‘Hilda, what shall we do about it?’
Hilda hesitated a minute before speaking. She had heard the appeal in his voice. She knew how dependent he was upon her-had always been ever since their marriage-knew that she could probably influence his decision finally and decisively. But for just that reason she was chary of pronouncing anything too final.
She said, and her voice had the calm, soothing quality that can be heard in the voice of an experienced nannie in a nursery:
‘It depends on how you feel about it, David.’
A broad woman, Hilda, not beautiful, but with a certain magnetic quality. Something about her like a Dutch picture. Something warming and endearing in the sound of her voice. Something strong about her-the vital hidden strength that appeals to weakness. An over-stout dumpy middle-aged woman-not clever-not brilliant-but withsomething about her that you couldn’t pass over. Force! Hilda Lee had force!
David got up and began pacing up and down. His hair was practically untouched by grey. He was strangely boyish-looking. His face had the mild quality of a Burne Jones knight. It was, somehow, not very real…
He said, and his voice was wistfuclass="underline"
‘You know how I feel about it, Hilda. You must.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But I’ve told you-I’ve told you again and again! How I hate it all-the house and the country round and everything! It brings back nothing but misery. I hated every moment that I spent there! When I think of it-of all thatshe suffered-my mother…’
His wife nodded sympathetically.
‘She was so sweet, Hilda, and so patient. Lying there, often in pain, but bearing it-enduring everything. And when I think of my father’-his face darkened-‘bringing all that misery into her life-humiliating her-boasting of his love affairs-constantly unfaithful to her and never troubling to conceal it.’
Hilda Lee said:
‘She should not have put up with it. She should have left him.’
He said with a touch of reproof:
‘She was too good to do that. She thought it was her duty to remain. Besides, it was her home-where else should she go?’
‘She could have made a life of her own.’
David said fretfully:
‘Not in those days! You don’t understand. Women didn’t behave like that. They put up with things. They endured patiently. She had us to consider. Even if she divorced my father, what would have happened? He would probably have married again. There might have been a second family.Our interests might have gone to the wall. She had to think of all those considerations.’
Hilda did not answer.
David went on:
‘No, she did right. She was a saint! She endured to the end-uncomplainingly.’
Hilda said, ‘Not quite uncomplainingly or you would not know so much, David!’
He said softly, his face lighting up:
‘Yes-she told me things-She knew how I loved her. When she died-’
He stopped. He ran his hands through his hair.
‘Hilda, it was awful-horrible! The desolation! She was quite young still, sheneedn’t have died.He killed her-my father! He was responsible for her dying. He broke her heart. I decided then that I’d not go on living under his roof. I broke away-got away from it all.’
Hilda nodded.
‘You were very wise,’ she said. ‘It was the right thing to do.’
David said:
‘Father wanted me to go into the works. That would have meant living at home. I couldn’t have stood that. I can’t think how Alfred stands it-how he has stood it all these years.’
‘Did he never rebel against it?’ asked Hilda with some interest. ‘I thought you told me something about his having given up some other career.’
David nodded.
‘Alfred was going into the army. Father arranged it all. Alfred, the eldest, was to go into some cavalry regiment, Harry was to go into the works, so was I. George was to enter politics.’
‘And it didn’t work out like that?’
David shook his head.
‘Harry broke all that up! He was always frightfully wild. Got into debt-and all sorts of other troubles. Finally he went off one day with several hundred pounds that didn’t belong to him, leaving a note behind him saying an office stool didn’t suit him and he was going to see the world.’
‘And you never heard any more of him?’
‘Oh, yes, we did!’ David laughed. ‘We heard quite often! He was always cabling for money from all over the world. He usually got it too!’
‘And Alfred?’
‘Father made him chuck up the army and come back and go into the works.’
‘Did he mind?’
‘Very much to begin with. He hated it. But Father could always twist Alfred round his little finger. He’s absolutely under Father’s thumb still, I believe.’
‘And you-escaped!’ said Hilda.
‘Yes. I went to London and studied painting. Father told me plainly that if I went off on a fool’s errand like that I’d get a small allowance from him during his lifetime and nothing when he died. I said I didn’t care. He called me a young fool, and that was that! I’ve never seen him since.’
Hilda said gently:
‘And you haven’t regretted it?’
‘No, indeed. I realize I shan’t ever get anywhere with my art. I shall never be a great artist-but we’re happy enough in this cottage-we’ve got everything we want-all the essentials. And if I die, well, my life’s insured for you.’
He paused and then said:
‘And now-this!’
He struck the letter with his open hand.
‘I am sorry your father ever wrote that letter, if it upsets you so much,’ said Hilda.
David went on as though he had not heard her.
‘Asking me to bring my wife for Christmas, expressing a hope that we may be all together for Christmas; a united family! What can it mean?’
Hilda said:
‘Need it mean anything more than it says?’
He looked at her questioningly.
‘I mean,’ she said, smiling, ‘that your father is growing old. He’s beginning to feel sentimental about family ties. That does happen, you know.’
‘I suppose it does,’ said David slowly.
‘He’s an old man and he’s lonely.’
He gave her a quick look.
‘You want me to go, don’t you, Hilda?’
She said slowly:
‘It seems a pity-not to answer an appeal. I’m old-fashioned, I dare say, but why not have peace and goodwill at Christmas time?’
‘After all I’ve told you?’
‘I know, dear, I know. But all that’s in thepast. It’s all done and finished with.’
‘Not for me.’
‘No,because you won’t let it die. You keep the past alive in your own mind.’
‘I can’t forget.’
‘Youwon’t forget-that’s what you mean, David.’
His mouth set in a firm line.
‘We’re like that, we Lees. We remember things for years-brood about them, keep memory green.’
Hilda said with a touch of impatience:
‘Is that anything to be proud of? I do not think so!’
He looked thoughtfully at her, a touch of reserve in his manner.
He said: ‘You don’t attach much value to loyalty, then-loyalty to a memory?’
Hilda said:
‘I believe thepresent matters-not the past! The past must go. If we seek to keep the past alive, we end, I think, bydistorting it. We see it in exaggerated terms-a false perspective.’
‘I can remember every word and every incident of those days perfectly,’ said David passionately.
‘Yes, but youshouldn’t, my dear! It isn’t natural to do so! You’re applying the judgment of a boy to those days instead of looking back on them with the more temperate outlook of a man.’
‘What difference would that make?’ demanded David.
Hilda hesitated. She was aware of unwisdom in going on, and yet there were things she badly wanted to say.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you’re seeing your father as abogy! Probably, if you were to see him now, you would realize that he was only a very ordinary man; a man, perhaps, whose passions ran away with him, a man whose life was far from blameless, but nevertheless merely aman -not a kind of inhuman monster!’
‘You don’t understand! His treatment of my mother-’
Hilda said gravely:
‘There is a certain kind of meekness-of submission- brings out the worst in a man-whereas that same man, faced by spirit and determination, might be a different creature!’
‘So you say it was her fault-’
Hilda interrupted him.
‘No, of course I don’t! I’ve no doubt your father treated your mother very badly indeed, but marriage is an extraordinary thing-and I doubt if any outsider-even a child of the marriage-has the right to judge. Besides, all this resentment on your part now cannot help your mother. It is allgone -it is behind you! What is left now is an old man, in feeble health, asking his son to come home for Christmas.’