“What would he do if you married?”
“Live with me, I suppose. As a sort of upper husband. And look down on the other one.”
“My dear, if you are going to do it, it should be soon, shouldn’t it? And, as you say, your brother could live with you.”
“You know I did not say it,” said Emily. “And as if Nicholas could really live with me, with somebody else taking some of my attention! You can’t be as unobservant as that. And if I can marry now, I can marry at any time. There is not much dependent on youth left at fifty. And William gets older at the same time. I don’t pretend I don’t understand you. I am not at all commonplace.”
“There is no one else, is there?” said Theresa.
“You should not actually talk to me as the average married woman thinks of a spinster.”
“Do you ever give him a chance?”
“Give William a chance? I see him every day.”
“But alone, dear? So that he is a free man?”
“In the room that Nicholas and I share, with Dickie looking on. Where else could I see him? The boys’ basement dining-room wouldn’t be the right setting for William. But it wouldn’t make any difference. He couldn’t propose to me.”
“Why not?”
“Why, I should think he couldn’t. I haven’t thought about it. I should think it is one of the things he doesn’t do. We all have them.”
“But you could manage yourself, dear. People can,” said Theresa.
“Yes, of course they can. I’ve noticed that. And he would accept me, I am sure. I know he would spare me embarrassment. Dear William!”
“But he wants to marry you, doesn’t he?”
“As much as he can want to marry anyone. Anyone who is a woman. And that is not very much.”
“Oh dear! These dons and people!” said Theresa.
“Yes, it is something of that way. I knew you knew all the time. I might tell you it is that way with me, too. But I shall not tell you any more. Especially as you are ordinary and know it all. I understand now why people sometimes murder people they are known to be fond of. They ought to murder them.”
“Suppose you outlive your brother, dear?”
“Suppose I outlive him! Why of course I shall outlive him. I am twenty years younger than he is; so I mean to live twenty years after him. Don’t you think a woman ought to live, if there isn’t a man making use of her?”
“I thought you might not find things worth while without him. You said he would break up without you. I shouldn’t like to live forever, myself.”
“Yes, so I expect he would,” said Emily. “But then I join him in living for himself. He doesn’t join me in anything like that. I should love to live forever. I don’t wonder that religious people, who can plan things, arrange it like that.”
“No; but you might not miss him the less for that,” said Theresa. “We miss what we give most to, the most.”
“I do not,” said Emily. “I should miss him the less for that. But I should miss him. That is why I want this book to come off, so as to give him a new start of life. And I should live in a nice little house, if he died. Mr. Merry would have the school, and make me an allowance. I might have two sitting-rooms, and I should get so muddled between them. Where could William propose to me then? Though of course the school might not pay without Nicholas. People do admire him so for giving no time to it. It was so clever of him to think of it. Anyone else might have thought it would pay better to give all his time to it.”
“Darby and Joan gossiping together in the dark!” said Miss Lydia. “Gossiping and gossiping away in the dark.”
“Well, the dark can soon be remedied,” said Theresa.
“Yes, yes, it is not incurable,” said Miss Lydia, feeling for matches as one wont and willing to do all to be done. “It is not incurable, that is one thing. Not like the dark in the room I have just been in, a room under some stairs, with no light, and no fire, and some little children. Oh, dear! Something must be done. It must be done. How thankful we ought to be!”
“With a little less, we should be in the dark and cold too,” said Theresa. “You could find people better for preaching thankfulness to.”
“Oh, no. For some people never know how nice it is to help,” said Miss Lydia. “We ought to be so sorry for them. Because it is so nice. It is so nice.”
“Perhaps the people are pretending distress out of kindness to you,” said Theresa.
“No. People are not so difficult in their kindness,” said Emily. “And they wouldn’t guess it was nice.”
“Out of kindness to themselves, then,” said Theresa.
“No, no. Not in this case. No,” said Miss Lydia. “The man has struggled to get work until he is hopeless, just to get work, just that, poor soul! Hopeless and distrustful of everything. He hardly trusted me at first. But he does now, dear fellow. Dear fellow, how he does!”
Miss Lydia went to her desk, and stood with her knuckles on it, her eyes looking into space. The matter seemed not long without light for her; for she hastened towards the door.
“What a good soul she is!” said Mr. Fletcher, smiling, as he came in from seeing Bumpus off in the hall.
“A soul who ought to be good,” said Theresa. “No family, and an income of her own! She could not spend every penny she has on herself.”
“She could not, but there are people who could, my dear.”
“I could,” said Emily. “I do.”
“Well, it is not for us to admire this dropping of driblets,” said Theresa. “We had half we had swallowed at one draught. That was a thing, if you want one.”
“I wish I had
