Lady, our Lady, Night, You who give sleep to men, to men labouring and suffering— Out of the darkness, come, Come with your wings, come down On the house of Agamemnon.
Time stretched out behind and before you, time to read, to make music, to make poems in, to translate Euripides, while Mamma looked after her flowers in the garden; Mamma, sowing and planting and weeding with a fixed, vehement passion. You could hear Catty and little Alice, Maggie's niece, singing against each other in the kitchen as Alice helped Catty with her work. You needn't have been afraid. You would never have anything more to do in the house. Roddy wasn't there.
Agamemnon—that was where you broke off two years ago. He didn't keep you waiting long to finish. You needn't have been afraid.
Uncle Victor's letter came on the day when the gentians flowered. One minute Mamma had been happy, the next she was crying. When you saw her with the letter you knew. Uncle Victor was sending Dan home. Dan was no good at the office; he had been drinking since Roddy died. Three months.
Mamma was saying something as she cried. "I suppose he'll be here, then, all his life, doing nothing."
II.
Mamma had given Papa's smoking-room to Dan. She kept on going in and out of it to see if he was there.
"When you've posted the letters you might go and see what Dan's doing."
Everybody in the village knew about Dan. The postmistress looked up from stamping the letters to say, "Your brother was here a minute ago." Mr. Horn, the grocer, called to you from the bench at the fork of the roads, "Ef yo're lookin' for yore broother, he's joost gawn oop daale."
If Mr. Horn had looked the other way when he saw you coming you would have known that Dan was in the Buck Hotel.
The white sickle of the road; a light at the top of the sickle; the Aldersons' house.
A man was crossing from the moor-track to the road. He carried a stack of heather on his shoulder: Jem's brother, Ned. He stopped and stared. He was thicker and slower than Jem; darker haired; fuller and redder in the face; he looked at you with the same little, kind, screwed-up eyes.
"Ef yo're lookin' for yore broother, 'e's in t' oose long o' us. Wull yo coom in? T' missus med gev yo a coop o' tea."
She went in. There was dusk in the kitchen, with a grey light in the square of the window and a red light in the oblong of the grate. A small boy with a toasting-fork knelt by the hearth. You disentangled a smell of stewed tea and browning toast from thick, deep smells of peat smoke and the sweat drying on Ned's shirt. When Farmer Alderson got up you saw the round table, the coarse blue-grey teacups and the brown glazed teapot on a brown glazed cloth.
Dan sat by the table. Dumpling, Ned's three-year-old daughter, sat on Dan's knee; you could see her scarlet cheeks and yellow hair above the grey frieze of his coat-sleeve. His mournful black-and-white face stooped to her in earnest, respectful attention. He was taking a piece of butterscotch out of the silver paper. Dumpling opened her wet, red mouth.
Rachel, Ned's wife, watched them, her lips twisted in a fond, wise smile, as she pressed the big loaf to her breast and cut thick slices of bread-and-jam. She had made a place for you beside her.
"She sengs ersen to slape wid a li'l' song she maakes," Rachel said. "Tha'll seng that li'l' song for Mester Dan, wuntha?"
Dumpling hid her face and sang. You had to stoop to hear the cheeping that came out of Dan's shoulder.
"Ef tha'll seng for Mester Dan," Farmer Alderson said, "tha'llt seng for tha faather, wuntha, Doomplin'?"
"Naw."
"For Graffer then?"
"Naw."
Dumpling put her head on one side, butting under Dan's chin like a cat. Dan's arm drew her closer. He was happy there, in the Aldersons' kitchen, holding Dumpling on his knee. There was something in his happiness that hurt you as Roddy's unhappiness had hurt. All your life you had never really known Dan, the queer, scowling boy who didn't notice you, didn't play with you as Roddy played or care for you as Mark had cared. And suddenly you knew him; better even than Roddy, better than Mark.
III.
The grey byre was warm with the bodies of the cows and their grassy, milky breath. Dan, in his clean white shirt sleeves, crouched on Ned's milking stool, his head pressed to the cow's curly red and white flank. His fingers worked rhythmically down the teat and the milk squirted and hissed and pinged against the pail. Sometimes the cow swung round her white face and looked at Dan, sometimes she lashed him gently with her tail. Ned leaned against the stall post and watched.
"Thot's t' road, thot's t' road. Yo're the foorst straanger she a' let milk 'er. She's a narvous cow. 'Er teats is tander."
When the milking was done Dan put on his well-fitting coat and they went home over Karva to the schoolhouse lane.
Dan loved the things that Roddy hated: the crying of the peewits, the bleating of the sheep, the shouts of the village children when they saw him and came running to his coat pockets for sweets. He liked to tramp over the moors with the shepherds; he helped them with the dipping and shearing and the lambing.
"Dan, you ought to be a farmer."
"I know," he said, "that's why they stuck me in an office."
IV.
"If the killer thinks that he kills, if the killed thinks that he is killed, they do not understand; for this one does not kill, nor is that one killed."
Passion Week, two years after Roddy's death; Roddy's death the measure you measured time by still.
Mamma looked up from her Bible; she looked over her glasses with eyes tired of their everlasting reproach.
"What have you got there, Mary?"
"The Upanishads from the Sacred Book of the East."
"Tchtt! It was that Buddhism the other day."
"Religion."
"Any religion except your own. Or else it's philosophy. You're destroying your soul, Mary. I shall write to your Uncle Victor and tell him to ask Mr. Sutcliffe not to send you any more books from that library."
"I'm seven and twenty, Mamma ducky."
"The more shame for you then," her mother said.
The clock on the Congregational Chapel struck six. They put down their books and looked at each other.
"Dan not back?" Mamma knew perfectly well he wasn't back.
"He went to Reyburn."
"T't!" Mamma's chin nodded in queer, vexed resignation. She folded her hands on her knees and waited, listening.
Sounds of wheels and of hoofs scraping up the hill. The Morfe bus, back from Reyburn. Catty's feet, running along the passage. The front door opening, then shutting. Dan hadn't come with the bus.
"Perhaps…. ('There is one eternal thinker, thinking non-eternal thoughts, who, though one, fulfils the desires of many….') Mamma—why won't you let him go to Canada?"
"It was Canada that killed poor Roddy."
"It won't kill Dan. He's different."
"And what good would he be there? If your Uncle Victor can't keep him, who will, I should like to know?"
"Jem Alderson would. He'd take him for nothing. He told Ned he would. To make up for Roddy."
"Make up! He thinks that's the way to make up! I won't have Dan's death at my door. I'd rather keep him for the rest of my life."
"How about Dan?"
"Dan's safe here."
"He's safe on the moor with Alderson looking after the sheep, and he's safe in the cowshed milking the cows; but he isn't safe when Ned drives into Reyburn market."
"Would it be safer in Canada?"
"Yes. He'd be thirty miles from the nearest pub. He'd be safer here if you didn't give him money."
"The boy has to have money to buy clothes."
"I could buy them."
"I daresay! You can't treat a man of thirty as if he was a baby of three."
She thought. "No. You can only treat a woman…. 'There is one eternal thinker'—"
A knock on the door.
"There," her mother said, "that's Dan."
Mary went to the door. Ned Alderson stood outside; he stood slantways, not looking at her.
"Ah tried to maake yore broother coom back long o' us, but 'e would na."
"Hadn't I better go and meet him?"
"Naw. Ah would na. Ah wouldn' woorry; there's shepherds on t' road wi' t' sheep. Mebbe 'e'll toorn oop long o' they. Dawn' woorry ef tes laate like."
He went away.
They waited, listening while the clock struck the hours, seven; eight; nine. At ten her mother and the servants went to bed. She sat up, and waited, reading.
"…My son, that subtle essence which you do not perceive there, of that very essence this great Nyagrodha tree exists…. That which is the subtile essence, in it all that exists has its self. It is the True. It is the Self, and thou, O Svetaketu, art it."
Substance, the Thing-in-itself—You were It. Dan was It. You could think away your body, Dan's body. One eternal thinker, thinking non-eternal thoughts. Dreaming horrible dreams. Dan's drunkenness. Why?
Eleven. A soft scuffle. The scurry of sheep's feet on the Green. A dog barking. The shepherds were back from Reyburn.
Feet shuffled on the flagstone. She went to the door. Dan leaned against the doorpost, bent forward heavily; his chin dropped to his chest. Something slimy gleamed on his shoulder and hip. Wet mud of the ditch he had fallen in. She stiffened her muscles to his weight, to the pull and push of his reeling body.
Roddy's room. With one lurch he reached Roddy's white bed in the corner.
She looked at the dressing-table. A strip of steel flashed under the candlestick. The blue end of a matchbox stuck up out of the saucer. There would be more matches in Dan's coat pocket. She took away the matches and the razor.
Her mother stood waiting in the doorway of her room, small and piteous in her nightgown. Her eyes glanced off the razor, and blinked.
"Is Dan all right?"
"Yes. He came back with the sheep."
V.
The Hegels had come: The Logik. Three volumes. The bristling Gothic text an ambush of secret, exciting, formidable things. The titles flamed; flags of strange battles; signals of strange ships; challenging, enticing to the dangerous adventure.
After the first enchantment, the Buddhist Suttas and the Upanishads were no good. Nor yet the VedÂnta. You couldn't keep on saying, "This is That," and "Thou art It," or that the Self is the dark blue bee and the green parrot with red eyes and the thunder-cloud, the seasons and the seas. It was too easy, too sleepy, like lying on a sofa and dropping laudanum, slowly, into a rotten, aching tooth. Your teeth were sound and strong, they had to have something hard to bite on. You wanted to think, to keep on thinking. Your mind wasn't really like a tooth; it was like a robust, energetic body, happy when it was doing difficult and dangerous things, balancing itself on heights, lifting great weights of thought, following the long march into thick, smoky battles.
"Being and Not-Being are the same": ironic and superb defiance. And then commotion; as if the infinite stillness, the immovable Substance, had got up and begun moving—Rhythm of eternity: the same for ever: for ever different: for ever the same.
Thought was the Thing-in-itself.
This man was saying, over and over and all the time what you had wanted Kant to say, what he wouldn't say, what you couldn't squeeze out of him, however you turned and twisted him.
You jumped to where the name "Spinoza" glittered like a jewel on the large grey page.
Something wanting. You knew it, and you were afraid. You loved him. You didn't want him to be found out and exposed, like Kant. He had given you the first incomparable thrill.
Hegel. Spinoza. She thought of Spinoza's murky, mysterious face. It said, "I live in you, still, as he will never live. You will never love that old German man. He ran away from the cholera. He bolstered up the Trinity with his Triple Dialectic, to keep his chair at Berlin. I refused their bribes. They excommunicated me. You remember? Cursed be Baruch Spinoza in his going out and his coming in."
You had tried to turn and twist Spinoza, too; and always he had refused to come within your meaning. His Substance, his God stood still, in eternity. He, too; before the noisy, rich, exciting Hegel, he drew back into its stillness; pure and cold, a little sinister, a little ironic. And you felt a pang of misgiving, as if, after all, he might have been right. So powerful had been his hold.
Dan looked up. "What are you reading, Mary?"
"Hegel."
"Haeckel—that's the chap Vickers talks about."
Vickers—she remembered. Dan lived with Vickers when he left Papa.
"He's clever," Dan said, "but he's an awful ass."
"Who? Haeckel?"
"No. Vickers."
"You mean he's an awful ass, but he's clever."
VI.
One Friday evening an unusual smell of roast chicken came through the kitchen door. Mary put on the slender, long-tailed white gown she wore when she dined at the Sutcliffes'.
Dan's friend, Lindley Vickers, was sitting on the sofa, talking to Mamma. When she came in he left off talking and looked at her with sudden happy eyes. She remembered Maurice Jourdain's disappointed eyes, and Mark's. Dan became suddenly very polite and attentive.
All through dinner Mr. Vickers kept on turning his eyes away from Mamma and looking at her; every time she looked she caught him looking. His dark hair sprang in two ridges from the parting. His short, high-bridged nose seemed to be looking at you, too, with its wide nostrils, alert. His face did all sorts of vivid, interesting things; you wondered every minute whether this time it would be straight and serious or crooked and gay, whether his eyes would stay as they were, black crystals, or move and show grey rings, green speckled.
He was alive, running over with life; no, not running over, vibrating with it, holding it in; he looked as if he expected something delightful to happen, and waited, excited, ready.
He began talking, about Hegel. "'Plus Ça change, plus c'est la mÊme chose.'"
She heard herself saying something. Dan turned and looked at her with a sombre, thoughtful stare. Mamma smiled, and nodded her chin as much as to say "Did you ever hear such nonsense?" She knew that was the way to stop you.
Mr. Vickers's eyes were large and attentive. When you stopped his mouth gave such a sidelong leap of surprise and amusement that you laughed. Then he laughed.
Dan said, "What's the joke?" And Mr. Vickers replied that it wasn't a joke.
In the drawing-room Mamma said, "I won't have any of those asides between you and Mr. Vickers, do you hear?"
Mary thought that so funny that she laughed. She knew what Mamma was thinking, but she was too happy to care. Her intelligence had found its mate.
You played, and at the first sound of the piano he came in and stood by you and listened.
You had only to play and you could make him come to you. He would get up and leave Dan in the smoking-room; he would leave Mamma in the garden. When you played the soft Schubert Impromptu he would sit near you, very quiet; when you played the Appassionata he would get up and stand close beside you. When you played the loud, joyful Chopin Polonaise he would walk up and down; up and down the room.
Saturday evening. Sunday evening. (He was going on Monday very early.)
He sang,
"'Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath Das man vom liebsten was man hat Muss scheiden.'"
Dan called out from his corner, "Translate. Let's know what it's all about."
He pounded out the accompaniment louder. "We won't, will we?" He jumped up suddenly. "Play the Appassionata."
She played and he talked.
"I can't play if you talk."
"Yes, you can. I wish I hadn't got to go to-morrow."
"Have you" (false note) "got to go?"
"I suppose so."
"If Dan asked you, would you stop?"
"Yes."
He slept in Papa's room. When she heard his door shut she went to Dan.
"Dan, why don't you ask him to stay longer?"
"Because I don't want him to."
"I thought he was your friend."
"He is my friend. The only one I've got."
'Then—why—?"
"That's why." He shut the door on her.
She got up early. Dan was alone in the dining-room.
He said, "What have you come down for?"
"To give you your breakfasts."
"Don't be a little fool. Go back to your room."
Mr. Vickers had come in. He stood by the doorway, looking at her and smiling. "Why this harsh treatment?" he said. He had heard Dan.
Now and then he smiled again at Dan, who sat sulking over his breakfast.
Dan went with him to Durlingham. He was away all night.
Next day, at dinner-time, they appeared again together. Mr. Vickers had brought Dan back. He was going to stay for another week. At the Buck Hotel.
VII.
"Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath." He had no business to sing it, to sing it like that, so that you couldn't get the thing out of your head. That wouldn't have mattered if you could have got his voice out of your heart. It hung there, clawing, hurting. She resented this pain.
"Das man vom liebsten was man hat," the dearest that we have, "muss schei-ei-eden, muss schei-ei-eden."
Her fingers pressed and crept over the keys, in guilty, shamed silence; it would be awful if he heard you playing it, if Dan heard you or Mamma.
You had only to play and you could make him come.
Supposing you played the Schubert Impromptu—She found herself playing it.
He didn't come. He wasn't coming. He was going into Reyburn with Dan. And on Monday he would be gone. This time he would really go.
When you left off playing you could still hear him singing in your head. "Das man vom liebsten was man hat." "Es ist bestimmt—" But if you felt like that about it, then—
Her hands dropped from the keys.
It wasn't possible. He only came on Friday evening last week. This was Saturday morning. Seven days. It couldn't happen in seven days. He would be gone on Monday morning. Not ten days.
"I can't—I don't."
Something crossing the window pane made her start and turn. Nannie Learoyd's face, looking in. Naughty Nannie. You could see her big pink cheeks and her scarlet mouth and her eyes sliding and peering. Poor pretty, naughty Nannie. Nannie smiled when she met you on the Green, as if she trusted you not to tell how you saw her after dark slinking about the Back Lane waiting for young Horn to come out to her.
The door opened. Nannie slid away. It was only Mamma.
"Mary," she said, "I wish you would remember that Mr. Vickers has come to see Dan, and that he has only got two days more."
"It's all right. He's going into Reyburn with him."
"I'm sure," her mother said, "I wish he'd stay here."
She pottered about the room, taking things up and putting them down again. Presently Catty came for her and she went out.
Mary began to play the Sonata Appassionata. She thought: "I don't care if he doesn't come. I want to play it, and I shall."
He came. He stood close beside her and listened. Once he put his hand on her arm. "Oh no," he said. "Not like that."
She stood up and faced him. "Tell me the truth, shall I ever be any good? Shall I ever play?"
"Do you really want the truth?"
"Of course I do."
Her mind fastened itself on her playing. It hid and sheltered itself behind her playing.
"Let's look at your hands."
She gave him her hands. He lifted them; he felt the small bones sliding under the skin, he bent back the padded tips, the joints of the fingers.
"There's no reason why you shouldn't have played magnificently," he said.
"Only I don't. I never have."
"No, you never have."
He came closer; she didn't know whether he drew her to him or whether he came closer. A queer, delicious feeling, a new feeling, thrilled through her body to her mouth, to her finger-tips. Her head swam slightly. She kept her eyes open by an effort.
He gave her back her hands. She remembered. They had been talking about her playing.
"I knew," she said, "it was bad in places."
"I don't care whether it's bad or good. It's you. The only part of you that can get out. You're very bad in places, but you do something to me all the same."
"What do I do?"
"You know what you do."
"I don't. I don't really. Tell me."
"If you don't know, I can't tell you—dear—"
He said it so thickly that she was not sure at the time whether he had really said it. She remembered afterwards.
"There's Dan," she whispered.
He swung himself off from her and made himself a rigid figure at the window. Dan stood in the doorway. He was trying to took as if she wasn't there.
"I say, aren't you coming to Reyburn?"
"No, I'm not."
"Why not?"
"I've got a headache."
"What?"
"Headache."
Outside on the flagstones she saw Nannie pass again and look in.
VIII.
An hour later she was sitting on the slope under the hill road of Greffington Edge. He lay on his back beside her in the bracken. Lindley Vickers.
Suddenly he pulled himself up into a sitting posture like her own. She was then aware that Mr. Sutcliffe had gone up the road behind them; he had lifted his hat and passed her without speaking.
"What does Sutcliffe talk to you about?"
"Farming."
"And what do you do?"
"Listen."
Below them, across the dale, they could see the square of Morfe on its platform.
"How long have you lived in that place?"
"Ten years. No; eleven."
"Women," he said, "are wonderful. I can't think where you come from. I knew your father, I know Dan and your mother, and Victor Olivier and your aunt—"
"Which aunt?"
"The Unitarian lady; and I knew Mark—and Rodney. They don't account for you."
"Does anybody account for anybody else?"
"Yes. You believe in heredity?"
"I don't know enough about it."
"You should read Haeckel—The History of Evolution, and Herbert Spencer and Ribot's Heredity. It would interest you…. No, it wouldn't. It wouldn't interest you a bit."
"It sounds as if it would rather."
"It wouldn't…. Look here, promise me you won't think about it, you'll let it alone. Promise me."
He was like Jimmy making you promise not to hang out of top-storey windows.
"No good making promises."
"Well," he said, "there's nothing in it…. I wish I hadn't said that about your playing. I only wanted to see whether you'd mind or not."
"I don't mind. What does it matter? When I'm making music I think there's nothing but music in all the world; when I'm doing philosophy I think there's nothing but philosophy in all the world; when I'm writing verses I think there's nothing but writing in all the world; and when I'm playing tennis I think there's nothing but tennis in all the world."
"I see. And when you suffer you think there's nothing but suffering in all the world."
"Yes."
"And when—and when—"
His face was straight and serious and quiet. His eyes covered her; first her face, then her breasts; she knew he could see her bodice quiver with the beating of her heart. She felt afraid.
"Then," he said, "you'll not think; you'll know."
She thought: "He didn't say it. He won't. He can't. It isn't possible."
"Hadn't we better go?"
He sprang to his feet.
"Much better," he said.
IX.
She would not see him again that day. Dan was going to dine with him at the Buck Hotel.
When Dan came back from Reyburn he said he wouldn't go. He had a headache. If Vickers could have a headache, so could he. He sulked all evening in the smoking-room by himself; but towards nine o'clock he thought better of it and went round, he said, to look Vickers up.
Her mother yawned over her book; and the yawns made her impatient; she wanted to be out of doors, walking, instead of sitting there listening to Mamma.
At nine o'clock Mamma gave one supreme yawn and dragged herself to bed.
She went out through the orchard into the Back Lane. She could see Nannie Learoyd sitting on the stone stairs of Horn's granary, waiting for young Horn to come round the corner of his yard. Perhaps they would go up into the granary and hide under the straw. She turned into the field track to the schoolhouse and the highway. In the dark bottom the river lay like a broad, white, glittering road.
She stopped by the schoolhouse, considering whether she would go up to the moor by the high fields and come back down the lane, or go up the lane and come back down the fields.
"Too dark to find the gaps if I come back by the fields." She had forgotten the hidden moon.
There was a breaking twilight when she reached the lane. She came down at a swinging stride. Her feet went on the grass borders without a sound.
At the last crook of the lane she came suddenly on a man and woman standing in her path by the stone wall. It would be Nannie Learoyd and young Horn. They were fixed in one block, their faces tilted backwards, their bodies motionless. The woman's arms were round the man's neck, his arms round her waist. There was something about the queer back-tilted faces—queer and ugly.
As she came on she saw them break loose from each other and swing apart: Nannie Learoyd and Lindley Vickers.
X.
She lay awake all night. Her brain, incapable of thought, kept turning round and round, showing her on an endless rolling screen the images of Lindley and Nannie Learoyd, clinging together, loosening, swinging apart, clinging together. When she came down on Sunday morning breakfast was over.
Sunday—Sunday. She remembered. Last night was Saturday night. Lindley Vickers was coming to Sunday dinner and Sunday supper. She would have to get away somewhere, to Dorsy or the Sutcliffes. She didn't want to see him again. She wanted to forget that she ever had seen him.
Her mother and Dan had shut themselves up in the smoking-room; she found them there, talking. As she came in they stopped abruptly and looked at each other. Her mother began picking at the pleats in her gown with nervous, agitated fingers. Dan got up and left the room.
"Well, Mary, you'll not see Mr. Vickers again. He's just told Dan he isn't coming."
Then he knew that she had seen him in the lane with Nannie.
"I don't want to see him," she said.
"It's a pity you didn't think of that before you put us in such a position."
She understood Lindley; but she wasn't even trying to understand her mother. The vexed face and picking fingers meant nothing to her. She was saying to herself, "I can't tell Mamma I saw him with Nannie in the lane. I oughtn't to have seen him. He didn't know anybody was there. He didn't want me to see him. I'd be a perfect beast to tell her."
Her mother went on: "I don't know what to do with you, Mary. One would have thought my only daughter would have been a comfort to me, but I declare you've given me more trouble than any of my children."
"More than Dan?"
"Dan hadn't a chance. He'd have been different if your poor father hadn't driven him out of the house. He'd be different now if your Uncle Victor had kept him…. It's hard for poor Dan if he can't bring his friends to the house any more because of you."
"Because of me?"
"Because of your folly."
She understood. Her mother believed that she had frightened Lindley away. She was thinking of Aunt Charlotte.
It would have been all right if she could have told her about Nannie; then Mamma would have seen why Lindley couldn't come.
"I don't care," she thought. "She may think what she likes. I can't tell her."
XI.
Lindley Vickers had gone. Nothing was left of him but Mamma's silence and Dan's, and Nannie's flush as she slunk by and her obscene smirk of satisfaction.
Then Nannie forgot him. As if nothing had happened she hung about Horn's yard and the Back Lane, waiting for young Horn. She smiled her trusting smile again. As long as you lived in Morfe you would remember.
Mary didn't blame her mother and Dan for their awful attitude. She couldn't blink the fact that she had begun to care for a man who was no better than young Horn, who had shown her that he didn't care for her by going to Nannie. If he could go to Nannie he was no better than young Horn.
She thought of Lindley's communion with Nannie as a part of him, essential, enduring. Beside it, her own communion with him was not quite real. She remembered his singing; she remembered playing to him and sitting beside him on the bracken as you remember things that have happened to you a long time ago (if they had really happened). She remembered phrases broken from their context (if they had ever had a context): "Das man vom liebsten was man hat…." "If you don't know I can't tell you—Dear." … "And when—when—Then you won't think, you'll know."
She said to herself, "I must have been mad. It couldn't have happened. I must have made it up."
But, if you made up things like that you were mad. It was what Aunt Charlotte had done. She had lived all her life in a dream of loving and being loved, a dream that began with clergymen and ended with the piano-tuner and the man who did the clocks. Mamma and Dan knew it. Uncle Victor knew it and he had been afraid. Maurice Jourdain knew it and he had been afraid. Perhaps Lindley Vickers knew it, too.
There must be something in heredity. She thought: "If there is I'd rather face it. It's cowardly not to."
Lindley Vickers had told her what to read. Herbert Spencer she knew. Haeckel and Ribot were in the London Library Catalogue at Greffington Hall. And Maudsley: she had seen the name somewhere. It was perhaps lucky that Mr. Sutcliffe had gone abroad early this year; for he had begun to follow her through Balzac and Flaubert and Maupassant, since when he had sometimes interfered with her selection.
The books came down in two days: Herbert Spencer's First Principles, the Principles of Biology, the Principles of Psychology; Haeckel's History of Evolution; Maudsley's Body and Mind, Physiology and Pathology of Mind, Responsibility in Mental Disease; and Ribot's Heredity. Your instinct told you to read them in that order, controlling personal curiosity.
For the first time in her life she understood what Spinoza meant by "the intellectual love of God." She saw how all things work together for good to those who, in Spinoza's sense, love God. If it hadn't been for Aunt Charlotte and Lindley Vickers she might have died without knowing anything about the exquisite movements and connections of the live world. She had spent most of her time in the passionate pursuit of things under the form of eternity, regardless of their actual behaviour in time. She had kept on for fifteen years trying to find out the reality—if there was any reality—that hid behind appearances, piggishly obtuse to the interest of appearances themselves. She had cared for nothing in them but their beauty, and its exciting play on her emotions. When life brought ugly things before her she faced them with a show of courage, but inwardly she was sick with fear.
For the first time she saw the ugliest facts take on enchantment, a secret and terrible enchantment. Dr. Mitchell's ape-faced idiot; Dr. Browne's girl with the goose-face and goose-neck, billing her shoulders like a bird.
There was something in Heredity. But the sheer interest of it made you forget about Papa and Mamma and Aunt Charlotte; it kept you from thinking about yourself. You could see why Ribot was so excited about his laws of Heredity: "They it is that are real…." "To know a fact thoroughly is to know the quality and quantity of the laws that compose it … facts are but appearances, laws the reality."
There was Darwin's Origin of Species. According to Darwin, it didn't seem likely that anything so useless as insanity could be inherited at all; according to Maudsley and Ribot, it seemed even less likely that sanity could survive. To be sure, after many generations, insanity was stamped out; but not before it had run its course through imbecility to idiocy, infecting more generations as it went.
Maudsley was solemn and exalted in his desire that there should be no mistake about it. "There is a destiny made for a man by his ancestors, and no one can elude, were he able to attempt it, the tyranny of his organisation."
You had been wrong all the time. You had thought of your family, Papa and Mamma, perhaps Grandpapa and Grandmamma, as powerful, but independent and separate entities, in themselves sacred and inviolable, working against you from the outside: either with open or secret and inscrutable hostility, hindering, thwarting, crushing you down. But always from the outside. You had thought of yourself as a somewhat less powerful, but still independent and separate entity, a sacred, inviolable self, struggling against them for completer freedom and detachment. Crushed down, but always getting up and going on again; fighting a more and more successful battle for your own; beating them in the end. But it was not so. There were no independent, separate entities, no sacred, inviolable selves. They were one immense organism and you were part of it; you were nothing that they had not been before you. It was no good struggling. You were caught in the net; you couldn't get out.
And so were they. Mamma and Papa were no more independent and separate than you were. Dan had gone like Papa, but Papa had gone like Grandpapa and Grandmamma Olivier. Nobody ever said anything about Grandpapa Olivier; so perhaps there had been something queer about him. Anyhow, Papa couldn't help drinking any more than Mamma could help being sweet and gentle; they hadn't had a choice or a chance.
How senseless you had been with your old angers and resentments. Now that you understood, you could never feel anger or resentment any more. As long as you lived you could never feel anything but love for them and compassion. Mamma, Papa and Aunt Charlotte, Dan and Roddy, they were caught in the net. They couldn't get out.
Dan and Roddy—But Mark had got out. Why not you?
They were not all alike. Papa and Uncle Victor were different; and Aunt Charlotte and Aunt Lavvy. Papa had married and handed it on; he hadn't cared. Uncle Victor hadn't married; he had cared too much; he had been afraid.
And Maurice Jourdain and Lindley Vickers had been afraid; everybody who knew about Aunt Charlotte would be afraid, and if they didn't know you would have to tell them, supposing—
You would be like Aunt Lavvy. You would live in Morfe with Mamma for years and years as Aunt Lavvy had lived with Grandmamma. First you would be like Dorsy Heron; then like Louisa Wright; then like Aunt Lavvy.
No; when you were forty-five you would go like Aunt Charlotte.
XII.
Anyhow, she had filled in the time between October and March when the Sutcliffes came back.
If she could talk to somebody about it—But you couldn't talk to Mamma; she would only pretend that she hadn't been thinking about Aunt Charlotte at all. If Mark had been there—But Mark wasn't there, and Dan would only call you a little fool. Aunt Lavvy? She would tell you to love God. Even Aunt Charlotte could tell you that.
She could see Aunt Charlotte sitting up in the big white bed and saying "Love God and you'll be happy," as she scribbled letters to Mr. Marriott and hid them under the bedclothes.
Uncle Victor? Uncle Victor was afraid himself.
Dr. Charles—He looked at you as he used to look at Roddy. Perhaps he knew about Aunt Charlotte and wondered whether you would go like her. Or, if he didn't wonder, he would only give you the iron pills and arsenic he gave to Dorsy.
Mrs. Sutcliffe? You couldn't tell a thing like that to Mrs. Sutcliffe. She wouldn't know what you were talking about; or if she did know she would gather herself up, spiritually, in her shawl, and trail away.
Mr. Sutcliffe—He would know. If you could tell him. You might take back Maudsley and Ribot and ask him if he knew anything about heredity, and what he thought of it.
She went to him one Wednesday afternoon. He was always at home on Wednesday afternoons. She knew how it would be. Mrs. Sutcliffe would be shut up in the dining-room with the sewing-party. You would go in. You would knock at the library door. He would be there by himself, in the big arm-chair, smoking and reading; the small armchair would be waiting for you on the other side of the fireplace. He would be looking rather old and tired, and when he saw you he would jump up and pull himself together and be young again.
The library door closed softly. She was in the room before he saw her.
He was older and more tired than you could have believed. He stooped in his chair; his long hands rested on his knees, slackly, as they had dropped there. Grey streaks in the curly lock of hair that would fall forward and be a whisker.
His mouth had tightened and hardened. It held out; it refused to become old and tired.
"It's Mary," she said.
"My dear—"
He dragged himself to his feet, making his body very straight and stiff. His eyes glistened; but they didn't smile. Only his eyelids and his mouth smiled. His eyes were different, their blue was shrunk and flattened and drawn back behind the lense.
When he moved, pushing forward the small arm-chair, she saw how lean and stiff he was.
"I've been ill," he said.
"Oh—!"
"I'm all right now."
"No. You oughtn't to have come back from Agaye."
"I never do what I ought, Mary."
She remembered how beautiful and strong he used to be, when he danced and when he played tennis, and when he walked up and down the hills. His beauty and his strength had never moved her to anything but a happy, tranquil admiration. She remembered how she had seen Maurice Jourdain tired and old (at thirty-three), and how she had been afraid to look at him. She wondered, "Was that my fault, or his? If I'd cared should I have minded? If I cared for Mr. Sutcliffe I wouldn't mind his growing tired and old. The tireder and older he was the more I'd care."
Somehow you couldn't imagine Lindley Vickers growing old and tired.
She gave him back the books: Ribot's Heredity and Maudsley's Physiology and Pathology of Mind. He held them in his long, thin hands, reading the titles. His strange eyes looked at her over the tops of the bindings. He smiled.
"When did you order these, Mary?"
"In October."
"That's the sort of thing you do when I'm away, is it?"
"Yes—I'm afraid you won't care for them very much."
He still stood up, examining the books. He was dipping into Maudsley now and reading him.
"You don't mean to say you've read this horrible stuff?"
"Every word of it. I had to."
"You had to?"
"I wanted to know about heredity."
"And insanity?"
"That's part of it. I wanted to see if there was anything in it. Heredity, I mean. Do you think there is?"
She kept her eyes on him. He was still smiling.
"My dear child, you know as much as I do. Why are you worrying your poor little head about madness?"
"Because I can't help thinking I may go mad."
"I should think the same if I read Maudsley. I shouldn't be quite sure whether I was a general paralytic or an epileptic homicide."
"You see—I'm not afraid because I've been reading him; I've been reading him because I was afraid. Not even afraid, exactly. As a matter of fact while you're reading about it you're so interested that you forget about yourself. It's only when you've finished that you wonder."
"What makes you wonder?"
He threw Maudsley aside and sat down in the big armchair.
"That's just what I don't think I can tell you."
"You used to tell me things, Mary. I remember a little girl with short hair who asked me whether cutting off her hair would make me stop caring for her."
"Not you caring for me."
"Precisely. So, if you can't tell me who can you tell?"
"Nobody."
"Come, then…. Is it because of your father? Or Dan?"
She thought: "After all, I can tell him."
"No. Not exactly. But it's somebody. One of Papa's sisters—Aunt Charlotte. You see. Mamma seems to think I'm rather like her."
"Does Aunt Charlotte read Kant and Hegel and Schopenhauer, to find out whether the Thing-in-itself is mind or matter? Does she read Maudsley and Ribot to find out what's the matter with her mind?"
"I don't think she ever read anything."
"What did she do?"
"Well—she doesn't seem to have done much but fall in love with people."
"She'd have been a very abnormal lady if she'd never fallen in love at all, Mary."
"Yes; but then she used to think people were in love with her when they weren't."
"How old is Aunt Charlotte?"
"She must be ages over fifty now."
"Well, my dear, you're just twenty-eight, and I don't think you've been in love yet."
"That's it. I have."
"No. You've only thought you were. Once? Twice, perhaps? You may have been very near it—for ten minutes. But a man might be in love with you for ten years, and you wouldn't be a bit the wiser, if he held his tongue about it…. No. People don't go off their heads because their aunts do, or we should all of us be mad. There's hardly a family that hasn't got somebody with a tile loose."
"Then you don't think there's anything in it?"
"I don't think there's anything in it in your case. Anything at all."
"I'm glad I told you."
She thought: "It isn't so bad. Whatever happens he'll be here."
XIII.
The sewing-party had broken up. She could see them going before her on the road, by the garden wall, by the row of nine ash-trees in the field, round the curve and over Morfe Bridge.
Bobbing shoulders, craning necks, stiff, nodding heads in funny hats, turning to each other.
When she got home she found Mrs. Waugh, and Miss Frewin in the drawing-room with Mamma. They had brought her the news.
The Sutcliffes were going. They were trying to let Greffington Hall. The agent, Mr. Oldshaw, had told Mr. Horn. Mr. Frank, the Major, would be back from India in April. He was going to be married. He would live in the London house and Mr. and Mrs. Sutcliffe would live abroad.
Mamma said, "If their son's coming back they've chosen a queer time to go away."
XIV.
It couldn't be true.
You knew it when you dined with them, when you saw the tranquil Regency faces looking at you from above the long row of Sheraton chairs, the pretty Gainsborough lady smiling from her place above the sideboard.
As you sat drinking coffee out of the dark blue coffee cups with gold linings you knew it couldn't be true. You were reassured by the pattern of the chintzes—pink roses and green leaves on a pearl-grey ground—by the crystal chains and pendants of the chandelier, by the round black mirror sunk deep in the bowl of its gilt frame.
They couldn't go; for if they went, the quiet, gentle life of these things would be gone. The room had no soul apart from the two utterly beloved figures that sat there, each in its own chintz-covered chair.
"It isn't true," she said, "that you're going?"
She was sitting on the polar bear hearthrug at Mrs. Sutcliffe's feet.
"Yes, Mary."
The delicate, wrinkled hand came out from under the cashmere shawl to stroke her arm. It kept on stroking, a long, loving, slow caress. It made her queerly aware of her arm—white and slender under the big puff of the sleeve—lying across Mrs. Sutcliffe's lap.
"He'll be happier in his garden at Agaye."
She heard herself assenting. "He'll be happier." And breaking out. "But I shall never be happy again."
"You mustn't say that, my dear."
The hand went on stroking.
"There's no place on earth," she said, "where I'm so happy as I am here."
Suddenly the hand stopped; it stiffened; it drew back under the cashmere shawl.
She turned her head towards Mr. Sutcliffe in his chair on the other side of the hearthrug.
His face had a queer, strained look. His eyes were fixed, fixed on the white, slender arm that lay across his wife's lap.
And Mrs. Sutcliffe's eyes were fixed on the queer, strained face.
XV.
Uncle Victor's letter was almost a relief.
She had not yet allowed herself to imagine what Morfe would be like without the Sutcliffes. And, after all, they wouldn't have to live in it. If Dan accepted Uncle Victor's offer, and if Mamma accepted his conditions.
Uncle Victor left no doubt as to his conditions. He wouldn't take Dan back unless Mamma left Morfe and made a home for him in London. He wanted them all to live together at Five Elms.
The discussion had lasted from a quarter-past nine till half-past ten. Mamma still sat at the breakfast-table, crumpling and uncrumpling the letter.
"I wish I knew what to do," she said.
"Better do what you want," Dan said. "Stay here if you want to. Go back to Five Elms if you want to. But for God's sake don't say you're doing it on my account."
He got up and went out of the room.
"Goodness knows I don't want to go back to Five Elms. But I won't stand in Dan's way. If your Uncle Victor thinks I ought to make the sacrifice, I shall make it."
"And Dan," Mary said, "will make the sacrifice of going back to Victor's office. It would be simpler if he went to Canada."
"Your uncle can't help him to go to Canada. He won't hear of it…. I suppose we shall have to go."
They were going. You could hear Mrs. Belk buzzing round the village with the news. "The Oliviers are going."
One day Mrs. Belk came towards her, busily, across the Green.
She stopped to speak, while her little iron-grey eyes glanced off sideways, as if they saw something important to be done.
The Sutcliffes were not going, after all.
XVI.
When it was all settled and she thought that Dan had gone into Reyburn a fortnight ago to give notice to the landlord's solicitors, one evening, as she was coming home from the Aldersons' he told her that he hadn't been to the solicitors at all.
He had arranged yesterday for his transport on a cattle ship sailing next week for Montreal.
He said he had always meant to go out to Jem Alderson when he had learnt enough from Ned.
"Then why," she said, "did you let Mamma tell poor Victor—"
"I wanted her to have the credit of the sacrifice," he said.
And then: "I don't like leaving you here—"
An awful thought came to her.
"Are you sure you aren't going because of me?"
"You? What on earth are you thinking of?"
"That time—when you wouldn't ask Lindley Vickers to stop on."
"Oh … I didn't ask him because I knew he wanted to stop altogether. And I don't approve of him."
She turned and stared at him. "Then it wasn't that you didn't approve of me?"
"What put that in your head?"
"Mamma. She told me you couldn't ask anybody again because of me. She said I'd frightened Lindley Vickers away. Like Aunt Charlotte."
Dan smiled, a sombre, reminiscent smile.
"You don't mean to say you still take Mamma seriously? I never did."
