It happened when Miss Mary was twenty-three years old, that Mr Lindley
was very ill. The family was exceedingly poor at the time, such a lot
of money was needed, so little was forthcoming. Neither Miss Mary nor
Miss Louisa had suitors. What chance had they? They met no eligible
young men in Aldecross. And what they earned was a mere drop in a void.
The girls’ hearts were chilled and hardened with fear of this
perpetual, cold penury, this narrow struggle, this horrible nothingness
of their lives.
A clergyman had to be found for the church work. It so happened the son
of an old friend of Mr Lindley’s was waiting three months before taking
up his duties. He would come and officiate, for nothing. The young
clergyman was keenly expected. He was not more than twenty-seven, a
Master of Arts of Oxford, had written his thesis on Roman Law. He came
of an old Cambridgeshire family, had some private means, was going to
take a church in Northamptonshire with a good stipend, and was not
married. Mrs Lindley incurred new debts, and scarcely regretted her
husband’s illness.
But when Mr Massy came, there was a shock of disappointment in the
house. They had expected a young man with a pipe and a deep voice, but
with better manners than Sidney, the eldest of the Lindleys. There
arrived instead a small, chétif man, scarcely larger than a boy of
twelve, spectacled, timid in the extreme, without a word to utter at
first; yet with a certain inhuman self-sureness.
“What a little abortion!” was Mrs Lindley’s exclamation to herself on
first seeing him, in his buttoned-up clerical coat. And for the first
time for many days, she was profoundly thankful to God that all her
children were decent specimens.
He had not normal powers of perception. They soon saw that he lacked
the full range of human feelings, but had rather a strong,
philosophical mind, from which he lived. His body was almost
unthinkable, in intellect he was something definite. The conversation
at once took a balanced, abstract tone when he participated. There was
no spontaneous exclamation, no violent assertion or expression of
personal conviction, but all cold, reasonable assertion. This was very
hard on Mrs Lindley. The little man would look at her, after one of her
pronouncements, and then give, in his thin voice, his own calculated
version, so that she felt as if she were tumbling into thin air through
a hole in the flimsy floor on which their conversation stood. It was
she who felt a fool. Soon she was reduced to a hardy silence.
Still, at the back of her mind, she remembered that he was an
unattached gentleman, who would shortly have an income altogether of
six or seven hundred a year. What did the man matter, if there were
pecuniary ease! The man was a trifle thrown in. After twenty-two years
her sentimentality was ground away, and only the millstone of poverty
mattered to her. So she supported the little man as a representative of
a decent income.
His most irritating habit was that of a sneering little giggle, all on
his own, which came when he perceived or related some illogical
absurdity on the part of another person. It was the only form of humour
he had. Stupidity in thinking seemed to him exquisitely funny. But any
novel was unintelligibly meaningless and dull, and to an Irish sort of
humour he listened curiously, examining it like mathematics, or else
simply not hearing. In normal human relationship he was not there.
Quite unable to take part in simple everyday talk, he padded silently
round the house, or sat in the dining-room looking nervously from side
to side, always apart in a cold, rarefied little world of his own.
Sometimes he made an ironic remark, that did not seem humanly relevant,
or he gave his little laugh, like a sneer. He had to defend himself and
his own insufficiency. And he answered questions grudgingly, with a yes
or no, because he did not see their import and was nervous. It seemed
to Miss Louisa he scarcely distinguished one person from another, but
that he liked to be near her, or to Miss Mary, for some sort of contact
which stimulated him unknown.
Apart from all this, he was the most admirable workman. He was
unremittingly shy, but perfect in his sense of duty: as far as he could
conceive Christianity, he was a perfect Christian. Nothing that he
realized he could do for anyone did he leave undone, although he was so
incapable of coming into contact with another being, that he could not
proffer help. Now he attended assiduously to the sick man, investigated
all the affairs of the parish or the church which Mr Lindley had in
control, straightened out accounts, made lists of the sick and needy,
padded round with help and to see what he could do. He heard of Mrs
Lindley’s anxiety about her sons, and began to investigate means of
sending them to Cambridge. His kindness almost frightened Miss Mary.
She honoured it so, and yet she shrank from it. For, in it all Mr Massy
seemed to have no sense of any person, any human being whom he was
helping: he only realized a kind of mathematical working out, solving
of given situations, a calculated well-doing. And it was as if he had
accepted the Christian tenets as axioms. His religion consisted in what
his scrupulous, abstract mind approved of.
Seeing his acts, Miss Mary must respect and honour him. In consequence
she must serve him. To this she had to force herself, shuddering and
yet desirous, but he did not perceive it. She accompanied him on his
visiting in the parish, and whilst she was cold with admiration for
him, often she was touched with pity for the little padding figure with
bent shoulders, buttoned up to the chin in his overcoat. She was a
handsome, calm girl, tall, with a beautiful repose. Her clothes were
poor, and she wore a black silk scarf, having no furs. But she was a
lady. As the people saw her walking down Aldecross beside Mr Massy,
they said:
“My word, Miss Mary’s got a catch. Did ever you see such a sickly
little shrimp!”
She knew they were talking so, and it made her heart grow hot against
them, and she drew herself as it were protectively towards the little
man beside her. At any rate, she could see and give honour to his
genuine goodness.
He could not walk fast, or far.
“You have not been well?” she asked, in her dignified way.
“I have an internal trouble.”
He was not aware of her slight shudder. There was silence, whilst she
bowed to recover her composure, to resume her gentle manner towards
him.
He was fond of Miss Mary. She had made it a rule of hospitality that he
should always be escorted by herself or by her sister on his visits in
the parish, which were not many. But some mornings she was engaged.
Then Miss Louisa took her place. It was no good Miss Louisa’s trying to
adopt to Mr Massy an attitude of queenly service. She was unable to
regard him save with aversion. When she saw him from behind, thin and
bent-shouldered, looking like a sickly lad of thirteen, she disliked
him exceedingly, and felt a desire to put him out of existence. And yet
a deeper justice in Mary made Louisa humble before her sister.
They were going to see Mr Durant, who was paralysed and not expected to
live. Miss Louisa was crudely ashamed at being admitted to the cottage
in company with the little clergyman.
Mrs Durant was, however, much quieter in the face of her real trouble.
“How is Mr Durant?” asked Louisa.
“He is no different—and we don’t expect him to be,” was the reply. The
little clergyman stood looking on.
They went upstairs. The three stood for some time looking at the bed,
at the grey head of the old man on the pillow, the grey beard over the
sheet. Miss Louisa was shocked and afraid.
“It is so dreadful,” she said, with a shudder.
“It is how I always thought it would be,” replied Mrs Durant.
Then Miss Louisa was afraid of her. The two women were uneasy, waiting
for Mr Massy to say something. He stood, small and bent, too nervous to
speak.
“Has he any understanding?” he asked at length.
“Maybe,” said Mrs Durant. “Can you hear, John?” she asked loudly. The
dull blue eye of the inert man looked at her feebly.
“Yes, he understands,” said Mrs Durant to Mr Massy. Except for the dull
look in his eyes, the sick man lay as if dead. The three stood in
silence. Miss Louisa was obstinate but heavy-hearted under the load of
unlivingness. It was Mr Massy who kept her there in discipline. His
non-human will dominated them all.
Then they heard a sound below, a man’s footsteps, and a man’s voice
called subduedly:
“Are you upstairs, mother?”
Mrs Durant started and moved to the door. But already a quick, firm
step was running up the stairs.
“I’m a bit early, mother,” a troubled voice said, and on the landing
they saw the form of the sailor. His mother came and clung to him. She
was suddenly aware that she needed something to hold on to. He put his
arms round her, and bent over her, kissing her.
“He’s not gone, mother?” he asked anxiously, struggling to control his
voice.
Miss Louisa looked away from the mother and son who stood together in
the gloom on the landing. She could not bear it that she and Mr Massy
should be there. The latter stood nervously, as if ill at ease before
the emotion that was running. He was a witness, nervous, unwilling, but
dispassionate. To Miss Louisa’s hot heart it seemed all, all wrong that
they should be there.
Mrs Durant entered the bedroom, her face wet.
“There’s Miss Louisa and the vicar,” she said, out of voice and
quavering.
Her son, red-faced and slender, drew himself up to salute. But Miss
Louisa held out her hand. Then she saw his hazel eyes recognize her for
a moment, and his small white teeth showed in a glimpse of the greeting
she used to love. She was covered with confusion. He went round to the
bed; his boots clicked on the plaster floor, he bowed his head with
dignity.
“How are you, dad?” he said, laying his hand on the sheet, faltering.
But the old man stared fixedly and unseeing. The son stood perfectly
still for a few minutes, then slowly recoiled. Miss Louisa saw the fine
outline of his breast, under the sailor’s blue blouse, as his chest
began to heave.
“He doesn’t know me,” he said, turning to his mother. He gradually went
white.
“No, my boy!” cried the mother, pitiful, lifting her face. And suddenly
she put her face against his shoulder, he was stooping down to her,
holding her against him, and she cried aloud for a moment or two. Miss
Louisa saw his sides heaving, and heard the sharp hiss of his breath.
She turned away, tears streaming down her face. The father lay inert
upon the white bed, Mr Massy looked queer and obliterated, so little
now that the sailor with his sunburned skin was in the room. He stood
waiting. Miss Louisa wanted to die, she wanted to have done. She dared
not turn round again to look.
“Shall I offer a prayer?” came the frail voice of the clergyman, and
all kneeled down.
Miss Louisa was frightened of the inert man upon the bed. Then she felt
a flash of fear of Mr Massy, hearing his thin, detached voice. And
then, calmed, she looked up. On the far side of the bed were the heads
of the mother and son, the one in the black lace cap, with the small
white nape of the neck beneath, the other, with brown, sun-scorched
hair too close and wiry to allow of a parting, and neck tanned firm,
bowed as if unwillingly. The great grey beard of the old man did not
move, the prayer continued. Mr Massy prayed with a pure lucidity, that
they all might conform to the higher Will. He was like something that
dominated the bowed heads, something dispassionate that governed them
inexorably. Miss Louisa was afraid of him. And she was bound, during
the course of the prayer, to have a little reverence for him. It was
like a foretaste of inexorable, cold death, a taste of pure justice.
That evening she talked to Mary of the visit. Her heart, her veins were
possessed by the thought of Alfred Durant as he held his mother in his
arms; then the break in his voice, as she remembered it again and
again, was like a flame through her; and she wanted to see his face
more distinctly in her mind, ruddy with the sun, and his golden-brown
eyes, kind and careless, strained now with a natural fear, the fine
nose tanned hard by the sun, the mouth that could not help smiling at
her. And it went through her with pride, to think of his figure, a
straight, fine jet of life.
“He is a handsome lad,” said she to Miss Mary, as if he had not been a
year older than herself. Underneath was the deeper dread, almost
hatred, of the inhuman being of Mr Massy. She felt she must protect
herself and Alfred from him.
“When I felt Mr Massy there,” she said, “I almost hated him. What right
had he to be there!”
“Surely he had all right,” said Miss Mary after a pause. “He is
_really_ a Christian.”
“He seems to me nearly an imbecile,” said Miss Louisa.
Miss Mary, quiet and beautiful, was silent for a moment:
“Oh, no,” she said. “Not _imbecile_——”
“Well then—he reminds me of a six months’ child—or a five months’
child—as if he didn’t have time to get developed enough before he was
born.”
“Yes,” said Miss Mary, slowly. “There is something lacking. But there
is something wonderful in him: and he is really _good_——”
“Yes,” said Miss Louisa, “it doesn’t seem right that he should be. What
right has _that_ to be called goodness!”
“But it _is_ goodness,” persisted Mary. Then she added, with a laugh:
“And come, you wouldn’t deny that as well.”
There was a doggedness in her voice. She went about very quietly. In
her soul, she knew what was going to happen. She knew that Mr Massy was
stronger than she, and that she must submit to what he was. Her
physical self was prouder, stronger than he, her physical self disliked
and despised him. But she was in the grip of his moral, mental being.
And she felt the days allotted out to her. And her family watched.