“Do you really believe what you have said?” I asked, meaning no
offence, because with Marlow one never could be sure.
“Only on certain days of the year,” said Marlow readily with a malicious
smile. “To-day I have been simply trying to be spacious and I perceive
I’ve managed to hurt your susceptibilities which are consecrated to
women. When you sit alone and silent you are defending in your mind the
poor women from attacks which cannot possibly touch them. I wonder
_what_ can touch them? But to soothe your uneasiness I will point out
again that an Irrelevant world would be very amusing, if the women take
care to make it as charming as they alone can, by preserving for us
certain well-known, well-established, I’ll almost say hackneyed,
illusions, without which the average male creature cannot get on! And
that condition is very important. For there is nothing more provoking
than the Irrelevant when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and then the
danger would be of the subjugated masculinity in its exasperation,
making some brusque, unguarded movement and accidentally putting its
elbow through the fine tissue of the world of which I speak. And that
would be fatal to it. For nothing looks more irretrievably deplorable
than fine tissue which has been damaged. The women themselves would be
the first to become disgusted with their own creation.”
There was something of women’s highly practical sanity and also of their
irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de Barral’s amazing governess. It
appeared from Fyne’s narrative that the day before the first rumble of
the cataclysm the questionable young man arrived unexpectedly in
Brighton to stay with his “Aunt.” To all outward appearance everything
was going on normally; the fellow went out riding with the girl in the
afternoon as he often used to do—a sight which never failed to fill
Mrs Fyne with indignation. Fyne himself was down there with his family
for a whole week and was called to the window to behold the iniquity in
its progress and to share in his wife’s feelings. There was not even a
groom with them. And Mrs Fyne’s distress was so strong at this glimpse
of the unlucky girl all unconscious of her danger riding smilingly by,
that Fyne began to consider seriously whether it wasn’t their plain duty
to interfere at all risks—simply by writing a letter to de Barral. He
said to his wife with a solemnity I can easily imagine, “You ought to
undertake that task, my dear. You have known his wife after all.
That’s something at any rate.” On the other hand the fear of exposing
Mrs Fyne to some nasty rebuff worried him exceedingly. Mrs Fyne on
her side gave way to despondency. Success seemed impossible. Here was
a woman for more than five years in charge of the girl and apparently
enjoying the complete confidence of the father. What, that would be
effective, could one say, without proofs, without .... This Mr de
Barral must be, Mrs Fyne pronounced, either a very stupid or a
downright bad man, to neglect his child so. You will notice that
perhaps because of Fyne’s solemn view of our transient life and Mrs
Fyne’s natural capacity for responsibility, it had never occurred to
them that the simplest way out of the difficulty was to do nothing and
dismiss the matter as no concern of theirs. Which in a strict worldly
sense it certainly was not. But they spent, Fyne told me, a most
disturbed afternoon, considering the ways and means of dealing with the
danger hanging over the head of the girl out for a ride (and no doubt
enjoying herself) with an abominable scamp.