As they rode over the downs between home and Baymouth, Pen did not speak much, though they rode very close together. He was thinking what a mockery life was, and how men refuse happiness when they may have it; or, having it, kick it down; or barter it, with their eyes open, for a little worthless money or beggarly honour. And then the thought came, what does it matter for the little space? The lives of the best and purest of us are consumed in a vain desire, and end in a disappointment: as the dear soul’s who sleeps in her grave yonder. She had her selfish ambition, as much as Caesar had; and died, baulked of her life’s longing. The stone covers over our hopes and our memories. Our place knows us not. “Other people’s children are playing on the grass,” he broke out, in a hard voice, “where you and I used to play, Laura. And you see how the magnolia we planted has grown up since our time. I have been round to one or two of the cottages where my mother used to visit. It is scarcely more than a year that she is gone, and the people whom she used to benefit care no more for her death than for Queen Anne’s. We are all selfish: the world is selfish: there are but a few exceptions, like you, my dear, to shine like good deeds in a naughty world, and make the blackness more dismal.”
“I wish you would not speak in that way, Arthur,” said Laura, looking down and bending her head to the honeysuckle on her breast. “When you told the little boy to give me this, you were not selfish.”
“A pretty sacrifice I made to get it for you!” said the sneerer.
“But your heart was kind and full of love when you did so. One cannot ask for more than love and kindness; and if you think humbly of yourself Arthur, the love and kindness are—diminished—are they? I often thought our dearest mother spoiled you at home, by worshipping you; and that if you are—I hate the word—what you say, her too great fondness helped to make you so. And as for the world, when men go out into it, I suppose they cannot be otherwise than selfish. You have to fight for yourself, and to get on for yourself, and to make a name for yourself. Mamma and your uncle both encouraged you in this ambition. If it is a vain thing, why pursue it? I suppose such a clever man as you intend to do a great deal of good to the country, by going into Parliament, or you would not wish to be there. What are you going to do when you are in the House of Commons?”
“Women don’t understand about politics, my dear,” Pen said sneering at himself as he spoke.
“But why don’t you make us understand? I could never tell about Mr. Pynsent why he should like to be there so much. He is not a clever man——”
“He certainly is not a genius, Pynsent,” said Pen.
“Lady Diana says that he attends Committees all day; that then again he is at the House all night; that he always votes as he is told; that he never speaks; that he will never get on beyond a subordinate place; and as his grandmother tells him, he is choked with red-tape. Are you going to follow the same career; Arthur? What is there in it so brilliant that you should be so eager for it? I would rather that you should stop at home, and write books—good books, kind books, with gentle kind thoughts, such as you have, dear Arthur, and such as might do people good to read. And if you do not win fame, what then? You own it is vanity, and you can live very happily without it. I must not pretend to advise; but I take you at your own word about the world; and as you own it is wicked, and that it tires you, ask you why you don’t leave it?”
“And what would you have me do?” asked Arthur.
“I would have you bring your wife to Fairoaks to live there, and study, and do good round about you. I would like to see your own children playing on the lawn, Arthur, and that we might pray in our mother’s church again once more, dear brother. If the world is a temptation, are we not told to pray that we may not be led into it?”