Selfishness (Deakin)

OU 're always talkin' about the 'Things that Matter,' with big capitals," said Rosette, flippantly. "What are the 'Things that Matter,' anyhow? Do you mean the right kind of music, and books, and pictures, and that sort of thing, or mere virtues?"

"Not virtues, certainly," said I, with haste.

"Oh!" said Rosette, resting her elbow on her knee, and lifting her curtain of black lashes, to my confusion.

"Yet the question of virtues is interesting," I added quickly, to cover my mistake. "And, Rosette, I should like to know,—you always say how utterly unprincipled you are, don't you?—I should like to know what you consider the virtues that matter."

"Well—kindness first," she replied promptly, then lapsed into deep thought. I wished, with a sigh, that this might include a deepened kindness to me, but I was afraid I was hardly in the reckoning. "Kindness and tolerance, and a certain form of sincerity and charity—the kind that judgeth not, you know, and always gives a hand to the undeserving and—"

She stopped.

"Unselfishness," I suggested. Rosette shook her head rather forcibly.

"I have my doubts about unselfishness," said she. "More often than not it's selfish to be unselfish."

"Rosette!"

"People do unselfish things generally for purely selfish reasons,—to be liked, or to please themselves,—and it's almost always bad for the other person. It's certainly more blessed to give than to receive, and the unselfish person goes on collecting blessings without giving other people a chance. There's  my sister Jane."

"I thought you must be thinking of Jane," I murmured, with ready sympathy.

"Yes," said Rosette, with warm feeling; "Jane's always getting credit for giving up to me, when really, Jerry, half the things she gives up I don't want. And she has an angelic reputation, though I must say, even if I am her sister, that she's  got most of it through making generous offers to do things she knows she 'll never be allowed to do. When I think of Jane, it makes me rather out of love with unselfishness."

"She's so dull,"—I excused her in the only possible way,—"she must be something."

"Yes," said Rosette; "that's all very well. Aunt Maria told her, years ago, that as she never could be beautiful, she might as well try to be good; but it's very hard on me. For there are times when I want people to think me sweet-natured as well as pretty, and then Jane slips in to guard her monopoly."

I laughed.

"If you love people," Rosette went on firmly, "you take a pleasure in doing things for them. That's not unselfishness ; but I can't move a finger for Daddy or Mother without Jane being jealous and injured. Unselfishness, indeed!"

"It's a point to be considered, certainly," said I.

"My eldest sister, Penelope, thought she was unselfish to leave a comfortable home,—there were n't so many bills, then,—to marry her precious Dick, who was a pauper; but she was purely selfish. She's never been able to do a thing for Jane and me, and every now and then she tries to borrow money from Daddy. He does n't lend it to her, of course; but it upsets us all to hear how they never can make both ends met.

I was silent, for I had less money even than her cousin Dick, and I wanted to marry Rosette.

"You see, Jerry, life's a very difficult thing, and even the simplest virtues are complex when you come to look into them, are n't they?"

"I never do," said I, truthfully. "It's a mistake—like inquiring into motives."

"Well, you beware of unselfishness," said she, with a half-smile. "I have n't noticed any strong leanings in that direction in you yet; but one never—"

"Upon my word," I cried, hurt, "it's only unselfishness which keeps me from making love to—" her uplifted brows warned me—"from pleading my own cause with you, I mean."

Rosette's smile deepened.

"I'm glad you point out this feat of self-denial," she said dryly; "I had n't noticed any particular restraint in—"

"Why do I leave Vanderdash to make all the running?" cried I.

"Do you? It's 'berg,' Jerry, not 'dash.' Write it down."

"Because I'm unselfish," cried I, hotly. "Because he can afford to keep you in the luxury your sordid little soul loves; because he's a bloated millionaire; because—"

"Because you can't help it." She flushed a little. "It's for me to decide, after all, you see."

"Oh, Rosette!" I collapsed as usual. She smiled again quite kindly, having made her point.

"Don't you be led away by a false ideal, Jerry. Unselfishness is a snare, you know."

"Rosette!" What did she mean? Could she mean that I was at liberty to meet the man of means on a fair and open field? To forget my heavy handicap? To—oh, no.

"I 'll tell you what a pretty mess can be made of a life's happiness by this precious virtue you admire so much," said she, gravely. "You remember Musette?"

"The little mousey girl with brown eyes?" I asked. "With taking ways, rather? Good little person, was n't she?"

"Yes," said Rosette, doubtfully; "I suppose she was good—in a way. She had a passion for reforming young men, and she had such a way with her that five times out of six she succeeded. It used to last, too, quite a long time."

"While they were in love with her?" I suggested unkindly.

Rosette shook her head.

"Don't be flippant, Jerry. She really did quite a lot of good in her quiet little way. She called it purifying and ennobling their lives; and there were two of them she was specially proud of, and fond of, too—young Billy Charteris and the Lancaster boy. They both were head over ears in love for her—would have died for her, in fact, and Musette gradually began to return their affections."

"What, both?" I asked.

"One particularly; but she never told any one which it was, and went on with her prim little talk of ideals and higher things, and, most of all, of unselfishness. Musette was great on unselfishness, although I never heard that she practised what she preached much in that way,"—Rosette is n't always kind to her own sex,—"So she talked, talked, talked of unselfishness, self-denial, self-sacrifice, and those blessed boys drank it all in, and put Musette on a pedestal, like a little white saint, and worshiped her. And although they were rivals, they were still great friends. Did I say they were great friends?"

"No. Go on. Rosette."

Rosette laughed compassionately. "The end of it was," said she, "that those precious boys each gave her up for the sake of the other. She had letters from them both one fatal morning, each saying he'd sailed for Australia or Canada, and that he hoped she'd be happy with his friend. Poor Musette!"

"Blithering young idiots!" said I, with feeling.

Rosette sighed.

"I think they were rather dears to do it," said she, "though the motive was absurd. And they were her own prize pupils. But it was hard on Musette. I wonder which was the one she—"

"What happened when they came back?" I asked.

"They did n't come back. They liked the life too much to want to come back. And Musette's life was completely wrecked. She's married to a stock-broker now, and has no ideals left. Poor Musette!"

"I'm not sure," said I, thoughtfully