If she could talk to somebody about it—But you couldn’t talk to Mamma; she would only pretend that she hadn’t been thinking about Aunt Charlotte at all. If Mark had been there—But Mark wasn’t there, and Dan would only call you a little fool. Aunt Lavvy? She would tell you to love God. Even Aunt Charlotte could tell you that.
She could see Aunt Charlotte sitting up in the big white bed and saying “Love God and you’ll be happy,” as she scribbled letters to Mr. Marriott and hid them under the bedclothes.
Uncle Victor? Uncle Victor was afraid himself.
Dr. Charles—He looked at you as he used to look at Roddy. Perhaps he knew about Aunt Charlotte and wondered whether you would go like her. Or, if he didn’t wonder, he would only give you the iron pills and arsenic he gave to Dorsy.
Mrs. Sutcliffe? You couldn’t tell a thing like that to Mrs. Sutcliffe. She wouldn’t know what you were talking about; or if she did know she would gather herself up, spiritually, in her shawl, and trail away.
Mr. Sutcliffe—He would know. If you could tell him. You might take back Maudsley and Ribot and ask him if he knew anything about heredity, and what he thought of it.
She went to him one Wednesday afternoon. He was always at home on Wednesday afternoons. She knew how it would be. Mrs. Sutcliffe would be shut up in the dining-room with the sewing-party. You would go in. You would knock at the library door. He would be there by himself, in the big armchair, smoking and reading; the small armchair would be waiting for you on the other side of the fireplace. He would be looking rather old and tired, and when he saw you he would jump up and pull himself together and be young again.
The library door closed softly. She was in the room before he saw her.
He was older and more tired than you could have believed. He stooped in his chair; his long hands rested on his knees, slackly, as they had dropped there. Grey streaks in the curly lock of hair that would fall forward and be a whisker.
His mouth had tightened and hardened. It held out; it refused to become old and tired.
“It’s Mary,” she said.
“My dear—”
He dragged himself to his feet, making his body very straight and stiff. His eyes glistened; but they didn’t smile. Only his eyelids and his mouth smiled. His eyes were different, their blue was shrunk and flattened and drawn back behind the lense.
When he moved, pushing forward the small armchair, she saw how lean and stiff he was.
“I’ve been ill,” he said.
“Oh—!”
“I’m all right now.”
“No. You oughtn’t to have come back from Agaye.”
“I never do what I ought, Mary.”
She remembered how beautiful and strong he used to be, when he danced and when he played tennis, and when he walked up and down the hills. His beauty and his strength had never moved her to anything but a happy, tranquil admiration. She remembered how she had seen Maurice Jourdain tired and old (at thirty-three), and how she had been afraid to look at him. She wondered, “Was that my fault, or his? If I’d cared should I have minded? If I cared for Mr. Sutcliffe I wouldn’t mind his growing tired and old. The tireder and older he was the more I’d care.”
Somehow you couldn’t imagine Lindley Vickers growing old and tired.
She gave him back the books: Ribot’s Heredity and Maudsley’s Physiology and Pathology of Mind. He held them in his long, thin hands, reading the titles. His strange eyes looked at her over the tops of the bindings. He smiled.
“When did you order these, Mary?”
“In October.”
“That’s the sort of thing you do when I’m away, is it?”
“Yes—I’m afraid you won’t care for them very much.”
He still stood up, examining the books. He was dipping into Maudsley now and reading him.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve read this horrible stuff?”
“Every word of it. I had to.”
“You had to?”
“I wanted to know about heredity.”
“And insanity?”
“That’s part of it. I wanted to see if there was anything in it. Heredity, I mean. Do you think there is?”
She kept her eyes on him. He was still smiling.
“My dear child, you know as much as I do. Why are you worrying your poor little head about madness?”
“Because I can’t help thinking I may go mad.”
“I should think the same if I read Maudsley. I shouldn’t be quite sure whether I was a general paralytic or an epileptic homicide.”
“You see—I’m not afraid because I’ve been reading him; I’ve been reading him because I was afraid. Not even afraid, exactly. As a matter of fact while you’re reading about it you’re so interested that you forget about yourself. It’s only when you’ve finished that you wonder.”
“What makes you wonder?”
He threw Maudsley aside and sat down in the big armchair.
“That’s just what I don’t think I can tell you.”
“You used to tell me things, Mary. I remember a little girl with short hair who asked me whether cutting off her hair would make me stop caring for her.”
“Not you caring for me.”
“Precisely. So, if you can’t tell me who can you tell?”
“Nobody.”
“Come, then. … Is it because of your father? Or Dan?”
She thought: “After all, I can tell him.”
“No. Not exactly. But it’s somebody. One of Papa’s sisters—Aunt Charlotte. You see. Mamma seems to think I’m rather like her.”
“Does Aunt Charlotte read Kant and Hegel and Schopenhauer, to find out whether the Thing-in-itself is mind or matter? Does she read Maudsley and Ribot to find out what’s the matter with her mind?”
“I don’t think she ever read anything.”
“What did she do?”
“Well—she doesn’t seem to have done much but fall in love with people.”
“She’d have been a very abnormal lady if she’d never fallen in love at all, Mary.”
“Yes; but then she used to think people were in love with her when they weren’t.”
“How old is Aunt Charlotte?”
“She must be ages over fifty
