"They called loudly upon Dr. Thunder to speak; but he refused to rise, preferring, I suppose, to hear how well his disciples could acquit themselves; for he is the author of a work upon physiology which is nick-named the 'Social Science Bible'—a book I believe to be one of the most mischievous that has appeared within recent years—materialistic to the last degree, degrading man, disorganizing society.
"Over a glass of wine afterward, Mr. Feldwick—I beg your pardon, the Truth-Seeker—told me a pleasant little history of Lady ——'s son. He says the man had, as a child and youth, a thoroughly good nature, frank, placable, extraordinarily loving and generous, and that then he bade fair to achieve great things as a naturalist.
"But Lady ——, who had had a hard experience of matrimony, with a husband whose only merit was his early death, lost, when this son was sixteen, her only other child, a boy of twelve—not an imbecile, but a slow, feeble-minded, gentle, and very beautiful child to whom mother and brother were passionately devoted.
"Lady —— was nearly frantic at this loss: would see no one; retired for a year or so to a desolate Scotch place they have, and then suddenly went abroad. There she flew restlessly from Algeria to St. Petersburg and Norway for awhile, seen everywhere, but nowhere long; then followed several quieter years when she spent her time chiefly at Berlin, Geneva, and Paris, forming in these places a large circle of acquaintances among the most revolutionary spirits of Europe. By and by they, mother and son, came back to London, but so changed—she in thought and speech, he in all things—that their old friends and kindred scarce knew how, comfortably, to maintain any intercourse with them, and the son, at least, seemed to desire that all old ties should be snapped asunder. The mother was for ever declaiming vague, inconsequent tirades against all things that are; the son was cynical, rough, disagreeable to an insufferable extent, and in their drawing-rooms a quiet, borné old friend was sure to encounter a tremendous procession of the emancipated—the reddest of reds, unwashed agitators of all tongues and hues, aggressive free-thinkers, poets screaming mad indecencies and blasphemies to vindicate the office of art; women whose mission it was, by nude dancing, posing, acting, to educate humanity and lift it to that plane whereon to the pure all things are pure; men of science standing on dreary pedestals of comely things they have shattered—a procession, in short, no one of whose members the humdrum old acquaintance would care to face a second time.
"More discouraging than all was a story that began to be whispered among the people who had known the family most intimately in the earlier days—the story of a young girl, a distant connection of Lady ——'s husband, who had been left an orphan when only a child, almost friendless and quite penniless, and had been, thanks to Lady ——, most carefully trained abroad to fill the position of musical governess, the girl having extraordinary aptitude for music. Her studies over, she accompanied Lady —— during a year or two of her later wanderings on the continent, and returned with her to London, where she soon obtained several good teaching engagements, and sang with great success at concerts during one season. A very pretty, winning creature she was, Mr. Feldwick said: a dark, rich-tinted face, where every emotion mirrored itself, and a manner as joyous, impulsive, frank as a child's, joined to the caressing coquetry of a Frenchwoman. She spoke three or four languages as well as English; her dancing was a thing to see in this awkward island; and the child was altogether so fresh and sweet that no one wondered that Lady —— insisted that her protégée must not think of finding shelter save with her.
"But young —— was not less sensible than his mother to the girl's charm, and it presently became evident that he had the child's whole heart in return. And now began difficulties. For years Lady —— had declaimed against the bondage, the hideous wrongs and wretchednesses of marriage, and had never tired in depicting a glorious earth-life in the future when the free man and woman should love each other because they loved—but be held to no duty of loving, no responsibility—free as the air to come and go; and young ——, fed on such food, companioned as he had always been, was far more vehement than his mother upon the subject, and had sworn by all his gods that civilized marriage should never count him among its victims.
"He told the girl he loved her, but that she knew he could not marry her; that the fetters of marriage would kill love in him; and he would rather assume them for any woman in the world than herself. The girl would have married him at a word; on her part there was the utter surrender of an adoring affection; but what would it be to have Herbert without his love?
"And she had not been so intimately a member of that household without coming to share its opinions and sentiments, so she declared that Herbert should give her his love, make no sacrifice for her, sully the ethereal nature of their relation with no worldly care. They were to be that grand pair, the coming man and woman, prophesied by Lady —— and her philosophers. But, most astonishingly to the young people, here Lady —— failed them. The coming man and woman were all very fine—some ages hence—but to have them appear in conventional, censorious London, in the century we live in, and in the bosom of her family, was too much for her heroism—'Her hereditary instincts, cowardice, and training,' her son said. Herbert might marry Mimi at any moment; no one could ask of the Fates a more lovable wife and daughter-in-law; but it was nonsense—worse, it was wickedness—to dream of living after or up to their convictions in society as now constituted. Did Herbert think for a moment what would befall Mimi if she acted as her generosity and all their ideas would prompt her? It would be destruction—simple destruction to the child, and if her son could not sacrifice his principles to his love, then he was bound in honor and pity, living in this unhappy time, to sacrifice his heart. At any rate Mimi must be protected.
"But the young man could not deny his principles, and would not deny his selfishness; so Lady —— sent Mimi from her, obtaining her a good position in one of the best schools at Brighton, begging the lady principal, an old friend of her own, to keep upon the young girl a watch that might almost be called a guard. She remained there a few months, and then, one fine morning, was suddenly missing, and Lady —— received a note from her, posted in London, to say that it was useless to struggle longer; Herbert was bitterly unhappy and disappointed in her, reflected on her want of love and courage, and that she, Mimi, had chosen her part, and meant to see if one could not honestly live one's frank life in the London of to-day.
"Lady ——'s expostulations with her son were useless. 'I like what you have taught me, mother, and my conscience is in the matter.'