The Farringdons Part 9

"Of course it would; but I do. I could draw a map of your mind with my eyes shut, I know it so well."

"I wish you would. I should value it even if it were drawn with your eyes open, though possibly in that case it might be less correct."

"I will, if you will give me a pencil and a sheet of paper."

Christopher produced a pencil, and tore a half-sheet off a note that he had in his pocket. The two were walking through the wood at the Willows at that moment, and Elisabeth straightway sat down upon a felled tree that happened to be lying there, and began to draw.

The young man watched her with amus.e.m.e.nt. "An extensive outline," he remarked; "this is gratifying."

"Oh yes! you have plenty of mind, such as it is; n.o.body could deny that."

"But why is the coast-line all irregular, with such a lot of bays and capes and headlands?"

"To show that you are an undecided person, and given to split hairs, and don't always know your own opinion. First you think you'll do a thing because it is nice; and then you think you won't do it because it is wrong; and in the end you drop between two stools, like Mahomet's coffin."

"I see. And please what are the mountain-ranges that you are drawing now?"

"These," replied Elisabeth, covering her map with herring-bones, "are your scruples. Like all other mountain-ranges they hinder commerce, make pleasure difficult, and render life generally rather uphill work."

"Don't I sound exactly as if I was taking a geography cla.s.s?"

"Or conducting an Inquisition," added Christopher.

"I thought an Inquisition was a Spanish thing that hurt."

"So certain ignorant people say; but it was originally invented, I believe, to eradicate error and to maintain truth."

"I am going on with my geography cla.s.s, so don't interrupt. The rivers in this map, which are marked by a few faint lines, are narrow and shallow; they are only found near the coast, and never cross the interior of the country at all. These represent your feelings."

"Very ingenious of you! And what is that enormous blotch right in the middle of the country, which looks like London and its environs?"

"That is your conscience; its outlying suburbs cover nearly the whole country, you will perceive. You will also notice that there are no seaports on the coast of my map; that shows that you are self-contained, and that you neither send exports to, nor receive imports from, the hearts and minds of other people."

"What ever are those queer little castellated things round the coast that you are drawing now?"

"Those are floating icebergs, to show that it is a cold country. There, my map is finished," concluded Elisabeth, half closing her eyes and contemplating her handiwork through her eyelashes; "and I consider it a most successful sketch."

"It is certainly clever."

"And true, too."

Christopher's eyes twinkled. "Give it me," he said, stretching out his hand; "but sign it with your name first. Not there," he added hastily, as Elisabeth began writing a capital E in one corner; "right across the middle."

Elisabeth looked up in surprise. "Right across the map itself, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"But it is such a long name that it will cover the whole country."

"I know that."

"It will spoil it."

"I shouldn't be surprised; nevertheless, I always am in favour of realism."

"I don't know where the realism comes in; but I am such an obliging person that I will do what you want," said Elisabeth, writing her name right across the half-sheet of paper, in her usual dashing style.

"Thank you," said Christopher, taking the paper from her; and he smiled to himself as he saw that the name "Elisabeth Farringdon" covered the whole of the imaginary continent from east to west. Elisabeth naturally did not know that this was the only true image in her allegory; she was as yet far too clever to perceive obvious things. As Chris said, it was not when her eyes were open that she was most correct.

"I have seen Mr. Tremaine," said Elisabeth to him, a day or two after this. "Cousin Maria left her card upon him, and he returned her call yesterday and found us at home. I think he is perfectly delightful."

"You do, do you? I knew you would."

"Why?"

"Because, like the Athenians, you live to see or to hear some new thing."

"It wasn't his newness that made me like him; I liked him because he was so interesting. I do adore interesting people! I hadn't known him five minutes before he began to talk about really deep things; and then I felt I had known him for ages, he was so very understanding."

"Indeed," Christopher said drily.

"By the time we had finished tea he understood me better than you do after all these years. I wonder if I shall get to like him better than I like you?"

"I wonder, too." And he really did, with an amount of curiosity that was positively painful.

"Of course," remarked Elisabeth thoughtfully, "I shall always like you, because we have been friends so long, and you are overgrown with the lichen of old memories and a.s.sociations. But you are not very interesting in the abstract, you see; you are nice and good, but you have not heart enough to be really thrilling."

"Still, even if I had a heart, it is possible I might not always wear it on my sleeve for Miss Elisabeth Farringdon to peck at."

"Oh yes, you would; you couldn't help it. If you tried to hide it I should see through your disguises. I have X rays in my eyes."

"Have you? They must be a great convenience."

"Well, at any rate, they keep me from making mistakes," Elisabeth confessed.

"That is fortunate for you. It is a mistake to make mistakes."

"I remember our Dear Lady at Fox How once saying," continued the girl, "that nothing is so good for keeping women from making mistakes as a sense of humour."

"I wonder if she was right?"

"She was always right; and in that as in everything else. Have you never noticed that it is not the women with a sense of humour who make fools of themselves? They know better than to call a thing romantic which is really ridiculous."

"Possibly; but they are sometimes in danger of calling a thing ridiculous which is really romantic; and that also is a mistake."

"I suppose it is. I wonder which is worse--to think ridiculous things romantic, or romantic things ridiculous? It is rather an interesting point. Which do you think?"

"I don't know. I never thought about it."

"You never do think about things that really matter," exclaimed Elisabeth, with reproof in her voice; "that is what makes you so uninteresting to talk to. The fact is you are so wrapped up in that tiresome old business that you never have time to attend to the deeper things and the hidden meanings of life; but are growing into a regular money-grubber."