Men and Wives (7 page)

“Spong, you will pass an hour with old friends this afternoon?” said Godfrey, intercepting him without appearance of approach, in deference to the occasion. “You will not deny me?”

Dominic stood as if his friend's proximity were gradually dawning on him.

“Sir Godfrey, I have no one but old friends to turn to from now onward. In your own kind words I will not deny you.”

Dominic always addressed his two chief clients as Sir Godfrey and Sir Percy, while answering himself to his simple surname. It was as though he acknowledged his position of one employed.

“Thank you, Spong, thank you. My wife will be grateful to you for understanding her.”

Dominic stood as if his balance were precarious, his hands, his handkerchief in one, just swaying, his eyes glimpsing the approach of Godfrey's carriage without recognition.

“Now, Spong, you will not refuse us what we ask of you?” said Sir Percy, suddenly at hand. “We shall be
hurt if we do not see you at dinner this evening.”

“Then, Sir Percy, you will see me at dinner. That is to say, if you have a welcome for a broken man?”

“Yes, yes, always a welcome for you,” said Sir Percy, shufflling rapidly away.

Agatha Calkin took the widower's hand.

“I think you will grant us the privilege of a long friendship, and spend the evening with us, and share our simple evening meal? It will be very simple, if you will take us just as we are. We do not make differences for old friends.”

“Mrs. Calkin, if I saw my way to accepting your kindness, I should be grateful to you for not making differences. As things are with me, I will ask your permission to come in to you between the hours of six and seven. It will be all that I can manage, or you bear with.”

“Well, we must be content with what you feel you can give us. I know it needs resolution to come out at all. Believe me, we shall not think little of it.”

“Now, Spong, now,” said Godfrey, “the carriage is here. We shall get you home to us without your having even the effort of knowing it.”

Dominic turned with a look of appreciation of this understanding, and walked slowly to the carriage, while Agatha stood with an expression somehow taken aback by his having a prior engagement.

Harriet came into her hall to greet the guest.

“Mr. Spong, I hope that some day we shall be able to do something in return for this.”

“Lady Haslam,” said Dominic, who had a way of repeating the name of his companion as though in esteem or deference, “I cannot hope ever to see you in my present position. I will only thank you for proving indeed that you are not a fair weather friend.”

“Ah, Spong, I hope you will never be in any doubt on that score,” said his host.

“Sir Godfrey, I am not in doubt.”

Dominic as he spoke was rising slowly to his feet, his
eyes on the daughter of the house, whose hand he took with a smile that buried all personal feelings in a chivalry that came as a matter of course.

“You are well, Miss Griselda?” he said, in a manner implying that in spite of himself his interest was only conscientious.

“Yes, thank you; are you?” said Griselda, with the uneasiness of the occasion.

“I thank you, I am well,” said Dominic, his stress on his thanks rather than his mere bodily health.

“I am dubious about this appearance of my three great sons,” said Harriet. “They make us an overwhelming family party. Will you find them trying for you, Mr. Spong?”

“No,” said Dominic, slowly shaking his head, and offering a hand and a smile to each young man in turn, as he remained in his chair. “No, it is not for me to find young people trying. The question is, Lady Haslam”—he turned with an air of sudden concern—“whether they will find my presence trying?”

“No, no, it is only you we are to think of,” said Harriet.

“Because,” said Dominic, leaning forward in gathering consternation, “I could not allow myself to be a damper on youthful spirits.”

“Now, you need not give a thought to that, Spong,” said Godfrey. “You can be at your ease about that side of things. They all want to think of nothing but how they can fit themselves in with your spirit of to-day. Am I not right, my sons?”

“Yes, certainly, Father,” said Matthew, while Jermyn's glance at his sister resulted in a tremble of hysterical sound, and Dominic's half-smile told of a sympathy with her natural preoccupations, that would normally have resulted in a whole one.

“Well, now, Spong,” said Godfrey, “and what will you be doing in these next months? I mean, how will you be managing in your spare time? You won't misunderstand an old friend's concern?”

“Sir Godfrey, I shall have my work. There is much in it happily that tends to the benefit of others, and so to the steadying of my own spirits. As for spare time, I must do my best to avoid it.” He had the stoicism to smile.

“You are of a good heart and a good courage, Spong,” said Geoffrey, content, as often, with an approach to scriptural phrase.

“Do you find that your research work continues to hold your interest, Matthew?” said Dominic, sinking himself in another.

“Yes, I do completely,” said Matthew.

“You find it satisfying?” said Dominic, aware of Harriet's feeling, and ranged on the side of power.

“Yes,” said Matthew. “It is like your work, and tends to the benefit of others; I should say to their ultimate benefit.”

“Perhaps rather ultimate, Lady Haslam,” said Dominic with an arch smile at Harriet, his general subdued condition not extending to his intercourse with the young.

“The risk of achieving nothing may be involved in the effort to achieve something,” said Harriet.

“Yes,” said Dominic, his smile becoming tender.

“Well put, my dear, “said Godfrey, with a note of surprise.

“Do you find that you slip into the minds of your clients when you are dealing with them, or that you hate them?” Gregory asked him with gentle interest.

“I certainly do not find that I hate them, Gregory. Of course my work brings me into contact at times with the sordid side of humanity. But there is much to compensate, much beauty of character, much heroic effort, much sacrifice of self. All things come together in the life I have chosen.”

“Isn't it very dreadful to see sacrifice of self?” said Griselda.

“Miss Griselda, sometimes very beautiful.”

“It seems rather ruthless to be a satisfied spectator,” said Jermyn.

“Well, Jermyn, and are you still wrapped up in your poetry?” said Dominic, reminded of Jermyn's tendencies by his own high words, and visiting his speech in his choice of phrase.

“Yes, wrapped up in it, absorbed in it, utterly engrossed in it to the exclusion of all juster claims.”

“Oh, well, Jermyn, moderation in all things,” said Dominic. “But it must be very beautiful, Jermyn, to go wandering about on the moors, notebook in hand, and jot down any little poetic thoughts”—Dominic made a waving movement with his hand— “that come to the mind with the beauty of everything around. To go roaming hither and thither, with nothing to do but let the fancies crowd through one's brain. If the real business of life had not claimed me, if I had not been vowed upon a somewhat sterner altar, I should have been happy to take my share in the more graceful side of life.”

“Original verse must make more demand than professional work,” said Matthew, who did not cope with the problem of Dominic.

“Matthew means writing poetry seriously like a real poet,” said Griselda.

“Miss Griselda, I was not speaking of writing poetry seriously like a real poet. I am not confusing myself with Tennyson,” said Dominic, ending with mild laughter.

“Oh well, but Jermyn thinks of himself in that way. That is Jermyn's spirit,” said Godfrey, not estimating his rashness. “He doesn't put himself down as some amateur poet, wandering about jotting things down, not Jermyn. He is to be one of those who are looked up to by future generations. And I for one believe that he will be.”

“Ah, Jermyn, I have not been treating you with due respect. But, Jermyn, you will let an old friend say it? You must remember that to that position many are called, but few chosen.”

“Yes, that is so indeed,” said Jermyn, taken aback by this soundness.

Dominic rose as if his message were delivered.

“Lady Haslam, I have appreciated an hour that has brought home to me that family peace and unity still exist, in a world that I must not misjudge because it is emptied of them for me. I thank you.”

“Now, Spong, give a thought to us sometimes,” said Godfrey. “Come and spend a few hours at any moment, if you find your spirits sinking. We should take it as a kindness to us from you. We ask you to do us that kindness.”

“Sir Godfrey, I have already done it to you. Miss Griselda, I thank you for enough in thanking you for your presence. And, Matthew, I hope you did not misunderstand me in my attitude towards your work. I have the greatest reverence for the things of the intellect. But pride of intellect is a different thing, and leads into many stony ways. Thank you, Matthew, for your hospitality this afternoon.” Dominic's manner recognised Matthew as the eldest son. “And, Jermyn, I hope some day to join you in your ramblings, and enrich my own notebook with the reflections that come to us in our communion with Nature. And, Gregory, my boy, if I may still call you a boy, I will say to you that it is a pleasure still to have a boy to say good-bye to.”

He went to the door, his back somehow conveying a feeling that he had shown himself rather conversible for his situation.

“Don't be in a hurry, Spong; we will have the carriage in a minute,” said Godfrey.

“I have yet to respond, Sir Godfrey,” said Dominic, turning mechanically, “to another offer of kindness. Mrs. Calkin prevailed upon me to spend an hour at her house, and the distance is too short for me to be dependent upon your consideration.”

“Well, we will send the carriage to wait for you at her gate. Then we need not keep you at the moment, as her house is only half a mile away.”

Dominic paused in a dazed manner, and passed from the house. When out of sight he steadied his gait, but imperceptibly, as if in deference to himself.

Agatha Calkin came to her door to welcome him. “We have a great appreciation of your feeling you could come to us this afternoon. I hope you found it fitted in with your visit to the Haslams. You have been spending a little while with them, have you not?”

“Mrs. Calkin, I am moved by the willingness, nay, the eagerness, shown by my friends to bear with my company to-day. I was touched by your word, appreciation, as I came in.”

“Well, come into the drawing-room and make yourself quite at home. My sisters are waiting for you, but I felt I must come and let you in myself.”

“Mrs. Calkin, I trust I shall not discover myself ungrateful.”

“I hope you will. Gratitude is a strain at any time, and just now would surely be your end,” said Kate.

“You must expect us all to be grateful to you for not making yourself a burden,” said Geraldine. “I have always been the most! impossible burden at my times of stress, utterly unable to raise myself from the depths.”

“Miss Dabis, it has no doubt been much for a woman's strength.”

“I have been saying that I felt I must go to the door to him myself,” said Agatha.

Geraldine raised her eyebrows in perplexity over this advantage.

“I feel sure you could do with a second cup of tea, Mr. Spong,” Agatha went on. “You will have to eat in the next few days by being taken unawares.” She paused at his side after taking him his cup. “I can feel so especially for you in your great loss. It is not so many years since I had to face the same myself.”

“Mrs. Calkin, I can only emulate your courage.”

“I cannot offer any courage as an example,” said Geraldine.
“I can only remember writhing in darkness.”

“There is the loss that no one knows who has not suffered it,” said Agatha.

“All our troubles have been as nothing!” said Geraldine.

“No, no,” said Agatha, “indeed not that. But not the one loss of all losses.”

“It makes one more and more thankful one has not married,” said Geraldine. “I have not realised quite how much reason I had for gratitude.”

“Miss Dabis, it is not a reason for gratitude for someone else,” said Dominic.

“As we are talking of marriage, can't we talk of the break-up of the Bellamys' marriage?” said Kate. “We are supposed to behave in a natural way with people in trouble, and it is very unnatural not to be talking of it.”

“Miss Kate, do not let me prevent you,” said Dominic earnestly.

“That is putting it in a much safer way. Agatha and Geraldine, do not let Mr. Spong and me prevent you.”

“It is so strange to me,” said Agatha, embarking simply on her own treatment of the subject, “that people who have had the great experience of coming together, and sharing the first deep events of married life, can break it all up as if it were a trivial, passing relationship. I have nothing in me that helps me to understand it.”

“You can look at the things without you,” said Geraldine. “There are plenty of illuminating illustrations about.”

“Miss Dabis, I do not think there are plenty,” said Dominic in a grieved and dubious tone.

“I was only thinking casually of the instances that rose to my mind,” said Geraldine, her voice as casual as her thought.

“Was Lady Haslam upset by the news from the rectory?” said Agatha.

“I can hardly say,” said Dominic. “I was not present at the breaking of it to her. She can scarcely not have been aware of it, but we did not carry on conversation on that
line. I rose to go very soon. With your permission, Mrs. Calkin, I will now take my leave of you, with thanks to you for the words we have exchanged. Miss Dabis, Miss Kate, you will allow me to make my adieux.” He seemed to find a fitness in the frivolous phrase. “I hope that when things are easier with me, I shall have the pleasure of welcoming you all under my roof, if you will tolerate my being, as I shall be, forced to dispense my hospitality myself.”