Hannah's cousin Hilda had developed into a definite person before
Hannah went to bed, but it was just as well to know everything about
her and, when it was all settled, Hannah liked her very much and as
good as believed in her existence. She had some of the characteristics
of the people who used to live in the kitchen cupboard; she would come
out when she was wanted and, in the meantime, it was nice to feel that
she was there, for her own sake as well as for her possible uses, and
as the creator is not satisfied until someone else has seen his work,
so Hannah longed to produce her cousin for inspection. By the time she
had dressed, the next morning, Hilda, that wayward, charming girl,
impulsive, but sound at heart, was woven into the substance of Hannah's
youth and it seemed a pity not to entertain Ruth with stories of their
escapades: there was the time when they were chased by the bull, for
instance, and Hilda had nobly diverted his attention from Hannah, but,
as it happened, Ruth was in no need of entertainment that day, for
she was confronted with an event which demanded all her horrified,
trembling attention.
It was on this day that Howard vanished like a shadow, without a sound,
or like some wild beast slipping into the forest without the snap of a
twig for warning, and in the excitement that followed, the rage, the
bewilderment, the demands for explanations, the grief and tears, Uncle
Jim stood calm and stolid in his certainty that he had done right to
let the animal escape. There was a story Hannah had often heard told
in her childhood about some resident in their countryside--dead before
her time--who had made himself famous and infamous for giving shelter
to a hunted fox and withstanding the clamour of the hounds and the
abuse of the huntsmen, and she thought of him when she looked at Uncle
Jim. But it was hardly fair to compare Robert Corder with a hunter: he
was more like a man who had brought up, and thought he had tamed, some
creature he half despised, yet took a pleasure in having about him, and
he had lost it through the treachery of one of his own household. This,
however, was far too simple a metaphor for a complicated position. He
had been outraged as a father and, as a father, he was responsible for
Howard's scurvy treatment of Mrs. Spenser-Smith. How was he to explain
matters to her and how would she explain them to his congregation?
Was he to repeat his brother-in-law's statement that he had advised
Howard against dealing frankly with his father, had told him it would
be a waste of time and would make bad blood between them, and had
persuaded the boy to take the opening that had been offered to him on
a South African fruit farm and leave his uncle to stand the racket?
Those were Jim's words and Robert Corder was more enraged with him than
with his son. He was genuinely and bitterly hurt by what he saw as a
perverse cruelty, he was shocked at such an estimate of his sympathetic
understanding, but it was inevitable that he should immediately
calculate the impression this extraordinary behaviour would make on
his world, of which the chapel was only a part. If he owned to a bad
son, there would be people ready enough to imply that the father was to
blame, yet with what other story was he to approach Mrs. Spenser-Smith?
He could not conscientiously take the fault on himself, but when he
rehearsed what he should say to her, his pride, and perhaps his love,
forbade him to show her the picture of Howard which he saw himself.
He tried to shut his mind against the things Jim had told him quietly,
as though they were accepted facts, unjust things about his character
and his treatment of Howard and his incapacity to see another person's
point of view. He had said, in so many words, that if the boy was to
escape from the net Mrs. Spenser-Smith and his father had spun for
him, it must be done on the instant, with a sudden break: he would
never have been able to disentangle himself gradually from reproaches
of ingratitude and that gentle bullying of which he had had too much.
He would have stayed where he was rather than have struggled without
dignity, but he had gone and Robert must make the best of it. It was
bad now, but it would be better later on, and when the two met again
they would find themselves feeling more kindly towards each other than
they had ever done before.
It is difficult to quarrel with a man who refuses to be ruffled, but
Robert Corder managed to do it with the man who was quietly insulting
him, as the anxious listeners in the next room could tell, and at the
end of this angry eloquence, Jim suggested, still mildly, that Robert
might like to pay back what Mrs. Spenser-Smith had spent on Howard and,
if so, he would let him have the money. He was willing to pay for his
undertaking, he was glad to buy the boy what he wanted, what all the
Erleys wanted, he added, and Robert, angry, resentful, in a quandary
about this money business, and foreseeing his own compliance, was
still curious enough to ask, unwillingly, what it was that the Erleys
wanted. Uncle Jim became less articulate when his own feelings were in
question. He mumbled that it was what had sent him to sea, and made his
sister feel like a hen in a coop.
Robert Corder repeated these last words, slowly, as though he could not
understand them, and then, realising their cruel import, he struck his
desk a hard blow so that Mrs. Corder's silver-framed photograph let
out a little jingle, like laughter, and: 'You can leave my house!' he
cried, in a great voice. 'You're trying to take my wife from me now!'
'Don't be a fool, Bob. I'm not saying she wasn't fond of you, but she
was cramped. I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings, but I still think
I've done right--and what she would have wanted me to do.'
He left the room but he had no intention of leaving the house
immediately. In his experience, the man who shouted his commands was
not the one who expected them to be obeyed, and though he had enough
imagination to divine the needs of those he loved--and his sister's
children were dear to him for her sake--he could not picture the real
distress of Robert Corder whose imaginative powers were concentrated
on himself. His son! His wife! Mrs. Spenser-Smith and the chapel! The
fellow members of his committees, who all knew he had a son at Oxford!
The ingratitude and cowardliness of Howard! And how could his wife have
been cramped when she shared her husband's life? Yet he thought of her
strange visits to Mr. Samson and he knew he had consistently sneered
at Howard. He admitted that he was not perfect: no doubt he had made
mistakes, but, where his wife was concerned, he could see none, and he
felt a slight, unconfessed easing of his duty towards the dead.
His thoughts were too tumultuous, too painful and too sad for
clearness. He was more unhappy than he had ever been before, and
neither of his daughters had offered him a word of comfort, but already
he was adapting himself to new conditions, hearing his own remarks and
seeing himself as he went about his work with undiminished spirit,
disappointed but tolerant, and gradually acknowledging that Howard
had been right and quoting extracts from his letters. But it was very
lonely in the study that night, and when Miss Mole came in with his
tea he was glad to see her, but he thought of Miss Patsy Withers who
would have been tenderly indignant for him and more helpful in her
tearfulness and her pity than Miss Mole, with her swift, sure movements
and her matter-of-fact face.
'I've cut you some sandwiches,' she said, 'as you didn't have much
supper.'
'That is very kind.'
'And I hope you'll eat them.' She was pouring out his tea and
remembering that he liked one big and one small lump of sugar.
'This is a bad business, Miss Mole,' he said.
'Yes,' she agreed. She was, indeed, sorry for him and thought he had
been unfairly treated. She was sorry for Howard too, for Ethel and for
Ruth: she was suffering the discomfort of seeing everybody's point of
view and the impatience of considering it all unnecessary. 'But when
you think of the sun and the moon and the stars--'
'What have they to do with it?'
'Nobody knows,' she replied, 'but they do make our affairs seem
rather small beer, don't they? And if you compare infinity--whatever
that is--with three weeks, for in about three weeks all this will be
forgotten--'
'I shall never forget it,' he said, his head in his hands.
'No, but other people will, and that's what really matters. That's our
weakness--and our strength. There's no shame,' she said, as though to
herself, 'no disappointment, no disillusionment, we can't bear if we
can keep it to ourselves. It's the beastly curiosity and the beastly
speculations of other people that get one on the raw. But no,' she
was faithful to her creed, 'it's not beastly. It's natural. I'd do it
myself.'
'Then,' he said, forgetting, in the relief of speech, to be superior,
'you can understand how I feel.'
'I do!' she cried, and he said sadly, from the depths of an experience
denied to her. 'But no. You are not a parent, Miss Mole.'
She gave him one of her sidelong glances. 'You take a good deal for
granted,' she said, trying to control the upward tilt of her lips. 'But
you happen to be right,' she went on with a calmness which left him
displeased, but dumb. 'I'm not a parent. I'm not a minister, either,
or a son, and yet, somehow.... Please eat these sandwiches. Minced ham
and turkey. They're very good. And it isn't so difficult for you as it
seems.' She spoke to him quietly, as though she persuaded a child to
its good. 'Your son had a sudden offer in South Africa, an out-of-door
life is really what he is fitted for, he had to take it or leave it,
so he cabled his reply and went off at once and there was no time for
explanations.'
'So that was what cost fifteen shillings,' Robert Corder muttered.
'And Mrs. Spenser-Smith, who has been so generous?'
'I should tell her as much of the truth as is good for her--and you.
That's only fair to yourself.'
'I shall pay back the money!' he said loudly and with determination.
'Then she can't complain, and I don't believe she will. Good night, Mr.
Corder.'
'Good night, Miss Mole.'
This time, he did not call her back, but she returned. She stood
with her hands clasped in front of her, smiling timidly and looking
pleasingly diffident, and more like his idea of what a woman should be
than he had ever seen her.
'I wonder ...' she began, and he said briskly, with a defensive caution
at the back of his mind. 'Well, Miss Mole, what is it?'
'Could you pretend,' she said, 'not to be as angry as you are?'
'I'm not angry, but deeply hurt.' Her silence accepted the paraphrase
and he added, with his usual authority, 'And pretence of any kind is
against my rule.'
Her eyes widened, she looked remarkably child-like and that gaze made
him uneasy. He was beginning to know her well enough to expect some
retort in violent contrast to the expression of her odd, mobile face,
but it did not come.
'I was thinking of Ruth,' she said. 'And Ethel. Yes, she has asked
me to call her Ethel,' she said quickly, in answer to the slight
contraction of his brows. 'They are very unhappy.'
'That is my son's responsibility. We must all suffer together.'
'But don't suffer at all,' she suggested. 'If you can't pretend, the
only thing to do is not to feel. You can't have people thinking your
son has done something wrong. In your position,' she added softly. 'And
Ethel and Ruth are very much worried about you.'
'They've shown no signs of it.'
'Ah,' she said, 'they're a little afraid of you. You can be rather
terrible, Mr. Corder, if you'll forgive my saying so. They are sitting
in there, shivering and trying not to cry. Could you make them realise
that you have the situation in hand, that there'll be nothing for them
to do but follow your lead? Ethel is troubling herself about Mrs.
Spenser-Smith and wondering what she is to say to her--and to everybody
else.'
Robert Corder did not fail in his response. 'There is no need for Ethel
to distress herself,' he said. 'She can leave it to me. I shall go and
see Mrs. Spenser-Smith to-morrow. I suppose there are troubles in every
family and some day she may have some of her own.'
'I should think it's more than likely,' Hannah said. She glanced at the
clock. 'I must write a letter before I go to bed. I shall just have
time to catch the post. Good night, Mr. Corder.' She hesitated and
said, with the timidity he found very becoming in her, 'I shall tell
your daughters they must try to be as brave as you are,' but as she
left the study, she was telling herself that one of his children was
free and she must do what she could to secure liberty for the others.