THE BURDEN OF CONVENTIONALITY
OF course you will have realized that Elizabeth’s surmise regarding
David was entirely correct.
When he made his material embarkation at Cape Town he hadn’t the
faintest conception of the mental voyage on which he was embarking,
or I am pretty sure he would never have set foot on the ship’s deck,
or, at all events would have done so with misgiving. And he had had
none. Gay as a schoolboy in quest of adventure, and determined as that
youngster, he had watched the African coast recede from his sight, had
seen Table Mountain dwindle to a mere speck, had turned his face in the
direction of his new enterprise.
First had come the tracing up of his family in America, a tedious
enough job, leading him eventually to Brussels.
His arrival in London had brought further business in its train,
interviewing solicitors; producing the proofs collected through months
of research; answering endless, and what appeared to him totally
irrelevant, questions. Next there had been waiting,--waiting in shabby
little rooms in Chelsea, when he beguiled the weary hours by walks on
the Embankment, in Battersea Park, or on Hampstead Heath, anywhere away
from the interminable hum of traffic, from the ceaseless stream of
people.
More than once he had asked himself what on earth he had done it for?
Why he had left the quiet, the sunshine, the colour, the wide spaces
of the veldt, for the noise, the fog, the greyness, the confinement
of London. More than once he had called himself a fool for his pains,
cursed the day idleness had taken him to rummage in the old chest in
the storeroom.
Then, the swing of the pendulum lifting him towards the anticipation
of fulfilled hope, his gloom would be dispelled. After all, he would
assure himself, it was his birthright for which he was enduring
hardship. Only a fool or a weakling would have refused to take up
the clue he had inadvertently discovered. Then, gloom once more
overwhelming him, he would demand of himself: Was it his birthright?
After all didn’t this same birthright lie in the wide untrammelled
spaces of the veldt, the unconventional surroundings, the life of
freedom? Wasn’t he attempting to exchange it for a mess of red pottage?
But, with the arrival of the long-looked-for document, legal phrases
and all, doubts again dispersed. He had laboured, he had toiled, he had
achieved. There was no question now about that birthright. It was his.
He held it as surely in his grasp as he held that piece of foolscap
paper.
Naturally the first thing to do was to go and have a look at it. He
had refrained from so doing till his rights thereto had been assured.
He bade a far from reluctant farewell to his shabby rooms, and a not
overclean landlady, took the train forthwith to Whortley, arrived at
Malford, and the Green Man.
And then gradually, imperceptibly, all his doubts had returned,
returned, too, in so subtle a manner, that he hardly recognized them
for doubts. He was merely bewildered, non-understanding of himself.
It seemed to him totally absurd that he should not be entirely
delighted at the thought of his inheritance, yet, if the truth be
known, it was beginning to hang like a somewhat weighty millstone round
his neck. And the exceeding simple solution of cutting the string that
held it there, never dawned upon him.
Perhaps, unconsciously, he felt that to do so would be to shirk
responsibility; but it is very certain that he was already devoutly
wishing that he had never sought responsibility. Elizabeth’s careless
little remark had added quite an appreciable weight to it. It is
astonishing how the merest fragment added to an already heavy load will
make it almost insupportable. It was, too, the absurdest fragment,
the most ridiculous fragment, but there it was, flung carelessly upon
him. Mentally, though vaguely, he saw a million other like fragments,
which he told himself shudderingly would be added. He saw at least
another ton load waiting for him. To those used to these burdens of
conventionality they would be a mere featherweight. But to him!
He began to enumerate the list, to drag forth to clearer vision what he
was vaguely perceiving. To this end he recalled his dinner at Delancey
Castle.
Dress clothes headed the list. True, they had not been present, but
then they should have been. His own ignorance would evidently be a
very formidable fragment. Well then, number one, dress clothes, stiff
collars and shirt fronts, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. Number
two, servants standing in the room while you eat. An abomination!
Number three, servants handing you food in silver dishes. An idiotic
custom! Why couldn’t they put the things on the table? Number four,
accept everything offered you as indifferently as possible. Avoid
thanking a servant. Well, with a bit of practice he might manage that.
Number five, water placed before you in glass dishes, which water you
were evidently not intended to drink,--he had grasped that much. A
purely silly convention. Number six, coffee in minute cups that slid
about on the saucers, and nowhere to put the elusive fragile things.
David went hot and cold at the remembrance. Number seven, no pipes in
the drawing-room. He groaned. This much his own experience had taught
him, and taught him within the space of a couple of hours. And Heaven
alone knew how many more fragments there might not be.
Of course you might argue, and justly, why think of these conventions
at all? Brush them aside. Treat them as non-existent. He was his own
master. That is logical and sound reasoning.
But no. To David’s mind it behooved him, in accepting the
responsibility, to accept with it all that appertained thereto. Herein
lay that touch of simplicity, that touch of childlikeness, which,
perhaps you may have perceived in him. Therefore it is small wonder
that civilization was bearing heavily upon him.
Truly a sorry state for a man.