"You mean," persisted the Minor Poet, "you would have her think also of her dinner, of her clothes, her necessities, luxuries."
"It is not only for herself," answered the Old Maid.
"For whom?" demanded the Minor Poet.
The white hands of the Old Maid fluttered on her lap, revealing her trouble; for of the old school is this sweet friend of mine.
"There are the children to be considered," I explained. "A woman feels it even without knowing. It is her instinct."
The Old Maid smiled on me her thanks.
"It is where I was leading," said the Minor Poet. "Woman has been appointed by Nature the trustee of the children. It is her duty to think of them, to plan for them. If in marriage she does not take the future into consideration, she is untrue to her trust."
"Before you go further," interrupted the Philosopher, "there is an important point to be considered. Are children better or worse for a pampered upbringing? Is not poverty often the best school?"
"It is what I always tell George," remarked the Woman of the World, "when he grumbles at the tradesmen's books. If Papa could only have seen his way to being a poor man, I feel I should have been a better wife."
"Please don't suggest the possibility," I begged the Woman of the World; "the thought is too bewildering."
"You were never imaginative," replied the Woman of the World.
"Not to that extent," I admitted.
"'The best mothers make the worst children,'" quoted the Girton Girl. "I intend to bear that in mind."
"Your mother was a very beautiful character--one of the most beautiful I ever knew," remarked the Old Maid.
"There is some truth in the saying," agreed the Minor Poet, "but only because it is the exception; and Nature invariably puts forth all her powers to counteract the result of deviation from her laws.
Were it the rule, then the bad mother would be the good mother and the good mother the bad mother. And--"
"Please don't go on," said the Woman of the World. "I was up late last night."
"I was merely going to show," explained the Minor Poet, "that all roads lead to the law that the good mother is the best mother. Her duty is to her children, to guard their infancy, to take thought for their equipment."
"Do you seriously ask us to believe," demanded the Old Maid, "that the type of woman who does marry for money considers for a single moment any human being but herself?"
"Not consciously, perhaps," admitted the Minor Poet. "Our instincts, that they may guide us easily, are purposely made selfish. The flower secretes honey for its own purposes, not with any sense of charity towards the bee. Man works, as he thinks, for beer and baccy; in reality, for the benefit of unborn generations.
The woman, in acting selfishly, is assisting Nature's plans. In olden days she chose her mate for his strength. She, possibly enough, thought only of herself; he could best provide for her then simple wants, best guard her from the disagreeable accidents of nomadic life. But Nature, unseen, directing her, was thinking of the savage brood needing still more a bold protector. Wealth now is the substitute for strength. The rich man is the strong man. The woman's heart unconsciously goes out to him."
"Do men never marry for money?" inquired the Girton Girl. "I ask merely for information. Maybe I have been misinformed, but I have heard of countries where the dot is considered of almost more importance than the bride."
"The German officer," I ventured to strike in, "is literally on sale. Young lieutenants are most expensive, and even an elderly colonel costs a girl a hundred thousand marks."
"You mean," corrected the Minor Poet, "costs her father. The Continental husband demands a dowry with his wife, and sees that he gets it. He in his turn has to save and scrape for years to provide each of his daughters with the necessary dot. It comes to the same thing precisely. Your argument could only apply were woman equally with man a wealth producer. As it is, a woman's wealth is invariably the result of a marriage, either her own or that of some shrewd ancestress. And as regards the heiress, the principle of sale and purchase, if I may be forgiven the employment of common terms, is still more religiously enforced. It is not often that the heiress is given away; stolen she may be occasionally, much to the indignation of Lord Chancellors and other guardians of such property; the thief is very properly punished--imprisoned, if need be. If handed over legitimately, her price is strictly exacted, not always in money--that she possesses herself, maybe in sufficiency; it enables her to bargain for other advantages no less serviceable to her children--for title, place, position. In the same way the Neolithic woman, herself of exceptional strength and ferocity, may have been enabled to bestow a thought upon her savage lover's beauty, his prehistoric charm of manner; thus in other directions no less necessary assisting the development of the race."
"I cannot argue with you," said the Old Maid. "I know one case.
They were both poor; it would have made no difference to her, but it did to him. Maybe I am wrong, but it seems to me that, as you say, our instincts are given us to guide us. I do not know. The future is not in our hands; it does not belong to us. Perhaps it were wiser to listen to the voices that are sent to us."
"I remember a case, also," said the Woman of the World. She had risen to prepare the tea, and was standing with her back to us.
"Like the woman you speak of, she was poor, but one of the sweetest creatures I have ever known. I cannot help thinking it would have been good for the world had she been a mother."
"My dear lady," cried the Minor Poet, "you help me!"
"I always do, according to you," laughed the Woman of the World. "I appear to resemble the bull that tossed the small boy high into the apple-tree he had been trying all the afternoon to climb."
"It is very kind of you," answered the Minor Poet. "My argument is that woman is justified in regarding marriage as the end of her existence, the particular man as but a means. The woman you speak of acted selfishly, rejecting the crown of womanhood because not tendered to her by hands she had chosen."
"You would have us marry without love?" asked the Girton Girl.
"With love, if possible," answered the Minor Poet; "without, rather than not at all. It is the fulfilment of the woman's law."
"You would make of us goods and chattels," cried the Girton Girl.
"I would make of you what you are," returned the Minor Poet, "the priestesses of Nature's temple, leading man to the worship of her mysteries. An American humorist has described marriage as the craving of some young man to pay for some young woman's board and lodging. There is no escaping from this definition; let us accept it. It is beautiful--so far as the young man is concerned. He sacrifices himself, deprives himself, that he may give. That is love. But from the woman's point of view? If she accept thinking only of herself, then it is a sordid bargain on her part. To understand her, to be just to her, we must look deeper. Not sexual, but maternal love is her kingdom. She gives herself not to her lover, but through her lover to the great Goddess of the Myriad Breasts that shadows ever with her guardian wings Life from the outstretched hand of Death."
"She may be a nice enough girl from Nature's point of view," said the Old Maid; "personally, I shall never like her."
CHAPTER IV
"What is the time?" asked the Girton Girl.
I looked at my watch. "Twenty past four," I answered.
"Exactly?" demanded the Girton Girl.
"Precisely," I replied.
"Strange," murmured the Girton Girl. "There is no accounting for it, yet it always is so."
"What is there no accounting for?" I inquired. "What is strange?"
"It is a German superstition," explained the Girton Girl, "I learnt it at school. Whenever complete silence falls upon any company, it is always twenty minutes past the hour."
"Why do we talk so much?" demanded the Minor Poet.
"As a matter of fact," observed the Woman of the World, "I don't think we do--not we, personally, not much. Most of our time we appear to be listening to you."
"Then why do I talk so much, if you prefer to put it that way?"
continued the Minor Poet. "If I talked less, one of you others would have to talk more."
"There would be that advantage about it," agreed the Philosopher.
"In all probability, you," returned to him the Minor Poet. "Whether as a happy party we should gain or lose by the exchange, it is not for me to say, though I have my own opinion. The essential remains- -that the stream of chatter must be kept perpetually flowing. Why?"