Part 26 (1/2)
”Heaven knows! but it was very serene and very lovely up there this morning.”
”Ah!” exclaimed Valeria with a burst of strange enthusiasm and sadness, that revealed all the fire and yearning and power that had raised her above her fellows in the scale of consciousness, with the penalty of a life of solitude and of sorrow.
”Surely it is not without meaning that the places of the dead are the serenest spots on earth,” said Mrs. Temperley. ”If I could keep myself in the mood that the place induces, I think I should not mind anything very much any more. The suns.h.i.+ne seems to rest more tenderly there than elsewhere, and the winds have a reverence for the graves, as if they felt it time that the dead were left in peace--the 'happier dead,' as poor immortal t.i.thonius calls them, who has not the gift of death. And the grey old tower and the weather stains on the stones; there is a conspiracy of beauty in the place, that holds one as one is held by music.”
”Ah! I know the magic of these things; it tempts one to believe at times that Nature is _not_ all blind and unpitying. But that is a delusion: if there were any pity in Nature, the human spirit would not be dowered with such infinite and terrible longings and such capacities and dreams and prayers and then--then insulted with the mockery of death and annihilation.”
”If there should be no Beyond,” muttered Mrs. Temperley.
”That to me is inconceivable. When we die we fall into an eternal sleep.
Moreover, I can see no creed that does not add the fear of future torments to the certainties of these.”
Mrs. Temperley was seized with a bitter mood. ”You should cultivate faith,” she said; ”it acts the part of the heading 'Sundries omitted' in one's weekly accounts; one can put down under it everything that can't be understood--but you don't keep weekly accounts, so it's no use pointing out to you the peace that comes of that device.”
The entrance of Sophia with firewood turned the current of conversation.
”Good heavens! I don't think we have anything for lunch!” Mrs. Temperley exclaimed. ”Are you very hungry? What is to be done? It was the faithlessness of our butcher that disturbed the serenity of my mood this morning. Perhaps the poor beast whose carcase we were intending to devour will feel serene instead of me: but, alas! I fear he has been slaughtered _quand meme_. That is one of the unsatisfactory things about life: that all its worst miseries bring good to no one. One may deny oneself, but not a living thing is necessarily the better for it--generally many are the worse. The wheels of pain go turning day by day, and the G.o.ds stand aloof--they will not help us, nor will they stay the 'wild world' in its course. No, no,” added Mrs. Temperley with a laugh, ”I am not tired of life, but I am tired _with_ it; it won't give me what I want. That is perhaps because I want so much.”
The sound of male footsteps in the hall broke up the colloquy.
”Good heavens! Hubert has brought home a crowd of people to lunch,”
exclaimed Hadria, ”a thing he scarcely ever does. What fatality can have induced him to choose to-day of all others for this orgy of hospitality?”
”Does the day matter?” enquired Valeria, astonished at so much emotion.
”_Does the day matter!_ Oh irresponsible question of the unwedded! When I tell you the butcher has not sent the meat.”
”Oh ... can't one eat fish?” suggested Miss Du Prel.
Hadria laughed and opened the door.
”My dear, I have brought Fleming home to lunch.”
”Thank heaven, _only one!_”
Temperley stared.
”I could not conveniently have brought home several,” he said.
”I thought you would be at least seven,” cried the mistress of the house, ”and with all the pertinacity of Wordsworth's little girl.”
”What _do_ you mean, if one may ask for simple English?”
”Merely that that intolerable Sanders has broken his word--_hinc illae lacrimae_.”
Hubert Temperley turned away in annoyance. He used to be amused by his wife's flippancy before her marriage, but he had long since grown to dislike it. He retired to get out some wine, while Hadria went forward to welcome the guest, who now came in from the garden, where he had lingered to talk to the children.
”I am delighted to see you, Mr. Fleming; but I am grieved to say that we have unluckily only a wretched luncheon to give you, and after your long walk over the fields too! I am _so_ sorry. The fact is we are left, this morning, with a gaping larder, at the mercy of a haughty and inconstant butcher, who grinds down his helpless dependents without mercy, overbearing creature that he is! We must ask you to be very tolerant.”
”Oh! please don't trouble about that; it doesn't matter in the least,”