Mr. Lushington was somebody, even at the beginning of this truthful
little tale, and that was some time ago; and if anything about him
could have really irritated Margaret Donne, it was that she could not
understand the reason of his undeniable importance. The people who
succeed in life, and in the arts and professions, are not always the
pleasantest people, nor even the nicest. Miss Donne had found this out
before she was twenty, and she was two years older now. She had learned
a good many other things more or less connected with human nature, and
more or less useful to a young woman in her position.
She remembered two or three of those comparatively recent discoveries
as she smiled at Mr. Lushington and observed that her smile annoyed
him. Not that Margaret was cruel or fond of giving pain for the sake of
seeing suffering; but she could be both when she was roused to defend
her beliefs, her ideals, or even her tastes. The cool ferocity of some
young women is awful. Judith, Jael, Delilah, and Athaliah were not
mythical. Is there a man who has not wakened from dreams, to find that
the woman he trusted has stolen his strength or is just about to hammer
the great nail home through his temples?
Margaret Donne was not actually cruel to her fellow-creatures. She was
not one of those modern persons who feel sick at the sight of a
half-starved horse dragging a heavy load, but will turn a man's life
into a temporary hell without changing colour. Such as these give women
a bad name among men. Margaret was merely defending herself, for Mr.
Lushington sometimes drove her to extremities; his very shyness was so
aggressive, that she could not pity him, even when she saw him blush
painfully, and noticed the slight dew which an attack of social
timidity brought to his smooth forehead.
She had excellent nerves, and was not at all timid; if anything, she
thought herself a little too self-possessed, and was slightly ashamed
of it, fancying it unwomanly. She had a great fear of ever being that,
and with Mr. Lushington, who seemed to take it for granted that she
ought to think as men do, and was to be blamed for thinking otherwise,
she took especial pains to claim a woman's privileges at every turn.
'I cannot imagine,' he said presently, 'how any intelligent person can
really believe in such arrant mythology.' 'But I make no pretension of "intelligence",' murmured Margaret Donne.
'That is absurd,' retorted Mr. Lushington, with a half-furtive,
half-angry glance. 'You know you are clever.' Margaret knew it, of course, and she smiled again. The young man did
not need to see her to be sure how she looked at that moment, for he
knew her face well. It had fixed itself in the front of his memories
some time ago, and he had not succeeded in bringing any other image
there to drive it away. Perhaps he had not tried as hard as he
supposed.