THE TEST OF AN IDEAL

Poverty Bay Herald, Volume XXXV, Issue 11248, 11 April 1908, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE TEST OF AN IDEAL

"And so," said the man, with a. bit of finality m his voice, "you admit that you wire, you concede that 1 care ; you admit that there is no tangible reason under. Heaven why you shouldn't ajid yet you simply won't." She lodkedl up at him for an instant and 'regarded him narrowly. Then she nodded, and, stooping, caressed a carnation m the cup of her hand. "I did not put it m that way," she said m iow Lones. : "But isn't that just the situation m a nutshell 1 /" She- .-seamed to ponder as she released the flower. Then she lifted her head to. lace him. * "Well, what if it is?" • As she took on defiance, the man iKvcame gentler. "Margaret, you will submit that I have some claim to know your reason." Sho again caressed the flower, but tin* time nervously, and she was 'longer m making answor. And when the answer came it was c "John, if I gave ;you the true reason you would say it was a. woman's whimscy; and I won't tell you any reason except the true They sat m the little flower garden mi- front of the rectory. He was a young physician— she the daughter of the rector — and /matchmakers gossiped ol them, as a famously lovely pair. The man persisted : "Margaret, I have a right to know." The girl culled the flower and held its bloom m his face. "Ifs because 1 am a woman. ' . / ' J^W-ell?" ■"'And I have a woman's reason." * v ßut is it a reason?" "Mod can't understand women's reasons." : "It is the truth, John ', no man can ever understand. They haven't the feeling. 1 ' "Do you deny that I have feeling?" She looked at him frankly and then spoke without levity: "John, I do believe tliat you hay« more feeling than most men. If I tell it to you, will you ifisjpect my reason?" . ■/ • "I will promise that." "Then you shall know. I have an ideal} No, not an ideal man, different from you. It is 1 an ideal condition. Perhaps I shall 1 call it a situation.'" "You mean that this is not the place fur a proposal?" ' ""I am serious now, John. I'm talking to you more seriously than I ever did before. I don't believe m the way that people- make love and marry nowadays—it is too .cheap." "Too cheap?" "Yes, too cheap. When I marry I want to marry a man that I not only imagine might be a heroic character, but one that. I know is" just that. And •thats not all; I want him to know that I give myself to him because he is that character, and that he has made and proved himself a hero for my sake." , "You travel lofty paths, Margaret?" "'John, why aren t you a hero?" "So that's the reason !" "But you might be — you are the wan I would imagine a hero." "And if you were the ordinary woman .you would marry me out of, hand?" "That's just it— women have made themselves too cheap." "They take their heroes oil trust?" "I'm glad that you understand. Even the . b.est women, women who hold the highest ideals, cheapen themselves and hate themselves for doing it. They meet the men they imagine might be heroes, they glorify them, and feed "themselves on that imagination and tin- . sel glory, and they marry. And then, oh, John, I know so many who have been disappointed. They eat out their hearts m secret disappointment. And it's their own fault.'' "And what is thej conclusion?" The man spoke very grayely. S "The conclusion is that women so cheapen themselves that they cheapen the men. They cheapen love and they cheapen life. They set the price low, and the quality falls lower. It makes life simply' comfortable. and .Jove menial. I don't believe ftiaf*Tani "Calking' simply •for my own pride and desire, John — 1 believe that it isL principle." The man frowned and seemed about to make reply. Buk he checked his words. ■The girl went oh : ' /',* "So there, you have the reason, and you may call me a romantic little f ool for it. You may call nic a girl graduate with silly, olq-world ideas to apply to modern conditions ; but if you want to know ,tl)e truth, I can tell you that three women out of five who : have any ideas at) all that are worth the name believe just the same as I do, but haven't the .courage to live up to- i£ They marry and make the best of it; but I'm not going to do it. I'll be an old maid with my idea, and my carnations and my tabby cats if I have to be, but I'm not going to be a wife that is always won-dtering whether her husband really might have done great things if she had forced him to do them when she had the chance." They walked as the girl concluded her declaration, and now they were seated on the steps of the rectory. The man laid off his hat, crossed nis legs and swung his foot nervously. "Margaret, I'm not going to ridicule your argument. I can only hope, to dtissuade you from your view." "John, am I right or wrong?" "Tihiere's just the trouble." He laughed mirthlessly. "I ' confess that that I don't know whether you are wrong. Your argument, I mean. But I think that your conclusion goes too far. You will confess that there is happiness m marriage." "I will admit there is comfort. It is generally tolerable. But think of the greater happiness, and the better world there would be, if men had to strive, as a matter of course, and to prove themselves*. It is the mission of women that I am pleading. John. They can't do great things- themselves, but they can drive men to greatness, and when they don't do it they fail m their duty. Men, anfli some women, nowadays, laugh at romance as it is brought down to us m the old literature, but that literature lives; it is taken to heart." "What do you want me to do, Margaret?" "John. I never suggested that," but the girl's color heightened to a glow of pride, and she bent, slightly toward him. "Do you want roe — will you put mo to the; test, Margaret?" • - "I did , not mean that,. John; I thought you would simply disagree 1 with me and that, wouldi be all." . ""I may disagree, but that will not be all, '' Margaret. I will lake the test. But . how shall I know?" , , "How. shall you -know?" . "I mean. " how shall •I. knmv when my -works have* been, sufficient." ' "John, I should ask a* -great deal. You have done wrong, for you have encouraged me." "Ask all that you will, only that I .t-hall-'know when it is enough. I shall not, come to claim you until you are satisfied' that it is enough." *■• He, rose and stood before .her, bnre-headt-d, • and with his hands clasped behind him. "I will' not come pleading a' half -cause. You have set a test. Whether" 11,I 1 , agree to its justice or' not. I '--should' never be happy and you would never ■be happy, if you did not have m; me all that you would ask m a husband. Therefore I accept the test. But m doing so I make a condition. You " must let me know when your requirement is fulfilled:" "The girl plucked nervously at the petals 'of the flower. She looked up and over the garden. "John, it may lake .years; Oh, I am asking to much. Is it tot) much, John?" "Let it take years, if need be. But hnw.. am I to know? I shan't come to ask you !" "John, you are not going to stay away-?" "Hdo not mean that; — I shall come here whenever I can— but I shall not broach v this subject again until I know that you are ready to have me do so." Again the girl looked over the flower garden. The sun was setting, and the carnations turned their faces toward him for the day's good-bye. The glory of the spring-time evening . rested upon the lawn, and the robins made merry on the grass. The girl rose and placed her hand upon his arm m a half caress. "Let us walk among the flowers," she said gently, "and I will show you how you shall know ; and. John, dear, the sign that I shall give you shall be only

for you. If you accept my test no cute else shall have my test : and you must kiss me to seal the bargain, for you become my knight ; and 1 must be faithful, too." Along the box-bonlore.d walk they paced slowly, and the white-haired rector who saw them from his study window looked on proudly. It was the child of his old age, and the Man he Would have chosen for her. Ho foil no sense of espionage whilst lib watched them linger among the flowers, and when lie saw a caressing kiss at parting his thought framed itself into the murmured words of the Benediction. Two days later when his daughter, with wet eyes, told him tluifc their friend had taken service m the medical corps of the army and would proceed at once to the Philippines ho was puzzled, but he <Md not question her. He was old, and had watched life and its emotions m many phases. Throughout the year sjie watched the papers closely for Manila news, and more than once gave kisses to a treasured clipping. One powerful magazine article dealing with plague and poverty m the land where he labored she found under his name and glowed with pride because of it. Summer, autumn and winter passed and. liis monthly letters she treasured, not so much for what they told as for what they refrained from telling. He was keeping the pact and made no pleading. In the early spring she went forth to plant her carnations, and hesitated long. Before her were the sand pots with the slips that were labelled white and red. The pink ones she hud abandoned. The beds prepared by the gardener she opened for them and then threw down her trowel and went to her room to again pore over the clippings, the magazine article and his ' letters. She went again into the garden, pale and resolute, and planted the red carnations only. Two weeks later she received a letter. 1 "I am coming home," he wrote "for my tour of foreign duty is ended. 1 could have two years m the home service and then 'renew my commission, but I do not care for it, and have decided that I will resign i after getting home. I know that by the time you receive this you have planted your carnations. They will bloom by the time I reach you. I cannot help entertaining hope, Margaret; but, knowing you as I do, I. feel that they will hold, no message for me. That is why I shall not hold service longer m the army. 1 must seek another field." When, he came the girl was among the flowers. He looked on silent while she, with crimson face and 1 nervous fingers', plucked at the red carnations. She lifted lei; hand and touched the scar upon his cheek and the medal upon his; uniform blouse. "I did not know ol these," she faltered ; "you should have told me." ' "I would have cheated you had I done so," he said, gravely. "For they tell merely of chance; not of real performance. "You keep the pact better than I do, John, dear. I hesitated when I planted them; and that was before I knew of these," and she again lightly dwelt with he r fingers upon the scar and the star. ',' Arid you have two bars upon your shoulder straps. You are a captain. John." "That was also due to* opportunity. It was not the kind', of thing you had . m mind; only a night-time skirmish where' I. a non-combatant, happened to-, be : the only officer near the guard tent, "I took out the men and beat off a little party of Moros,. It was only because it was but of my line of duty that the medal came." ' He remained to the evening meal, and the aged rector watched them both with growing mystification, but still refrained from questions. The girl walked with her lover again ado wn the bosbordered : path when he was leaving, ami again lifted her lace that he might kiss her m the moonlight, and then she asked him where he would go and what he would do. "To Alaska," he said. "I think that the best chance is there." "I did not' mean the finding of fortune." -„ •.'.■•.... Nor do I, Margaret. But I must, go somewhere, and that is t-ho place that I have chosen." "Why not stay hero? Do you have to go to the ends of the earth to find' opportunity?" V "Not always; but for me to stay here would -dlefeat us, Margaret. Companionship would be too much for resolution. Either I would weaken and come bogging you to give up this test or — " • He stopped. , " . : "Go on," she said, m a low voice. "You mean that either you would weaken or I would do so?" ' ' . " "Margaret, this test has now cptno 'tomean as much to mo as to you. I will not argue oven with myself whether it is right. But it has become the quest of my life. And so-, I warn you, dear girl, if you really do love me, to- hold to your resolution." » "John, it may be so She spoke wistfully, and her eyes were wet. Now that she hadl him home! she realised how touch she had wanted him. He had but to say the word and the test would have been cancelled. But sho had built up m the mind of her lover what she realized she might try m vain to shake. Bu^t, at least,; there was consolation m that she had found what so many of her sex had sought m vain. The man took her once m his arms and pressedl his lips to. hers. "Gcodbye, Margaret, darling," he said, and was gone. -, ' Again the year waxed and waned,, but this time | there were no newspaper clippings, no magazine articles, though she sought with /almost incessant diligence. Letters anno irregularly, and' they principally were descriptive of the life and the country. There was nothing ol anything that he had done. There was nothing of himself save the barest mention of his movements and of minor results of his work for the Geographical Society. Afterwards she learned how he had opened a new trail m the snowbound mountains for which even the Indians forsook the paths of their fathers, and . was, to the argonauts a boon inestimable. But lie did not write her of this, and press despatches did not tell of it. When ho came again .m the spring he barely glanced at the carnations. That they would be red he had: never doubted, and when their radiant blooms confronted him. he felt neither surprise nor disappointment. When his card was taken m, the girl came to the door and led him to the steps, where they r,--t and talked. He "told of his travel* and mild adventures, and she told' of her father's failing health and wistfully begged'to know of his plans. ' "This "time .'to India," 'lie said; "I feel, doaiV that I have wasted time and talents I am a physician^ yet I frittered! away one year doling, pills to- malarial soldiers and malingering iiatives and another outside of my* profession , altogether. If Ido anything- it must be m the free pursuit of my own calling. I am going to study the^plague." Her face psiled. She tried to speak, but gasped and bent her head upon her folded arms. -The; sunlight tangled m her hair andt gave if the splendor of gold. He tenderly put his arm about her and whispered m her ear: . "Sweetheart, darling sweetheart, if it is so milch, why go on? Surely, it is enough- for us both to have withstood the test so long. There can never be question of fait'i or affection now." The girl lifted her head and looked at him with eyes that blazed through their tears. She spoke with quick sharpness: "John, not another word if you- ever- want to look me m the face again." He drew back as a- flush mounted beneath the tan of his face. He rose to his feet and! the girl sprang up and stood before him. "Oh, John, dear, I spoke too. hastily. Forgive me, dear. But it is right that I should have done it. Oh, dear; last year it was you who had to hold me to my resolution ; and this time I must hold you to yours. I must do it, John, to have your respect and my own. You know I must, dear heart. Could either of use ever look the othor m the face, if we should surrender now?" • The man shook himself and answered dully : "I suppose you are right; yes. you are right. But it is long ; it is long!" : "John, you would not love me if I should weaken." "You would hold it a black mark against me because I was weak?"

"No. 1 shall not, dear boy. It was only because 1 tried. 11" I had yielded then you would have been ashamed of me and of yourself. We would have been ashamed nlid never happy again." Again they supped' at the rectory board and again the venerable rector i wondered, but held his peace. ! Long months passed before clippings from Bombay and London papers began to confront her m the home journals. They were of his work among , the plague-stricken and his success that made all India marvel.. The Viceroy toted and honored hmi ; the King complimented the American Ambassador upon his countryman. His discoveries were the talk of tho court, and there was free discussion tt> the effect that he might have a baronetcy for changing his allogiancc. At this news the girl laughed. His allogiance ! He who had won a, medal of honor under Old Glory ! And what was a baronetcy compared with the knighthood he 'sought? Ah, it was something to have driven a man to this !*■■-■ So-cm he- wrote that he was coining home ; not a Avord about the carnations or the quest, but there was m the lettor an exultance Uiiii't kul n-ever b-een m letter of his. 1 before; and as sho wieait toplant her carnation^ this- time she did not hesitate. Days dragged slowly on through a backward spring. . Oh, if they' should fail to bloom m time! Tho buds 'were novcr so laggard, and one morning when she ran out to see them she Avag ne-rtr fainting because one of tho moj-t forward of them seem-ed tinged with red. Tremblingly she pried it open to make sure that the bl-oom would! bo white. . From London he cabled, a greeting, but not the naime -of his -ship; and from that day on she 'worked assiduously to ooux the floweis. It- was on the seventh morning that she steed m the garden awl clasped .her -hands- m sli-eer happiness, and then stooped l and shyly kissed each »f three glorious white carnations. "Oh. you darlings, you darlings! You knew that lie would -come to-day ; surely he must conic to-du-y !" Long she spent before tjie mirroi through the morning. N-ey-er [before, she excused herself, .liad woman so fill reason to "welcome the maai who would .come bo ; claim lier, or so full right to- array herself for 'his joy./. It was with pride that sho b-cmt' her' gaze upon the glass and glow eel because it showed herself more beaaitiful than she had -. ever dared 1 to bcliervo herself before ; "with the pride of her glorious- womanhood that she went herself. to, the door when the rectory bell jangled raucously ; wdth swelling bosom and a. glorio-usi flush .that die threw wide the door to welcome — ' ' Ah! Not him, but a letter with a gimt black seal! .'*•'. - « ■ ' * / ♦ The casket lay m tine dim lit church w hi Ist townsmen, trgd,. plowly past* to give glance of tribute to him who l.ad brought to -his birthplace a. meed of praise. Some brought flowers, and' so'ito left tears, for lie was loved (imen-; the. poor before he went upon kn.igiit-er.-;in-try. And, last there came, -faltering ivenoath her mourning veil, a wyu'in, tti Jeavt'^tihe simplest. tribute of them ail — •tnr«;o carnations, white us siiow.