‘Oh, I don’t believe that,’ answered Gundred, gentle, but shocked. ‘That’s evolution, isn’t it? A horrid idea—yes?’
Kingston, meanwhile, with stern loyalty, forced himself to compare the neat and ladylike blankness of Gundred’s mind with the uncontrolled wanderings of her cousin’s. He himself might have much the same ideas as Isabel, but how much more restful and proper for a woman to abide by conventional views. So he denied his own feelings, and disliked more than ever the untidy apostle who seemed to have a mind as restless as his own.
Isabel began developing her theme excitedly—talked of the innumerable ghosts of Brakelond, of inherited memories, previous existences, and the impossibility of supposing that life begins abruptly at birth and ends at death. No friend, at the best of times, to abstract discussions, Gundred had the orderly-minded wife’s intense dislike of such a display in the mouth of another, and an unmarried, woman. In a man it was permissible, if regrettable; in a wife it was reprehensible and unwomanly, though not utterly unpardonable; but in a mere maiden it was a dishonour to her sex, a brazen revolution, a discarding of that spiritual chastity which makes the really nice girl’s mind a closed and cloistered garden, impossible of access. Accordingly she made haste to nip the conversation.
‘You must be so tired,’ said Gundred, rising suddenly from her chair. ‘I am sure you will be glad to go to bed—yes?’
Isabel was one of the people whom a long journey animates and inspires. Quite careless as to smuts, dishevelled locks, and crooked hats, she was at her best in that weary hour of arrival which makes other women rush to looking-glasses. However, Gundred’s tones clearly conveyed the impression that etiquette, if not common politeness, demanded agreement with her statement. Isabel admitted that she was tired accordingly, and allowed herself to be guided to her room.
Kingston and Gundred grew closer thenceforth. The warmth of their first married days seemed to have returned. Kingston, in the ardour with which he regarded his wife, was secretly indemnifying her for that obstinate folly in his own heart which refused to condemn the new-comer absolutely. He took countervailing pains to emphasize his love and admiration for Gundred. And she, realizing that he loved her more keenly, thanks to the comparison with Isabel, yielded to her own heart’s desire, passed from acquiescence to reciprocation, and was delighted to find how successfully she emerged from the comparison, and shone by the side of ragged, reckless Isabel. If Kingston could not divine, or dared not divine, the deep current of emotion that underlay his actions, how much less could such a subtlety be expected of his wife? She noticed with joy that Isabel was in every way the foil best calculated to show off her own perfections. She rejoiced to find that her husband was as keen-eyed as herself for the edifying contrast, and, though already conceiving a disapproving distrust of Isabel, believed so strongly that her presence would assure the continuation of Kingston’s renewed warmth that she decided to prolong her cousin’s visit to the uttermost.
Her motives in making the suggestion were also her husband’s in accepting them. He was glad to find himself so appreciating that nice precision of Gundred’s which he had been beginning to find monotonous; and, when she suggested that Isabel should more or less make a home with them till she married, he let himself believe that her presence would perpetually fire his admiration for Gundred, and fell gladly in with his wife’s benevolent design.
‘Poor darling,’ said Gundred; ‘she wants forming so. It will be quite like training a child. I never saw anyone who was so—so—just anyhow—yes?’
‘A bit all over the place, certainly. Well, she couldn’t do better than copy you. And you might give her a hat or two. But not that one you wore in the garden this afternoon.’
‘Did you like it, dear?’