Elders and Betters (35 page)

“But you are not indulging in such an outbreak at the prospect of losing him,” said Bernard.

“Oh, you do not lose a brother,” said Tullia, as if in surprise at the misapprehension. “It is the woman who is submerged, never to rise again. It is rather a relief to cast off the problem of dividing myself between father and son. If I made a scene about losing Terence, well, there would be another one.”

“She is making the scene in her own way,” said Anna, in a low tone.

“You are being forbearing over it,” said Terence. “It is something that it is veiled.”

“I think I prefer the open method. It may be because I am not versed in any other. I have not a chance in these subtle contests, that are conducted under a disguise. My obvious shafts would not find a point open enough for them,”

“What is to be the date of the event that is casting its shadow?” said Esmond.

“I have not approached the matter yet,” said Terence.

“Oh, is Anna to name the day?” said Tullia, in a rather shrill tone. “I always think that is so courageous. Changing hands in public, as if one had been bartered and disposed of! It is a prospect to chill the stoutest heart.”

“I believe the day is my business,” said Terence; “and I shall prove myself able, when the time comes.”

“When the time comes!” said his sister, her laughter going on to a higher note. “What a phrase for the person
who takes the initiative! We shall have to help you to the point, and that will bring shame on you and all of us.”

“If Terence is not proof against such things by now, he is in a sorry way,” said Esmond.

“I think his position is a proud one,” said Bernard. “If I were as honestly regretted, I should not be put out.”

“I deplore these exposures of the soul in public.”

“I thought they were skilfully disguised.”

“What is the good of transparent coverings?”

“They soften the outline,” said Bernard.

“Are you bickering about Tullia and me?” said Anna. “We can safely be left to cross swords with each other.”

“Cross swords,” said Tullia, in an idle tone. “That sounds a picturesque occupation. But I did not know that I was engaged in it. It is too energetic and exacting for me at the moment.”

“Oh, yours came out of its sheath. You cannot think we did not see it,” said Anna.

Tullia gave an easy laugh and let her eyes drift towards Thomas, as if he were seldom out of her mind.

“I am glad to have occasioned any interest,” she said on an absent note. “I cannot claim that my attention was equally held. You see there have been demands in my own life of late.”

“Your father should not monopolise your interest,” said Bernard. “You should recognise the claims of other people.”

“Oh, all of them seem to be tumbling helter-skelter along the road of the life-force. It seems odd to make an open parade of it. You would think it would be a matter for the individual soul. Or the individual something; I don't know that the soul has much to do with it. It all seems rather unreticent and primitive somehow. I suppose I am over-civilised or something.”

“I am sure I am,” said Bernard. “It is a thing we have in common.”

“It is not an advantage. You spend your life on a
quest for people with whom communication is possible. Sometimes Father and I feel that we can only talk to each other.”

“I am sure this is communication.”

‘I suppose you think I ought to want Anna to marry my brother, though there can be no companionship between them. Of course Anna is your sister, but you know what I mean the better for that.”

“This is real communication. I will not say a word to check it.”

“I have never done much for Terence, or even thought a great deal about him,” said Tullia. “And yet I feel that he ought to find me enough.”

“So he ought,” said Bernard, “but I am glad he does not. Between him and your father there would be no access to you.”

“I daresay that would be to Father's mind. I believe he regrets the days of the veiled woman.”

“I do not,” said Bernard, looking into her face.

“It seems fairer to allow a straight inspection. Oh, why has marrying and giving in marriage something so crude about it?”

“It only has for outsiders,” said Terence, overhearing. “The people involved feel at their best. They always have someone taking an optimistic view of them.”

“That explains their complacence, and I suppose excuses it,” said Tullia.

“The complacence may always be there, and the circumstances discover it,” said Bernard. “It certainly goes rather far. They even talk about their own unworthiness, as if there were no chance of people's having observed it.”

“I have not done so,” said Terence. “I have made the best of myself, as is sensible, and I should think usual.”

“I have just done nothing,” said Anna. “I have shown my ordinary self, and faced people's efforts to show us in a sorry light.”

“Have they done that?” said Terence. “There is no end
to their secondrateness. What kind of thing have they said?”

“That I am too old and you are too poor, and the rest of it.”

“Well, so are they; everyone always is. Not that I should have said a word about it, if they had not. I am glad that I pass over people's weaker side. If I did not, I should get tired out.”

Tullia gave her brother a sudden glance, as if something were explained for her.

“And that would not suit you,” said Thomas.

“There is a touch of meanness even in the best of us,” said Terence, resting his eyes on his father. “And how could I put it more nicely than that?”

“You know how I wish for your happiness, my son. I cannot give your mother back to you.”

“I can forgive that,” said Terence. “I think there is every excuse for it.”

“If you knew how glad I am, that you are to remain near at hand!”

“It is a good thing you have told me. It might have been one of those things that you always wished you had said.”

“You need not talk as if you were about to sink into the grave,” said Anna.

“Well, you never know what may happen to me.”

“You might say that of everyone.”

“That seems so odd,” said Terence. “I always think there may come a time when I am no longer amongst you. But other people will surely be here, or who will feel the miss?”

“Do other people strike you as being immortal?”

“Yes, they do seem so equal to things. I don't see how they could ever be glad to rest. So where would be the reason for them to die? And I notice that they think they never will. I seem to be the only person who faces death.”

“Well, that is supposed to take all terror away from it,” said Anna.

“It is an odd supposition. You would think it would be the way to see it most fully, and I have found that it is. But people must feel that there is some way of disposing of it. They could not be brave enough to feel it is there. I know how brave you have to be. And to think that with all the strain upon me, a harsh word has scarcely passed my lips. Think of what you will say when I am gone.”

“What is that?” said Anna.

“Follow in his steps,” said Terence.

“It will be hard not to do that, as they move towards the grave,” said Benjamin.

“We all have to rise to these demands,” said Esmond.

“Well, I do not think anything could hurt you,” said Terence.

“I feel that I suffer from them in some special way of my own,” said Claribel, making a gesture. “One cannot help a guilty feeling that no one breathes quite the same air as oneself.”

“I wish you would not echo my thoughts,” said Terence.

“Well, what is the good of being cousins, if we may not be just a little alike?”

“Would anything produce a feeling of guilt in you?” said Thomas, to his son.

“So many things do,” said Terence. “Not doing any work. Not having an income. Being too young for Anna, being too old to have done nothing, being the right age to take up something. Being reconciled to being supported by my wife; and there I am worse than is thought, because I am glad about it. Being the man I am, really hardly being a man. If I had not this feeling of superiority, I do not know what I should do. And I have a right to it, because I could never think so many unkind things about anyone. I feel that to know all is to forgive all, and other people seem to forgive nothing. And no one can say they don't know all. I have never thought of any way of keeping it from them.”

Thomas turned to Anna.

“My dear, I wish my wife were here to give you her welcome. I feel that I am a poor substitute for her.”

“Did you have parents, Miss Jennings?” said Terence.

“Yes,” said Jenney, looking surprised.

“I am sorry I am such a poor substitute for them.”

“People will accuse you of harping on one string,” said Anna.

“I daresay they will,” said Terence. “It would be like them. I think I can see accusation in my father's eye. I have learned to recognise it.”

“Don't be too hard on parents. You may find yourself in their place.”

“I could not think more of parents than I do. No one has given more honour to his father and his mother. My days will be very long. It is a pity that I have this habit of facing death, when in my case it is hardly necessary.”

“In other words you do not face it,” said Claribel, who had maintained an air of taking her part in the talk.

“Father and I have done pretty well together,” said Anna. “Perhaps the better, that he has had no other woman to depend on. I daresay our relation is the ordinary thing, that my affairs tend to be, but it may wear the better for that. I can leave him without feeling that he will eat out his heart. We can meet at reasonable intervals and be satisfied.”

“It does not sound as if your days will be as long as mine,” said Terence.

“But what a good description of an ideal state of affairs!” said Tullia. “I can do nothing but envy it.”

“It sounds as if it all might prevent your marrying,” said Anna, in the serious manner of one who had light upon this subject. “Not that Uncle Thomas would assert his claims in such a case. But you may be doing each other less than justice, in trying to do too much.”

Tullia laughed, as if more at Anna's effort at expression than at what she said.

“What did I say that was amusing?” said her cousin.

“Perhaps it was amusing that you should say it,” said Esmond.

Tullia went into her light laughter, as if she could not but find this the case.

“Oh,” said Anna, in a casual tone.

“So the occasion of our engagement has come and gone,” said Terence. “Are we disappointed or relieved or grateful?”

“I do not know why you should be grateful,” said Benjamin.

“Neither do I,” said Terence. “I think I am a little hurt and baffled. But of course I shall always remember your welcome of me.”

“Perhaps our future meetings will drive it out of your mind.”

“I should think they will recall it. None of them will find me with any means of my own.”

“Surely some work will turn up for you.”

“Then why did you cause me so much discomfort on the ground that it would not?”

“I thought that you did not seem anxious for it.”

“I scorned to deceive you,” said Terence. “I hope I shall always be able to dare the right. But are we having another meeting already?”

“ARE YOU TWO going to pace that path for ever?” said Tullia, to her father and Florence, who were walking outside the house. “Are you impervious to rain and blast? you look a most bedraggled and dreary pair.”

“That is what we are going to do, my Tullia,” said Thomas, coming to meet her with Florence's arm through his. “Pace our path together for ever, with the wind and rain doing us no harm. You have put it into words for us.”

“Well, put off talking in riddles until we have got into the house,” said his daughter, taking his other arm and going at an even pace in this direction, as if she were giving him time to reconsider his words. “We can guess them better in shelter. And perhaps we may be spared them. They tend to be the prelude to something better not said.”

Florence looked across Thomas at Tullia, rested her eyes on her face, and drew back into safety and silence.

“You said it for us, Tulliola,” said Thomas, keeping his eyes on his feet, as he wiped them, glad of the cover for his words. “You have done much for me, and now you do this last thing. I would have heard it from no lips but yours.”

“Your sound as if you had caught the infection in the air, and emulated Terence and Anna,” said Tullia, laughing as if at an impossible idea. “Take your time in disburdening your soul. Remember that follies are harder to live down than sins.”

“We do not want to live it down; we are going to live it out,” said Thomas. “I owe you so many things, my Tullia. I may owe you this one thing more?”

There was a pause.

“Poor thing, he is not serious then?” said Tullia.

“I have never been more so, my dear.”

Tullia threw back her head, glanced down at her shoe as she loosened it, as though it were an equal preoccupation and then gave herself to her mirth.

“What a picture!” she said, as if she could just utter the words. “I don't know which of you to love and pity the more. I think I shall choose you, because you are older and more pathetic. I don't think it is because you are a conventional object of compassion just now. Old men and maidens, young men and children! You none of you seem to be exempt. So that is the meaning of the gathering at luncheon. He wanted to be seen as the successful suitor.”

“That is how I shall think of myself,” said Thomas.

“And couldn't you save him from it?” said Tullia, turning to Florence, and using a different and more serious tone. “You could have managed without letting him get as far as this. It will be the most difficult thing to live down, or at the least the most awkward. I don't want to make too much of it, but it must stand like that. Of course he has been in an emotional state since my mother died. But you could have kept things within bounds, and spared this exposure for yourself and him. That is the woman's business, or I have found it is. And how are you going to get out of it? Because it is not such an impossible thing. Not in a legal sense.”