‘I think of my mother every day,’ said Cassius; ‘my dear mother whose sympathy flowed from her. Perhaps she taught me to expect too much.’
‘She did so,’ said Mr Clare, ‘and you learned it from her. A woman with one son may serve him in that way. It was a simple case.’
‘I don’t know why you want so much sympathy,’ said Flavia.
‘No?’ said Cassius, resting his eyes on her.
‘You are not an unfortunate man.’
‘No?’
‘Upon my word I don’t know what the trouble is,’ said Mr Clare.
‘There is no trouble,’ said Flavia, ‘and we should not make, one. There are enough and to spare.’
‘A truism,’ said her husband.
‘They are generally true.’
‘They sometimes have a modicum of truth. I suppose that is what you mean.’
‘No, I meant what I said. That is what you mean yourself.’
‘I have never had to make troubles,’ said Cassius. ‘My share has come to me.’
‘So you have been spared the pains,’ said his father. ‘And I do not know why you should take them.’
‘I have had rather trials than troubles,’ said Flavia.
‘You must be glad of that,’ said Cassius, in a cordial tone. ‘And we are glad for you.’
‘Trials have a way of being more continuous. They are more involved in ordinary life. They stand less by themselves.’
‘They are woven into life,’ said Cassius, dreamily, ‘a part of its warp and woof. You would not be prepared for that. We must not look for experience from those who have not had it.’
‘Is mine any good to you this morning?’ said his father. ‘I have had enough, and it is at your service.’
‘I shall be glad to be with you when my work is done. Flavia has her companionship.’
‘What do you know about my plans for the day?’ said his wife.
‘Know about them?’ said Cassius, looking up with a faint frown. ‘There is nothing to know, is there? They are stereotyped.’
‘And in what way?’
‘Well, either you will go to your friend or she will come to you. Is there any alternative?’
‘Are you speaking of the boys’mother?’
‘Flavia, that is going too far,’ said Cassius, almost laughing.
‘There are other people in my life.’
Her husband raised his brows.
‘You forget that I have children myself.’
‘I may sometimes do so, now that there is less to remind me of it, now you are focused on one point.’
‘You know less about me than you think.’
Cassius sent his eyes over her and did not endorse this.
‘I do not claim to know everything about you.’
‘Well, no, I suppose not,’ said Cassius, with a faint sound of amusement.
‘And I should have thought you were the easier to judge.’
Cassius laughed outright.
‘People talk of our seeing ourselves as others see us,’ said Mr Clare. ‘It is the way we ourselves do so, that should concern them.’
‘Especially when we make it clear,’ said Cassius, looking at his wife with another tremble of mirth.
‘This is not sincere talk,’ she said.
‘Is it not?’ said her husband. ‘It is honest of you to admit it.’
‘You are a sophist, my boy,’ said Mr Clare.
‘Well, is breakfast at an end?’ said Cassius, rising from the table, and seeming to chance to push his full cup into view. ‘If so, I will go to the library.’
‘Breakfast has not begun for Cassius,’ said Flavia, as the door closed. ‘But what are we to do?’
‘Nothing, my dear. Nothing can be done. We are helpless in the matter.’
‘I wonder how much he suffers in these moods.’
‘We can only know what we do. We can learn no more.’
‘I always feel I ought to be able to prevent them.’
‘I have felt the same. But we rank ourselves too high. We cannot be of use.’
‘What Cassius needs is a perfect wife. I see what it would do for him. But perfection might do a good deal for many of us. It may be too simple a view.’
‘It is not only the complex that is true. We all need perfection in other people, and might be the better for it.’
‘I attempted the impossible in marrying him. Or do I mean something beyond me?’
‘You may mean them both. Cassius stands as what he is. He offers no revised version of himself.’
Cassius had gone to the library, sat down at the desk and rested his head on his hands. Once or twice he raised it and drew some papers towards him, but soon relinquished them. Ainger entered, laid the list of wine before him, and withdrew in one swift movement. Cassius looked up at him as he reached the door.
‘So it is thought that wine matters, Ainger. What is your feeling about it?’
‘Well, sir, in our ordinary life ordinary things have their niche.’
‘I somehow feel I am no longer living it. There has come a change for me of late. I hardly know how to express it.’
‘I should suggest you have not been yourself since your illness, sir.’
‘That is a kind way of putting it, Ainger. It holds a kind thought. Everyone’s thought of me is not so kind. I have to get used to hostile eyes.’
‘Would it not be truer to say “disapproving”, sir? There is no hostility in any glance I have seen cast upon you.’
‘Disapproval is a cheerless companion. It throws a cold shadow on one’s path. I may have invited it, but it dogs my steps. I ask myself if I shall always be followed by it.’
‘Not if you give it time and make no more place for it, sir.’
‘Ah, you too think the less of me.’
‘I think the more about you, sir, and with no less feeling,’ said Ainger, as he went to the door.
Cassius looked at the list of wine as if he did not follow it, took up an envelope and put the two together, but seemed unable to connect them, and remained with them in his hands.
An hour or two later Ainger came to Mr Clare.
‘We are in trouble again, sir. I hesitate to tell you. I hardly like to employ the words.’
‘Well, make up your mind. Either use them or tell someone else to do so.’
‘The master again, sir. He is lying on the sofa, as before. And it is not two hours since we exchanged a word. What course are we to follow? Making much of it defeats its purpose.’
‘I will come with you and see him.’
‘It is what I hoped you would suggest, sir.’
The two men went to the library and Mr Clare stood by his son.’
‘Yes, the same thing again. A second time. I suppose breakfast was leading up to it. I see now that it was.’
‘It did strike a warning note, sir. But we could not forecast this. We have had breakfasts of that kind before.’
‘What is our life to be, if we are to fear it? We cannot live under the threat. It would be not to live at all.’
‘If you will be advised, sir, you will do nothing. Notice feeds the desire for prominence and has the outcome. Neglect is sometimes wholesome. Our seeming to become inured may prevent recurrence. It would have to be done without reward, if you understand me.’.
‘It seems little reward in itself,’ said Mr Clare, looking at his son. ‘Well, he recovered by himself before; the doctor did nothing. We may leave it to happen as it did then, as no doubt he relied on its doing. And we will not have the after-scenes. That was our mistake.’
‘Yes, sir, we crowned it with success, as it were. Were the tablets where he would come on them?’
‘There are some in the desk. I keep them for myself, and must do so. I did not turn the key on them. Why should I do such a thing? He is a man of fifty and my son. And I felt he had done this once and for all. I thought there were signs of it. And there were signs. I know him.’
‘I should have said the
same of myself, sir. It seems we are not to know each other.’
‘I know my son. I have foretold his actions. I have seen them in his words. I did not foretell this. Can there be a change?’
‘I should have thought not, sir. I should have said there was something immutable. I hope this is not part of it,’ said Ainger, ending almost with a smile.
‘We must see that it is not. We must protect him from himself, and ourselves from him. But it serves no purpose to stand with our eyes on him. He looks as he did last time, and for a while must do so. Last time! What a way to have to talk!’
Mr Clare turned with a silent step, as if his son were asleep.
‘Let me lead you away, sir,’ said Ainger, putting his hand under his arm. ‘I will look in on the master myself. Though he does not know it, my eye will be on him. It will not be the first time.’
‘Come to me, if there is any change. And when your mistress returns, bring her to me.’
‘I will break it to her myself, sir. I can spare you that. And you may rely on the method. It is fortunate that she is to be away for some hours. When she returns, the worst will be over.’
‘And the rest will begin. And we have had enough. I do not see why a woman should bear anything, or an old man either. He will not teach me to forget that I am his father, but I can only answer for myself.’
‘We all have to make our sacrifice for the master, sir. And it seems to bind us together. In a way it is the meaning of the house.’
When Flavia returned late in the day, Ainger was waiting in the. hall.
‘I am both glad and sorry to see you, ma’am. I hope we have done right. We have had our trouble again, and have had to use our own judgement. It could not have been foreseen.’
‘What is the matter?’
‘It is the same thing again, ma’am. The master was found as before. I happened to look in on him. It is a good thing the instinct prompted me. I don’t know if the coming event cast its shadow before.’
‘There was some kind of shadow. It has followed me all day. I ought to have stayed at home. What is the truth?’
‘Simply the same as previously, ma’am. Or I trust we can say it is. We thought it best to leave him, as the doctor found nothing to do. But as the hours passed and there was no change, I took it upon myself to send for him. He should be here at any moment. I did riot tell Mr Clare for fear of alarming him. Yes, ma’am, on the sofa, as before.’
Flavia was standing by Cassius, as his father had stood. She turned to Ainger at once.
‘You are not right that there has been no change. There have been more than one. When did the last one come?’
‘I admit I am alarmed myself, ma’am.’
‘It is useless for me to say that the doctor should have come at once.’
‘It may partake of wisdom after the event, ma’am.’
‘It is wisdom nevertheless,’ said Flavia, turning again to her husband.
The minutes passed in silence. There was nothing to do but live through them. Ainger waited at the door for the doctor, and they hastened to the library. Mr Clare entered with them, summoned by the sounds.
The silence, held and grew. The doctor bent over Cassius. Ainger moved to his hand, obeyed his hurried word. Some necessary things were done, and he turned and faced the wife and father.
‘It is worse this time,’ said Mr Clare. ‘Has he taken more than before?’
‘He has taken nothing. This is a different thing. It is a sudden illness. It is an affection of the heart not unusual in middle-aged men. If stimulants had been given in time, it might have been different. I can say it would have been. I should have been sent for at once, as, if you had known, you would have sent for me.’
‘But how could we know? How could we suspect this second thing? It had all the appearance of the first.’
‘You could not know. You are not to blame. You thought and did what was natural.’
‘And now is there any hope?’
The doctor did not answer, and Mr Clare turned to his son.
‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ he said.
‘Can nothing be done?’ said Flavia.
The doctor looked at the sick man, and Flavia followed his eyes. Nothing could be done but stand by Cassius, feeling there might be comfort in their presence, knowing there was none; nothing but watch the shortening breath, and feel their own stop, as a sudden deep sigh preceded a silence.
There was a faint stir as it came. The doctor bent over the couch. The wife and father remained with their eyes on it until they found they were alone. Voices were heard outside and seemed to liberate their own.
‘I could not know, my dear. How could anyone know? This takes more of my life than yours.’
‘What kind of a life did Cassius have?’ said Flavia, with a cry in her tones. ‘Did he find it worth while? Did it hold as much as other men’s? Did he feel that it did? Did he ever tell you how he saw it?’
‘It is no good to wish it different. It would be to wish him different, and this is not the time.’
‘I cannot help wishing it. It would have been better for him. I wish he had been happier. I wish he had had more. I wish I had given it to him. I had the opportunity day by day. I had it only a few hours ago, and to the end of my life I shall wish it.’
‘I hardly do so. I gave him what I had to give. And I do not need to talk of the end of my life. It is at its end. My son and I will be together, even if in emptiness.’
‘It is hard to think Cassius does not exist, harder than to think it of other men. It seems that he would be angry about it, that it ought not to have happened to him.’
‘Do we feel it should happen to any of us? Do our reason and our feeling work together? How should they do so? We do not welcome the truth.’
‘We cannot know what it is.’
‘We cannot prove that we know it. We may cling to that.’
‘How good a wife do you think I was to him?’
‘As good as any woman could have been. No one was the wife for Cassius. It was easier to be his father.’
‘What a difficult life! And yet why need it have been? He seemed to have the nature of a child and the feelings of a man. I see him like that suddenly, and feel I should always have done so.’
‘There is some truth in it, my dear. I said that my part was the easier.’.
‘So I shall live without Cassius,’
‘And I shall die without him. And I did not look to do that. I have thought of his living without me. He is more fortunate than I am, or I like to think so.’
Ainger returned to the room and went up to Mr Clare.
‘May I advisé you to accompany us, ma’am?’ he said, as he led him to the door. ‘It would have been the master’s wish. That is what remains to us.’
They followed Ainger to the drawing-room, and saw that he was serving them with a sense of fulfilling his master’s directions. It occurred to them both to wonder what these would have been.
‘So you and I will be here together,’ said Flavia to her father-in-law. ‘And when you die, I shall be here alone. I shall be alone with the children. I shall deal with them alone. Cassius would have said I should have Catherine, but I shall not have her. It will be a stretch of emptiness. I do not feel I can face it.’
‘We are able for what we must. If our strength fails, it brings our solution. And yours will take you on. I do not say you are fortunate. You will find a barren path and you will follow it.’
‘Would Cassius be glad to be missed so much?’
Mr Clare was silent, a faint smile on his lips.
‘I have no wish to see Catherine,’ said Flavia. ‘I feel it was a mistake that I ever saw her.’
‘It was never your wish. It was thrust on you. You did your best with it, and it grew beyond you. It had to do that or fail, though at the time we did not see it. Cassius asked too much, and he got nothing. You had to give too much, and the reaction came. It was a living and growing thing.’
‘I shall
blame myself all my life. I feel it is the one thing I shall do.’
‘Less with every month, and soon with every day and hour.’
‘I do not mean only for Catherine. I know that demand was made on me there. It was all I could do to meet it. I mean for my life with Cassius, for most of those nine years. I knew he wanted flattery. I could have given it to him. Why cannot we serve each other? Why could I not meet his need? I knew he wanted too much sympathy, and I gave too little. I had my own standard and observed it as if it were absolute. And it was only mine. Cassius was alone.’
‘No, I was with him. I feel I can say it. It is my drop of comfort, and I need not do without it. He was less alone than you were. You can feel that you bore the most. And if he came back to life, he would be the same. You would find the same trouble, meet the same failure. That means that you did not fail. And you did not leave him, as the other woman did. And he did not deal with you as he did with her. That is your success.’
‘I wish I had had a real one. But I can only have what is mine. And I hardly understand myself. My sympathy with Catherine is gone. I see her as another woman.’
‘I never saw her as she saw herself. It was perhaps your mistake that you did so. We should see people through our own eyes, if we keep them clear. I saw my son through mine, and loved him for himself and showed it. I have that to carry with me.’
‘You are the fortunate one of us, or rather you are the best.’
‘I have been the best to Cassius. I will take what is mine. But I knew him as a child, and saw the child in him. That was my help.’
They fell into silence, and Ainger, who had stood with bent head while they spoke, noiselessly left the room.
He went to the kitchen without much thought of himself and sat down in his place. The others looked at him in some awe before his experience.
‘Well, it is over, Mrs Frost, and I feel my life is over with it. When the old gentleman is gone, I shall have nothing. It may be a mistake to be knit so close, but it comes about in spite of us. An obscure life holds its troubles.’
‘Is the mistress prostrate?’ said Kate, as though this might be assumed.
‘Her head is upright, Kate, and the old gentleman is the same. Other things about them are not to be passed on.’
‘Shan’t we ever see the master again?’ said Simon.
The Present and the Past Page 16