After the fashion of self-absorbed youth, Oliver had never noticed
Mrs. Lannithorne especially. She had been to him simply a sallow
little figure in the background of Ruth's vivid young life; some one
to be spoken to very politely, but otherwise of no particular moment.
If his marital negotiations did nothing else for him, they were at
least opening his eyes to the significance of the personalities of
older people.
The things Ruth said about her mother had prepared him to find that
lady querulous and difficult, but essentially negligible. Face to face
with Mrs. Lannithorne, he had a very {12} different impression. She
received him in the upstairs sitting-room to which her semi-invalid
habits usually confined her. Wrapped in a white wool shawl and lying
in a long Canton lounging-chair by a sunshiny window, she put out a
chilly hand in greeting, and asked the young man to be seated.
Oliver, scanning her countenance, received an unexpected impression of
dignity. She was thin and nervous, with big dark eyes peering out of a
pale, narrow face; she might be a woman with a grievance, but he
apprehended something beyond mere fretfulness in the discontent of her
expression. There was suffering and thought in her face, and even when
the former is exaggerated and the latter erroneous, these are
impressive things.
"Mrs. Lannithorne, have you any objection to letting Ruth marry me?"
{13}
"Mr. Pickersgill, what are your qualifications for the care of a wife
and family?"
Oliver hesitated. "Why, about what anybody's are, I think," he said,
and was immediately conscious of the feebleness of this response. "I
mean," he added, flushing to the roots of his blond hair, "that my
prospects in life are fair. I am in my father's office, you know. I am
to have a small share in the business next year. I need n't tell you
that the firm is a good one. If you want to know about my
qualifications as a lawyer why, I can refer you to people who can tell
you if they think I am promising."
"Do your family approve of this marriage?"
"I have n't talked to them about it yet."
"Have you ever saved any money {14} of your own earning, or have you
any property in your own name?"
Oliver thought guiltily of his bank account, which had a surprising
way of proving, when balanced, to be less than he expected.
"Well,--not exactly."
"In other words, then, Mr. Pickersgill, you are a young and absolutely
untried man; you are in your father's employ and practically at his
mercy; you propose a great change in your life of which you do not
know that he approves; you have no resources of your own, and you are
not even sure of your earning capacity if your father's backing were
withdrawn. In these circumstances you plan to double your expenses and
assume the whole responsibility of another person's life, comfort, and
happiness. Do you think that you have shown {15} me that your
qualifications are adequate?"
All this was more than a little disconcerting. Oliver was used to
being accepted as old Pickersgill's only son which meant a cheerfully
accorded background of eminence, ability, and comfortable wealth. It
had not occurred to him to detach himself from that background and see
how he looked when separated from it. He felt a little angry, and also
a little ashamed of the fact that he did not bulk larger as a
personage, apart from his environment. Nevertheless, he answered her
question honestly.
"No, Mrs. Lannithorne, I don't think that I have."
She did not appear to rejoice in his discomfiture. She even seemed a
little sorry for it, but she went on quietly:--
{16}
"Don't think I am trying to prove that you are the most ineligible
young man in the city. But it is absolutely necessary that a man
should stand on his own feet, and firmly, before he undertakes to look
after other lives than his own. Otherwise there is nothing but misery
for the women and children who depend upon him. It is a serious
business, getting married."
"I begin to think it is," muttered Oliver blankly.
"I don't _want_ my daughters to marry," said Mrs. Lannithorne. "The
life is a thousand times harder than that of the self-supporting woman
--harder work, fewer rewards, less enjoyment, less security. That is
true even of an ordinarily happy marriage. And if they are not happy
--oh, the bitterness of them!"
She was speaking rapidly now, with {17} energy, almost with anguish.
Oliver, red in the face, subdued, but eager to refute her out of the
depths and heights of his inexperience, held him self rigidly still
and listened.
"Did you ever hear that epigram of Disraeli--that all men should
marry, but no women? That is what I believe! At least, if women must
marry, let others do it, not my children, not my little girls!--It is
curious, but that is how we always think of them. When they are grown
they are often uncongenial. My daughter Ruth does not love me deeply,
nor am I greatly drawn to her now, as an individual, a
personality,--but Ruth was such a dear baby! I can't bear to have her
suffer."
Oliver started to protest, hesitated, bit his lip, and subsided. After
all, did he dare say that his wife would never {18} suffer? The woman
opposite looked at him with hostile, accusing eyes, as if he
incarnated in his youthful person all the futile masculinity in the
world.
"Do you think a woman who has suffered willingly gives her children
over to the same fate?" she demanded passionately. "I wish I could
make you see it for five minutes as I see it, you, young, careless,
foolish. Why, you know nothing,--nothing! Listen to me. The woman who
marries gives up everything: or at least jeopardizes everything: her
youth, her health, her life perhaps, certainly her individuality. She
acquires the permanent possibility of self-sacrifice. She does it
gladly, but she does not know what she is doing. In return, is it too
much to ask that she be assured a roof over her head, food to her
mouth, clothes to her body? How many men marry {19} without being sure
that they have even so much to offer? You yourself, of what are you
sure? Is your arm strong? Is your heart loyal? Can you shelter her
soul as well as her body? I know your father has money. Perhaps you
can care for her creature needs, but that is n't all. For some women
life is one long affront, one slow humiliation. How do I know you are
not like that?"
"Because I'm not, that's all!" said Oliver Pickersgill abruptly,
getting to his feet.
He felt badgered, baited, indignant, yet he could not tell this frail,
excited woman what he thought. There were things one did n't say,
although Mrs. Lannithorne seemed to ignore the fact. She went on
ignoring it.
"I know what you are thinking," she said, "that I would regard these
matters differently if I had married {20} another man. That is not
wholly true. It is because Peter Lannithorne was a good man at heart,
and tried to play the man's part as well as he knew how, and because
it was partly my own fault that he failed so miserably, that I have
thought of it all so much. And the end of all my thinking is that I
don't want my daughters to marry."
Oliver was white now, and a little unsteady. He was also confused.
There was the note of truth in what she said, but he felt that she
said it with too much excitement, with too great facility. He had the
justified masculine distrust of feminine fluency as hysterical.
Nothing so presented could carry full conviction. And he felt
physically bruised and battered, as if he had been beaten with actual
rods instead of stinging words; but he was not yet defeated.
{21}
"Mrs. Lannithorne, what do you wish me to understand from all this? Do
you forbid Ruth and me to marry--is that it?"
She looked at him dubiously. She felt so fiercely the things she had
been saying that she could not feel them continuously. She, too, was
exhausted.
Oliver Pickersgill had a fine head, candid eyes, a firm chin, strong
capable hands. He was young, and the young know nothing, but it might
be that there was the making of a man in him. If Ruth must marry,
perhaps him as well as another. But she did not trust her own
judgment, even of such hands, such eyes, and such a chin. Oh, if the
girls would only believe her, if they would only be content to trust
the wisdom she had distilled from the bitterness of life! But the
young know {22} nothing, and believe only the lying voices in their
own hearts!
"I wish you would see Ruth's father," she said suddenly. "I am
prejudiced. I ought not to have to deal with these questions. I tell
you, I pray Heaven none of them may marry--ever; but, just the same,
they will! Go ask Peter Lannithorne if he thinks his daughter Ruth has
a fighting chance for happiness as your wife. Let him settle it. I
have told you what I think. I am done."
"I shall be very glad to talk with Ruth's father about the matter,"
said Oliver with a certain emphasis on _father_. "Perhaps he and I
shall be able to understand each other better. Good morning, Mrs.
Lannithorne!"
{23}