III

The Reverend Peter Fletcher was a frail little elderly man, with a long, black beard, and a colourless face that carried a humorous kindliness. His wife, Theresa, was a large old woman, with fierce eyes looking out between a massive brow and chin. His sister, Miss Lydia Fletcher, was a clumsy-looking woman of sixty, with a broad, flat, benevolent face; and the Reverend Francis Fletcher, a nephew, was an oversized, youngish man, with solemn eyes.

“Say grace, Peter,” said Theresa, looking up from carving.

“I have just done so, my dear,” said Mr. Fletcher.

“Peter, you see the result of thirty years of your example,” said Bumpus, who was a cousin of Mr. Fletcher’s, and gave an impression of a faint Fletcher likeness embodied in a great difference.

“I think it is a beautiful result,” said Emily, who was a friend of Theresa’s. “Fancy just not noticing grace after thirty years!”

“Being so free from nervous hurry at the least,” said Bumpus.

“Oh, one does not offer oneself as an example to one’s elders and betters,” said Mr. Fletcher, giving his peculiar smile, in which he stretched his lips without parting them, so that his teeth were not displayed.

He was nine months younger than his wife.

“Ah, it is so difficult to have the control of oneself,” said Miss Lydia, in a mysterious undertone, with her hand over her mouth. “It seems that nothing is so small that we can do it without asking help.”

“Theresa does everything without help, doesn’t she?” said Bumpus.

“Of course nobody who does that, could do quite actually everything,” said Emily.

“No. Not without help, no. Without always asking help, perhaps,” murmured Miss Lydia. “For we can’t do things without help. No.”

“Is the farewell sermon ready, Peter?” said Theresa.

“A farewell sermon! I do hope you had help,” said Bumpus.

“A life of work, and extra work to round it off!” said Theresa.

“Lyddie, is it ready?” said Mr. Fletcher.

“The sermon is not my province,” said Miss Lydia, firmly on the truth.

“But couldn’t it be with help?” said Emily. “Oughtn’t you to get particular help, being inside things as you are? Or is everything just coldly fair?”

Miss Lydia looked at the table.

“Aunt Lyddie is to do the work to the end, isn’t she, Uncle Peter?” said Francis.

“Yes, yes, surely,” said Mr. Fletcher.

“It is not a woman’s business to preach,” said Miss Lydia.

“Of course not,” said Emily. “I did not think of that. I didn’t mean I thought it was.”

“Is it done, dear?” said Theresa.

“I have mapped it out in outline,” said Mr. Fletcher, leaning back with his finger tips together. “I have still two or three matters to look up.”

“You are self-important, Peter,” said Bumpus.

“Well, with a farewell sermon, that is just being open and above deceit,” said Emily.

“I shouldn’t trouble about it,” said Theresa. “The people who will hear it have never troubled about you.”

“I should denounce them at the last,” said Bumpus. “No, I should not. I should be very subtle and aloof.”

“I do envy you for retiring,” said Emily. “Fancy, if Nicholas could give up the school!”

“Ah, he is needed,” said Mr. Fletcher.

“Oh, he is not, Peter,” said Emily. “You should not have little ways of making yourself popular.”

“There is a great deal of ritualism in the town,” said Miss Lydia, rolling the “r.” “A great deal. It is so much we have to fight against. But we must be so thankful that we are allowed to do something.”

“The other side seems to be allowed to do more,” said Theresa. “I hope they are more thankful.”

“Lyddie,” said Bumpus, “have you been told about Theresa’s being made on purpose without charity, because of the double share of Peter, with whom she was to become one?”

“Ah, but these ritualists do harm. They do harm. They are not right. It is idolatrous,” said Miss Lydia, looking in front of her.

“The true reasons for the simpler service have possibly never even reached them,” said Mr. Fletcher.

“No, no, Peter; keep a hand on yourself,” said Bumpus. “That does not extend to us. We are more of a credit to you than that.”

“It is certainly time that Peter retired,” said Theresa.

“Where do your boys attend church?” said Miss Lydia to Emily, in a mysterious, piercing whisper.

“My boys?” said Emily. “How nice of you! Because that is the impression we want to make. At the chapel of the college where Nicholas used to be. Richard’s college.”

“Merry arranged it as a reminder to people that Herrick was a Fellow there,” said Bumpus.

“You are very nice people to be employed by,” said Miss Lydia, her voice suggesting unworthiness in Mr. Merry.

“Yes, we try to be grateful,” said Emily. “It is so generous to be employed. Nicholas and I really have to shirk our part of it.”

“Mrs. Merry is a good religious woman?” said Miss Lydia, raising her eyes but not her head.

“Yes. That is what she is. You are wonderful at descriptions.”

“I am sure, Aunt Lyddie, that Miss Herrick’s and Mr. Herrick’s influence is everywhere in the school,” said Francis. “I have so often heard about it in the town.”

“I wonder if that is all right,” said Bumpus. “Are we quite sure what Merry wants about that?”

“Mr. Merry is very happy in having no place in his life for criticism at all,” said Miss Lydia.

“Very happy?” said Emily. “I think it would be unhappy and difficult. And we can’t take everything, and give what is less than nothing. And that is what criticism seems to be. Peter, you do make me so jealous, sitting there. I wish Nicholas had a beard, and a kinder expression.”

“Sixty-eight years behind him, and not a respectable grey hair to show for it!” said Miss Lydia.

Mr. Fletcher passed his hand down his beard.

“Wouldn’t vanity seem to you a feeling incongruous with your calling?” said Bumpus.

“It would lack, I fear, what may be regarded as its necessities of life,” said Mr. Fletcher.

“I wish I had said that. I mean, I wish I had thought of it,” said Emily. “I mean, I wish I had thought of it just as a cleverness.”

“You see why he will not button his coat,” said Bumpus. “It would be taking thought for what he puts on, when he is provided as the lilies of the field.”

Francis looked grave.

Theresa rose and rang the bell.

“My dear,” said Mr. Fletcher, half rising himself, “why cannot you say when you want a thing done?”

“I do it and get back before anyone else is out of his seat,” said Theresa.

“It is unworthy of you to expect people to be prompt,” said Bumpus. “Such a cold, self-esteeming thing to be.”

“I am cold and self-esteeming,” said Theresa.

“It occurs to me,” said Francis, sinking back into his chair, “that it was just so with my mother. She used often to vex and grieve me, if it had been possible for me to be vexed or grieved by her, by doing for herself those little things that I should have liked to do for her. I used often to reason with her about it, but she always refused to hear reason.”

“I must just trot across to the post,” said Miss Lydia. “I have had to write to all my men, and tell them that my men’s class will not be held on Thursday. Dear souls, they will be so disappointed; but I could not help it, or I would indeed.”

“Let me go for you, Aunt Lyddie,” said Francis.

“No, I am a person who does my own business. And this business is mine. I am so sad to disappoint my dear men things, who understand me so. I don’t often fail them. Not often. And I don’t often fail with them. I know I am different with women. I admit it. But men don’t often elude me. Not often.”

“I feel I do elude Lyddie,” said Emily. “I am always having proof that I am the average woman. And Nicholas has taught me to despise it.”

“She seems very pleased with not failing with men, and failing with women,” said Theresa. “It would be better not to fail with either.”

“No, if you think a minute, not so good,” said Emily. “Not so nice, anyhow.”

“I don’t think myself so good,” said Bumpus. “Much less good, of course.”

“It is something not to fail with one, my dear,” said Mr. Fletcher.

“I knew you would say that, Peter,” said Theresa. “You self-righteous, obvious old man. I did not say it was not.”

“Be patient with me, my dear. I shall be older and wiser presently.”

“You will be older and not wiser. At our age people get less wise.”

“Yes, that is true, my dear. I shall do my best for you, when the time comes for you to consult me generally.”

Mr. Fletcher’s eyes took on a look of grateful content, as the door shut on the women. He welcomed a man’s companionship, and his friendship with Bumpus gave to his days a hidden light.

“I have been longing to have a word with a woman,” said Emily, sitting down with Theresa. “Nicholas is so terribly a man. You must find that with Peter, too.”

“Sometimes,” said Theresa.

“Only sometimes?” said Emily. “Yes, that is true about Peter. Nicholas is always a man. Life is just labour and sorrow for us. Labour for Nicholas and sorrow for me. You wouldn’t think that Nicholas would labour. But lately he has. His way of writing this book is so like what an ordinary writer’s, a real writer’s way would be. He says it is ready in his head. Nicholas can’t be like that. He says it came suddenly to him, when he was sitting up with Mr. Crabbe. But he must have had it in his mind; and he has given no sign at all. And Nicholas ought to have given so many signs. It can’t mean anything. Do you think him aged lately?”

“No, no, darling,” said Theresa. “Particularly well and cheerful.”

“That is being so pleased that he is going to be conspicuous and highly thought of,” said Emily. “He likes that much more even than the average man. In some ways Nicholas is built on a very large scale. I do hope it is all going to come off. I can hardly tell you how I hope it. He will be terribly shaken if it does not.”

“Well, why shouldn’t it?” said Theresa. “I wonder he hasn’t done it before.”

“So do I,” said Emily. “So does he. That is just it. At least, I don’t think I do, really. I shouldn’t have thought that Nicholas could write a book. Not a good book; not even just good enough.”

“Does your brother know what a good sister he has in you?” said Theresa.

“No,” said Emily. “He knows what a good brother I have in him. How I should have had to go on the streets, or even be a governess, without him.”

“You had your own income, dear,” said Theresa.

“A hundred a year,” said Emily, “Nicholas is kind, and without a true dignity. He calls that on the streets.”

“Well, but there is the other side to it all.”

“Of course there is my side. But Nicholas doesn’t see that. He is very thorough. He gives all his attention to one side.”

“You are very devoted to him?” said Theresa.

“You know how I feel to him as well as I do myself. How utterly I see through him, and yet how necessary he is to me. And how pathetic. It will break my heart if this wretched book goes wrong.”

“Does he feel the same to you? As strongly, I mean?”

“No,” said Emily. “You know he does not feel strongly like that about anyone. He is rather glad he has me. But he has a feeling that without me he would not have kept a school, and would have been a real writer. I think it might break him up if anything were to happen to me. You know that means if I were to die.”

“He only gives about ten minutes a day to the school,” said Theresa.

“Well, he couldn’t give any more,” said Emily. “I did not know you were one of those people who talk about Nicholas’ ten minutes. And he doesn’t see the other side. I told you.”

“Have you pointed it out to him, dear?”

“You know that would not make him see it. Apart from the way he already sees it. And I believe it is good for him to feel himself a kind of hero. It holds him up from going down into old age.”

“What would he do if you married?”

“Live with me, I suppose. As a sort of upper husband. And look down on the other one.”

“My dear, if you are going to do it, it should be soon, shouldn’t it? And, as you say, your brother could live with you.”

“You know I did not say it,” said Emily. “And as if Nicholas could really live with me, with somebody else taking some of my attention! You can’t be as unobservant as that. And if I can marry now, I can marry at any time. There is not much dependent on youth left at fifty. And William gets older at the same time. I don’t pretend I don’t understand you. I am not at all commonplace.”

“There is no one else, is there?” said Theresa.

“You should not actually talk to me as the average married woman thinks of a spinster.”

“Do you ever give him a chance?”

“Give William a chance? I see him every day.”

“But alone, dear? So that he is a free man?”

“In the room that Nicholas and I share, with Dickie looking on. Where else could I see him? The boys’ basement dining-room wouldn’t be the right setting for William. But it wouldn’t make any difference. He couldn’t propose to me.”

“Why not?”

“Why, I should think he couldn’t. I haven’t thought about it. I should think it is one of the things he doesn’t do. We all have them.”

“But you could manage yourself, dear. People can,” said Theresa.

“Yes, of course they can. I’ve noticed that. And he would accept me, I am sure. I know he would spare me embarrassment. Dear William!”

“But he wants to marry you, doesn’t he?”

“As much as he can want to marry anyone. Anyone who is a woman. And that is not very much.”

“Oh dear! These dons and people!” said Theresa.

“Yes, it is something of that way. I knew you knew all the time. I might tell you it is that way with me, too. But I shall not tell you any more. Especially as you are ordinary and know it all. I understand now why people sometimes murder people they are known to be fond of. They ought to murder them.”

“Suppose you outlive your brother, dear?”

“Suppose I outlive him! Why of course I shall outlive him. I am twenty years younger than he is; so I mean to live twenty years after him. Don’t you think a woman ought to live, if there isn’t a man making use of her?”

“I thought you might not find things worth while without him. You said he would break up without you. I shouldn’t like to live forever, myself.”

“Yes, so I expect he would,” said Emily. “But then I join him in living for himself. He doesn’t join me in anything like that. I should love to live forever. I don’t wonder that religious people, who can plan things, arrange it like that.”

“No; but you might not miss him the less for that,” said Theresa. “We miss what we give most to, the most.”

“I do not,” said Emily. “I should miss him the less for that. But I should miss him. That is why I want this book to come off, so as to give him a new start of life. And I should live in a nice little house, if he died. Mr. Merry would have the school, and make me an allowance. I might have two sitting-rooms, and I should get so muddled between them. Where could William propose to me then? Though of course the school might not pay without Nicholas. People do admire him so for giving no time to it. It was so clever of him to think of it. Anyone else might have thought it would pay better to give all his time to it.”

“Darby and Joan gossiping together in the dark!” said Miss Lydia. “Gossiping and gossiping away in the dark.”

“Well, the dark can soon be remedied,” said Theresa.

“Yes, yes, it is not incurable,” said Miss Lydia, feeling for matches as one wont and willing to do all to be done. “It is not incurable, that is one thing. Not like the dark in the room I have just been in, a room under some stairs, with no light, and no fire, and some little children. Oh, dear! Something must be done. It must be done. How thankful we ought to be!”

“With a little less, we should be in the dark and cold too,” said Theresa. “You could find people better for preaching thankfulness to.”

“Oh, no. For some people never know how nice it is to help,” said Miss Lydia. “We ought to be so sorry for them. Because it is so nice. It is so nice.”

“Perhaps the people are pretending distress out of kindness to you,” said Theresa.

“No. People are not so difficult in their kindness,” said Emily. “And they wouldn’t guess it was nice.”

“Out of kindness to themselves, then,” said Theresa.

“No, no. Not in this case. No,” said Miss Lydia. “The man has struggled to get work until he is hopeless, just to get work, just that, poor soul! Hopeless and distrustful of everything. He hardly trusted me at first. But he does now, dear fellow. Dear fellow, how he does!”

Miss Lydia went to her desk, and stood with her knuckles on it, her eyes looking into space. The matter seemed not long without light for her; for she hastened towards the door.

“What a good soul she is!” said Mr. Fletcher, smiling, as he came in from seeing Bumpus off in the hall.

“A soul who ought to be good,” said Theresa. “No family, and an income of her own! She could not spend every penny she has on herself.”

“She could not, but there are people who could, my dear.”

“I could,” said Emily. “I do.”

“Well, it is not for us to admire this dropping of driblets,” said Theresa. “We had half we had swallowed at one draught. That was a thing, if you want one.”

“I wish I had the use of vigorous metaphor,” said Emily.

“My dear, we did not intend to give it,” said Mr. Fletcher, who had lent his inheritance, and failed to recover it.

“No. And so we had all the giving and no gratitude. That would not suit Lydia.”

“You know,” said Emily, “I hate to say it, but I believe it would not suit her as badly as most of us. But very badly, I hope, of course.”

“It did not suit us, did it, Theresa?” said Mr. Fletcher. “I fear we murmured. I fear we did.”

“How conceited you are! Of course you did,” said Emily. “I wonder if Lydia would not have spoken about it. If so, what a good thing she did not lose it! We should have had to admire her.”

“It is a good idea to leave debts unpaid when you die,” said Theresa.

“Very good. I will tell Nicholas about it,” said Emily. “He very likely has not thought of it. He is really much more honest than people think. And he does not think he is going to die. And of course he is not.”

“My dear, he felt it more than we did,” said Mr. Fletcher to his wife. “And we have been a happy old pair without it. Though I don’t know why I should call myself old, except that I like to be coupled with you, my dear.”

“I do wish I were not a spinster,” said Emily. “I retract all I have said.”

“Of course, Lydia flirts with her men,” said Theresa. “She may not know it, but she does.”

“I wish I could do difficult things without knowing it,” said Emily. “I always know, when I do them, so clearly and conceitedly.”

“Well, that kind of thing must be at the bottom of most things,” said Mr. Fletcher. “It may as well be put to a good purpose, whether or not people know it.”

“Peter, you really are rather like other people sometimes,” said Emily, “though I don’t like to belittle you before Theresa.”

“Emily, you are sometimes severe,” said Mr. Fletcher.

“And that is like other people, isn’t it?” said Emily. “But why should you want not to be like other people, when you are a good man?”

“I do not want it,” said Mr. Fletcher.

“Then why am I severe?” said Emily. “But you are right not to let us speak wickedly about Lydia. It must be terrible to do good.”