“Oh, speak out, my dear, speak out,” said her aunt; “they are but afflicted with the epidemic which has attacked all ranks in our day. Thus, where will you find a really unselfish servant nowadays? The old-fashioned domestics who would live a generation in a family, mourn over an accidental breakage committed once in a quarter of a century, and count their employer’s interest as their own, are creatures entirely of the past. And as with maid and man, so with mistress and master, old or young. ‘What am I to get as an equivalent if I do this or that?’ seems the prevailing thought now with workers of every kind.”
“Ah yes,” said the colonel thoughtfully, “there is too much truth in what you say; only, in the darkest night we may detect a few stars, and some very bright ones too, if we will only look for them. And I am looking for stars now, but I shall be quite content to get one or two of the second or third magnitude.”
“I’m afraid you’ll hardly be able to find any in this neighbourhood, for the clouds,” said the old lady, with a smile, in which the bitter prevailed over the sweet.
“Nay, nay, my dear friend,” cried the colonel cheerily, “don’t let us talk about clouds this lovely June morning. I fear, however, that I must not look for what I want among the Wilders. I can readily understand that they might be unwilling to work in the shade, where there would be nothing to repay them except the smile of Him who will not let even the cup of cold water rightly given go unrewarded. What do you say to Lady Willerly’s daughter? I have heard great things of her. They tell me she is one of the most unselfish creatures under the sun.”
“Ay,” said the old lady dryly, “when the sun shines on her; but you want workers in the shade. Grace Willerly will not do for that.”
“You think not? Well, let me tell you what I have heard of her. Those who know her well say that she never seems so happy as when she is doing good and making others happy. Her mother calls her ‘my sunbeam.’ She seems to take a pleasure in thwarting herself in order to gratify others. If she wants to go out for a walk, and some tiresome visitor comes in, she will laugh, and say, ‘I was just wanting some one to come and keep me in, for I dare say I should have caught cold if I had gone out just now.’ Or it may be quite the other way. She is just sitting down to draw or play, and some one calls and asks her to take a walk, and she at once leaves her occupation, jumps up, and says, ‘Ah, how nice this is! I ought to take exercise, but felt disinclined; and you’ve come at the very right time, to entice me out.’ In fact, her greatest pleasure seems to be to cross her own will and inclinations, that she may do what will give pleasure to others. Such is the picture that intimate friends have drawn of her; and certainly it is a very charming one. What say you to it, Miss Mary?”
“It is very beautiful, Colonel Dawson—” and she hesitated.
“Ah, then, too highly coloured, I suppose you would say. Give me your candid opinion.”
“It is very difficult to say what I feel,” replied Mary Stansfield, “without seeming to lay myself open to the charge of censoriousness or captiousness; and yet I cannot help seeing a shade of unreality, and even insincerity, on that bright and beautiful character,—that it wants, in fact, one essential element of genuine unselfishness.”
“Of course it does,” broke in the elder lady; “you mean that it is not free from self-consciousness and, more or less, of parade.”