“And much of it has been most interesting, though I don’t understand everything. Did you never think of the disparity of their social position?”
“We were mad—drunk with rebellion. We had no common sense. As soon as you came, you saw and foresaw everything.”
“Oh, I don’t think that.” He was vaguely displeased at being credited with common sense. For a moment Miss Abbott had seemed to him more unconventional than himself.
“I hope you see,” she concluded, “why I have troubled you with this long story. Women—I heard you say the other day—are never at ease till they tell their faults out loud. Lilia is dead and her husband gone to the bad—all through me. You see, Mr. Herriton, it makes me specially unhappy; it’s the only time I’ve ever gone into what my father calls ‘real life’—and look what I’ve made of it! All that winter I seemed to be waking up to beauty and splendour and I don’t know what; and when the spring came, I wanted to fight against the things I hated—mediocrity and dullness and spitefulness and society. I actually hated society for a day or two at Monteriano. I didn’t see that all these things are invincible, and that if we go against them they will break us to pieces. Thank you for listening to so much nonsense.”
“Oh, I quite sympathize with what you say,” said Philip encouragingly; “it isn’t nonsense, and a year or two ago I should have been saying it too. But I feel differently now, and I hope that you also will change. Society is invincible—to a certain degree. But your real life is your own, and nothing can touch it. There is no power on earth that can prevent your criticizing and despising mediocrity—nothing that can stop you retreating into splendour and beauty—into the thoughts and beliefs that make the real life—the real you.”
“I have never had that experience yet. Surely I and my life must be where I live.”
Evidently she had the usual feminine incapacity for grasping philosophy. But she had developed quite a personality, and he must see more of her. “There is another great consolation against invincible mediocrity,” he said—“the meeting a fellow victim. I hope that this is only the first of many discussions that we shall have together.”
She made a suitable reply. The train reached Charing Cross, and they parted—he to go to a matinee, she to buy petticoats for the corpulent poor. Her thoughts wandered as she bought them: the gulf between herself and Mr. Herriton, which she had always known to be great, now seemed to her immeasurable.
These events and conversations took place at Christmastime. The New Life initiated by them lasted some seven months. Then a little incident—a mere little vexatious incident—brought it to its close.
Irma collected picture postcards, and Mrs. Herriton or Harriet always glanced first at all that came, lest the child should get hold of something vulgar. On this occasion the subject seemed perfectly inoffensive—a lot of ruined factory chimneys—and Harriet was about to hand it to her niece when her eye was caught by the words on the margin. She gave a shriek and flung the card into the grate. Of course no fire was alight in July, and Irma only had to run and pick it out again.
“How dare you!” screamed her aunt. “You wicked girl! Give it here!”
Unfortunately Mrs. Herriton was out of the room. Irma, who was not in awe of Harriet, danced round the table, reading as she did so, “View of the superb city of Monteriano—from your lital brother.”
Stupid Harriet caught her, boxed her ears, and tore the postcard into fragments. Irma howled with pain, and began shouting indignantly, “Who is my little brother? Why have I never heard of him before? Grandmamma! Grandmamma! Who is my little brother? Who is my—”
Mrs. Herriton swept into the room, saying, “Come with me, dear, and I will tell you. Now it is time for you to know.”
Irma returned from the interview sobbing, though, as a matter of fact, she had learnt very little. But that little took hold of her imagination. She had promised secrecy—she knew not why. But what harm in talking of the little brother to those who had heard of him already?
“Aunt Harriet!” she would say. “Uncle Phil! Grandmamma! What do you suppose my little brother is doing now? Has he begun to play? Do Italian babies talk sooner than us, or would he be an English baby born abroad? Oh, I do long to see him, and be the first to teach him the Ten Commandments and the Catechism.”
The last remark always made Harriet look grave.
“Really,” exclaimed Mrs. Herriton, “Irma is getting too tiresome. She forgot poor Lilia soon enough.”
“A living brother is more to her than a dead mother,” said Philip dreamily. “She can knit him socks.”
“I stopped that. She is bringing him in everywhere. It is most vexatious. The other night she asked if she might include him in the people she mentions specially in her prayers.”
“What did you say?”
“Of course I allowed her,” she replied coldly. “She has a right to mention anyone she chooses. But I was annoyed with her this morning, and I fear that I showed it.”
“And what happened this morning?”
“She asked if she could pray for her ‘new father’—for the Italian!”
“Did you let her?”
“I got up without saying anything.”
“You must have felt just as you did when I wanted to pray for the devil.”
“He is the devil,” cried Harriet.
“No, Harriet; he is too vulgar.”
“I will thank you not to
