“Well, well, it is the same thing,” said Herrick. “The one is a condensed form of the other. Patience contains more impatience than anything else, as I judge.”
“You judge well,” said Bumpus.
“How profound you are, Nicholas!” said Emily. “I have always thought that. Though I have never known that I thought it. Think how it is with everything; how tolerance, for example, is only condensed intolerance, and how it holds more intolerance than anything else. It is just a case for intolerance to be kept in. And think how religion holds more dislike of religion than anything else!”
“Now, Uncle Peter, put them right,” said Francis.
“Well, well, I think myself,” said Mr. Fletcher, “that the old, simple views are the right ones; that patience is as far as can be from impatience, tolerance from intolerance, in a word, good from bad. I think we all think that.”
“Yes, I think we do,” said Delia, gravely.
“I do not think so,” said Emily. “I think that good is bad condensed. I think so, because my brother has told me so. I think a woman ought to think what the men of her family think. You think that too, do you not, Francis? It is right of me to think that good is bad condensed, and holds more bad than anything else, when my brother thinks so, isn’t it?”
“Ah! Miss Herrick,” said Francis, slowly shaking his head.
“Mother, you are not eating,” said Mr. Merry.
“Look, what is that?” said Herrick, hurriedly, pointing to a brooch which Miss Lydia wore. “A most curious thing! A most beautiful piece of old work! Let me see it. Be so very kind to me as to take it off, and pass it to me. Yes; a most exquisite thing of art, a possession for whoever owns it.”
“Oh, my brooch! Yes, I am very fond of my brooch. My dear brooch, that was given me by my sailor-man, who came back to me, so shy and awkward, dear, nice thing, to tell me that he had thought of me! Oh, I would not part with my brooch.”
“How beautiful it must be to have sailor-men and brooches, and not feel that one’s deathbed must be so remorseful!” said Emily.
“Ah, they are my children,” said Miss Lydia.
“You have no children, have you, Mr. Fletcher?” said Delia, smiling.
“Not living,” said Mr. Fletcher. “We have had two sons.”
Theresa gazed fiercely in front of her.
“Yes, there is not much good in rearing up children, when they are to be killed off one by one.”
“It is the valuable lives that must be used,” murmured Miss Lydia. “That is why they are so precious. Ah! how precious they were!”
Mr. Fletcher looked at his women simply with solicitude. He had no thought that strangers might not have the knowledge of them, that a lifetime had given himself.
“Mrs. Fletcher is very sensitive, is she not?” said Delia to Francis.
“Yes, yes, she is,” said Francis. “She is the most sensitive creature. My uncle has had great trouble with her; to save her all that she could be saved, I mean.” Francis hastened to contradict what might be read into his words. “It is a great responsibility to marry a good woman, and find that she is so wrought upon by things.”
“But she has been the very wife for him, I should think?” said Delia.
“Miss Bentley,” said Francis, leaning forward, “she has been an angel to him.”
“Rather a substantial angel,” said Theresa.
“If that quality, Aunt Theresa, is not possible in angels, I am afraid that we can none of us besides Uncle Peter claim to have anything angelic about us,” said Francis.
“Well, well, if we are as well as may be, as men and women, that is enough,” said Mr. Fletcher, implying that certain comparisons were not of a kind to be made.
“Uncle Peter,” said Francis, “I thank you for your rebuke. One is so prone to get into the way of using lightly words that are to be used in a different spirit. Any check on that is very wholesome, and to me, very welcome.”
“I should not have thought that so many perfect people would be allowed to live together in one house,” said Bumpus.
“Yes, we have been allowed to live together for a long time,” said Miss Lydia, her voice dwelling on the agency. “It has been a happy, happy time. But the end of all good things will come. We must look for it. It is that, that makes them so good. But we shall go on being happy. We have all so much work to do.”
“We shall go on being happy, too,” said Miss Basden. “We have plenty of work to do here as well.”
“Yes, you have, Miss Basden,” said Mr. Merry.
“Miss Basden, it is a thing to be so thankful for,” said Francis, his tone correcting possible regret and shame in Miss Basden, in earning her bread.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Herrick. “We all feel that in this house, I am sure. Why, I work from early morning to late at night. And I never take a holiday. I can’t see what people want with holidays myself.”
“What do you say to that, Mr. Burgess?” said Mr. Merry.
“Well, I was expecting that, Mr. Merry. We have discussed that question, and understand each other now on it, I think.”
Mr. Burgess opened the door for the women.
“Mr. Burgess is a beautiful advertisement,” said Emily, as they reached the study. “He shows almost an arrogance. Fancy having that for boys!”
“He has his points,” said Miss Basden.
“You are a martyr, Miss Basden,” said Emily. “The worst of a beautiful advertisement is, that it does need that.”
“Let us talk quickly about servants,” said Mrs. Merry, smiling, “before the men come in.”
“It must be so dreadful to be a servant,” said Emily, “and do the important work of the world. That sort of work, so ill paid and degrading.”
“Well, well, it depends upon others. And women vary so, vary so,” said Miss Lydia.
“Well, I do
