afternoon.
Ralph was fond of his sister, and her irritation made him think how unfair it was that all these burdens should be laid on her shoulders.
‘The truth is,’ he observed gloomily, ‘that I ought to have accepted Uncle John’s offer. I should have been making six hundred a year by this time.’
‘I don’t think that for a moment,’ Joan replied quickly, repenting of her annoyance. ‘The question, to my mind, is, whether we couldn’t cut down our expenses in some way.’
A smaller house?’
‘Fewer servants, perhaps.’
Neither brother nor sister spoke with much conviction, and after reflecting for a moment what these proposed reforms in a strictly economical household meant, Ralph announced very decidedly:
‘It’s out of the question.’
It was out of the question that she should put any more household work upon herself. No, the hardship must fall on him, for he was determined that his family should have as many chances of distinguishing themselves as other families had—as the Hilberys had, for example. He believed secretly and rather defiantly, for it was a fact not capable of proof, that there was something very remarkable about his family.
‘If mother won’t run risks—’
‘You really can’t expect her to sell out again.’
‘She ought to look upon it as an investment; but if she won’t, we must find some other way, that’s all.’
A threat was contained in this sentence, and Joan knew, without asking, what the threat was. In the course of his professional life, which now extended over six or seven years, Ralph had saved, perhaps, three or four hundred pounds. Considering the sacrifices he had made in order to put by this sum it always amazed Joan to find that he used it to gamble with, buying shares and selling them again, increasing it sometimes, sometimes diminishing it, and always running the risk of losing every penny of it in a day’s disaster. But although she wondered, she could not help loving him the better for his odd combination of Spartan self-control and what appeared to her romantic and childish folly. Ralph interested her more than any one else in the world, and she often broke off in the middle of one of these economic discussions, in spite of their gravity, to consider some fresh aspect of his character.
‘I think you’d be foolish to risk your money on poor old Charles,’ she observed. ‘Fond as I am of him, he doesn’t seem to me exactly brilliant... Besides, why should you be sacrificed?’
‘My dear Joan,’ Ralph exclaimed, stretching himself out with a gesture of impatience, ‘don’t you see that we’ve all got to be sacrificed? What’s the use of denying it? What’s the use of struggling against it? So it always has been, so it always will be. We’ve got no money and we never shall have any money. We shall just turn round in the mill every day of our lives until we drop and die, worn out, as most people do, when one comes to think of it.’
Joan looked at him, opened her lips as if to speak, and closed them again. Then she said, very tentatively:
‘Aren’t you happy, Ralph?’
‘No. Are you? Perhaps I’m as happy as most people, though. God knows whether I’m happy or not. What is happiness?’1
He glanced with half a smile, in spite of his gloomy irritation, at his sister. She looked, as usual, as if she were weighing one thing with another, and balancing them together before she made up her mind.
‘Happiness,’ she remarked at length enigmatically, rather as if she were sampling the word, and then she paused. She paused for a considerable space, as if she were considering happiness in all its bearings. ‘Hilda was here to-day,’ she suddenly resumed, as if they had never mentioned happiness. ‘She brought Bobbie—he’s a fine boy now.’ Ralph observed, with an amusement that had a tinge of irony in it, that she was now going to sidle away quickly from this dangerous approach to intimacy on to topics of general and family interest. Nevertheless, he reflected, she was the only one of his family with whom he found it possible to discuss happiness, although he might very well have discussed happiness with Miss Hilbery at their first meeting. He looked critically at Joan, and wished that she did not look so provincial or suburban in her high green dress with the faded trimming, so patient, and almost resigned. He began to wish to tell her about the Hilberys in order to abuse them, for in the miniature battle which so often rages between two quickly following impressions of life, the life of the Hilberys was getting the better of the life of the Denhams in his mind, and he wanted to assure himself that there was some quality in which Joan infinitely surpassed Miss Hilbery. He should have felt that his own sister was more original, and had greater vitality than Miss Hilbery had; but his main impression of Katharine now was of a person of great vitality and composure; and at the moment he could not perceive what poor dear Joan had gained from the fact that she was the granddaughter of a man who kept a shop, and herself earned her own living. The infinite dreariness and sordidness of their life oppressed him in spite of his fundamental belief that, as a family, they were somehow remarkable.
‘Shall you talk to mother?’ Joan inquired. ‘Because, you see, the thing’s got to be settled, one way or another. Charles must write to Uncle John if he’s going there.’
Ralph sighed impatiently.
‘I suppose it doesn’t much matter either way,’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s doomed to misery in the long run.’
A slight flush came into Joan’s cheek.
‘You know you’re talking nonsense,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t hurt any one to have to earn their own living. I’m very glad I have to earn mine.’
Ralph was pleased that she should feel this, and wished her to continue, but he went on, perversely enough,
‘Isn’t that only because you’ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself? You never have time for anything decent ’
‘As for instance?’
‘Well, going for walks, or music, or books, or seeing interesting people. You never do anything that’s really worth doing any more than I do.’
‘I always think you could make this room much nicer, if you liked,’ she observed.
