious it is——”
“Then I may not share in the missionary work?” said Edgar; and he was a little surprised when Gussy interposed, with a slight flush on her face.
“If you were working with Helena, people would not believe much in your seriousness,” said Gussy; “they would not give you much credit, either one or the other. Missions á deux are not understood in society—or I suppose they are too well understood,” said Gussy, with a laugh. She had been aggravated, as everybody may perceive. Edgar was her special property, allotted to her by the world in general, and what had Helena to do with him, cutting in like this with her missionary work and her nonsense? Gussy felt that she had very good reason to be put out.
And Helena, though she was a missionary, was woman enough to see the justice of the irritation and to cover her sister’s retreat. “I hate missions á deux,” she said. “We had much better go on in our own way. And then, what Mr. Arden wants and what I want are two very different things. He is only amused, but it goes to my very heart——”
“What, Miss Thornleigh?”
“To look round upon all the women I know, and see them without any occupation,” said Helena; “dressing and dancing, that is about all we do. And when we make an effort after something better we are snubbed and thrust down on every side. Our people stop us, our friends sneer at us; they tell us to go and amuse ourselves. But I am sick of amusing myself. I have done it for three years, and I hate it. I want something better to do.”
“But Harry does not hate it,” said Edgar, turning his eyes once more upon the eldest son. Harry was not at all a bad fellow. He tossed the book he had been reading away from him, and twisted his moustache, and pulled his snow-white cuffs. “I think it’s a confounded bore,” said Harry, and then he got up and strolled away.
This conversation took place in a house which had shuddered from garret to basement at the thought of not being able to get cards for Lady Bodmiller’s ball. Harry had roused himself up for that occasion, and had shown an energy which was almost superhuman. He had rushed about London as if his mission had been to stop a war or save a kingdom. His scheme of operations was as elaborate and careful as if it had been a campaign. And even Helena had forgotten all about the injuries of women, and had rushed to meet her brother at the door and to ask “What news?” with as much eagerness as if she thought dancing the real employment of life. Such relapses into levity may be pardoned to a young philosopher; but they were very strange to Edgar who, with the wondering clear mystified eyes of a semi-savage, was looking on.