Windyridge

by W. Riley

"Oh, of course," broke in the vicar's wife, "I knew that dodge was sure to be employed sooner or later. I was on the watch for it. It is the old excuse that there is nobody to marry. The wave of Circumstance does not toss you into the arms of some captivating nymph, and so you remain all at sea—more ornamental, perhaps, but hardly more useful than a cork on the ocean. If you really wanted to get into the Harbour of Matrimony, let me tell you, you would turn about and swim there, instead of blaming Fate for not rolling you in on the crest of a wave."

We laughed, and the Cynic said: "After all, madam, selfishness is not confined to those who have no intention of marrying. When your good husband took to himself the most charming of her sex he doubtless grudged every smile that was thrown to his rivals. Altruism, as you very sagaciously remarked a moment or two ago, is the very antithesis of selfishness, and hence it is unpopular except as an ideal for others. The popular altruist is he who denies himself to minister to my selfishness. We are all selfish, with certain rare exceptions—to be found, fortunately, within the circle of my friends."

"I am sure I am selfish," I interjected; "I wonder if that is because I am unmarried."

"My dear," said the vicar's wife, "your case is not on all fours with Philip's and other bachelors'. You are the sport of Fate, and not these men who can easily find some woman silly enough to have them, but who prefer their own selfish ease and comfort, and then entreat sympathy, forsooth! When women are unmarried it is rarely their own fault."

"All this is very puzzling," drawled the Cynic. "I am groping in the darkness with a sincere desire to find light, and no success rewards my patient efforts. I hear that it is silliness on the women's part to accept our offers, and still we are blamed for saving them from themselves. No doubt you are right, but to me it seems inconsistent."

"Bother your casuistry!" replied the vicar's wife, dismissing him with a wave of the hand. "Philip, you make me tired. What makes you sure you are selfish, dear? I have seen no signs of it."

The question was addressed to me, and I answered: "I am beginning to think it was selfishness that brought me here, and I am not sure that it is not selfishness which keeps me here. At the same time I have no wish to leave, and the question arises, Is it only the disagreeable which is right? Is selfishness never excusable?"

"In other words," remarked the Cynic, whose eyes were closed, "is not vice, after all, and at any rate sometimes, a modified form of virtue?"

"Listen to him!" exclaimed the vicar's wife; "the embodiment of selfishness is about to proclaim himself the apostle of morality. The unfettered lord of creation will expound to a slave of circumstance the ethical order of the universe, for the instruction of her mind and the good of her soul."

"The fact is," continued the Cynic, without heeding the interruption, "Miss Holden, like many other sensitive people of both sexes, has a faulty conception of what selfishness is. There are many people who imagine that it is sinful to be happy, and a sign of grace to be miserable, which is about as sensible as to believe that it is an indication of good health when you are irritable and out of sorts. To be selfish is to be careless of the interests of others, and Miss Holden is certainly not that."