Part 2 (1/2)
”No, thank you, uncle,” I said, ”my stomach is stronger than you think.
My ancestors also were soldiers--soldiers on the field of battle--though I never heard of their bricking up their enemies in the house wall.”
”Nay, nay,” he cried, ”but that was an evil habit of those days, dear Lady Brandling, hundreds and thousands of years ago, when we were sovereign princes.”
”Hundreds and thousands of years ago?” I answered, for I hated him at that moment, ”ah well, I had thought it was scarce so far removed from us as all that.”
_January_ 31, 1773.
A curious feeling has been tormenting me of late, of self-reproach for I scarce know what, of lack of helpfulness, almost of disloyalty towards my husband. Since we have been here, indeed I think ever since the first announcement of Sir Thomas's death, Eustace has altered in his manner towards me; a whole side of his life has, I feel, been hidden from me.
Have I a right to it? This is what has been debating in my mind. A man may have concerns which it is no duty of his to share with a wife; not because she is only a wife, and he a husband, for my dear Eustace's mind is too enlightened and generous, too thoroughly imbued with the n.o.ble doctrines of our days, to admit of such a difference. But there is one of my mother's sayings which has worked very deeply into my mind. It was on the eve of my wedding. ”Remember, dear little Penelope,” she said, ”that no degree of love, however pure, n.o.ble, and perfect, can really make two souls into one soul. All appearance to the contrary is a mere delusion and dangerous. Every human soul has its own nature, its necessary laws, and demands liberty and privacy to develop them; and were this not the case, no soul, however loving and courageous, could ever help another, for it would have no strength, no understanding, no life, with which to bring help. Remember this, my child, till the moment come when you shall understand it, and, I hope, act in the light of its comprehension.”
Well, methinks that ever since that day when the letter arrived which changed our destiny, I have not merely remembered, but learned to understand these words. So that I have fought against the soreness of feeling that, on some matters at least, I was excluded from my husband's confidence. After two years of such utter openness of heart as has existed between us three--our mother, Eustace, and, younger and weaker though I felt, myself--such free discussion of all ideas and interests, of his scientific work, even to details which I could not grasp, after this there is undoubtedly something strange in the absolute reserve, indeed the utter silence, he maintains about everything concerning his family, his property, and our position and circ.u.mstances, the more so that, at the time of our marriage he often confided to me details connected with it. Thus, in that past which seems already so remote, he has often described to me this very house, these very rooms, told me his childish solitude and terrors, and spoken quite freely of the unhappy life of his mother by the side of his cruel and violent father, and among his father's brutal besotted companions; he had told me of the horrid heartlessness with which his only brother played upon his sensitiveness and abused his weakness, and of the evil habits, the odious scenes of intemperance and violence from which he was screened by his poor mother, and finally saved by her generous decision to part with him and have him educated abroad. He had mentioned the continual brawls of his uncles. But since his succession to the property, never a word has alluded to any of these things, nor to the knowledge he had given me of them. Once or twice, when I have mentioned, quite naturally, his dead brother, his mother (I am actually occupying her apartments, sleeping in her bed, and only yesterday Eustace spent the afternoon mending and tuning her harpsichord for me), he has let the subject drop, or diverted the conversation in an unmistakable manner. Nay, what is more significant, and more puzzling, Eustace has never given me a clue to whether he knew of the arrangements, the life, we should find here; before our arrival, he had never mentioned that the castle was, to all intents and purposes, in the hands of his kinsmen; nor has he dropped a word in explanation of so extraordinary a circ.u.mstance. And I have never asked him whether he knew to what manner of life he was bringing me, whether he intends it to continue, what are his reasons and plans. I have respected his reserve. But have I been perfectly loyal in hiding my wonder, my disappointment, my sorrow?
_February_ 5, 1773.
I cannot make up my mind about Uncle Hubert. Is he our fellow-victim or the ringleader of this usurping gang of ruffians? The more I see, the more I hesitate upon the point. But, as time goes on, I hesitate less and less in my dislike of him, although I own it often seems unreasonable and ungrateful. The man not only tries to make himself agreeable to us, but I almost think he feels kindly. He has a real appreciation of Eustace's genius; and, indeed, it is this, most likely, which sometimes causes me to think well, though I fear never _kindly_, of him. It is quite wonderful how he lights up whenever he can get Eustace (no easy matter) to speak on philosophic subjects; it is a kind of transfiguration, and all the obliquity and fawningness about the creature vanishes. He has a good knowledge of mathematics, Eustace tells me, is a skilful mechanic, and would evidently enjoy a.s.sisting my husband in his experiments if he would let him. Towards myself he has, I do believe, a kind of sentiment, and what is worse, of paternal sentiment! _Worse_ because my whole nature recoils from him. He is most pa.s.sionately fond of music, plays fairly on the viol, and takes quite a childish pleasure in making me sing and play. I ought indeed to be grateful towards him, for his presence, although distasteful I think to both of us, is a boon, in so far as it relieves the strain of feeling that there is a secret--a something which has come between my husband and me. Alas, alas! that the presence of a third person, of a person such as Hubert, should ever have come to be a boon! But I dare not face this thought. It is worse than any of the bad realities and bad probabilities of this bad place.
If only Hubert would not make me presents, forcing me thus to feel how hugely I hate having to accept anything from him. It began (almost as a bribe, methought) in the shape of a fine gold watch and equipage the very day after Uncle Edward's misbehaviour. Then, some time after, a cut of handsome Lyons brocade, enough for a gown, though Heaven knows there is no occasion for such finery at St. Salvat's! And this evening, after listening to me through some songs of Monsieur Piccini, and teaching me some of the plaintive airs of the Welsh peasantry, the man drew from his coat a fine s.h.a.green case, which proved to contain a string of large and very regularly shaped and sorted pearls. I felt I could not bear it.
”Are they pearls of my mother-in-law's?” I asked without thanking him, and in a tone anything, I fear, but grateful. Instead of being angry and turning green, as I expected, Uncle Hubert looked merely very much hurt and answered:
”Had they been heirlooms it would have been your husband, not your uncle, to hand them you. Eustace is the head of the family, not I.”
”The less said about the family and its head,” I answered hotly, ”the better, Uncle Hubert,” and I felt sorry the moment after.
”I do not deny it,” he replied very quietly, in a manner which cut me to the quick. ”At any rate these pearls are _mine_, and I hope you will accept them from me as a token of admiration and regard--or,” and he fell back into his cringing yet bantering manner which I hate so, ”shall we say, as is written on the fairing cups and saucers, 'A present for a good girl from Bristol.'”
How I hate Uncle Hubert!
I had left the pearls on the harpsichord. This morning I found the green s.h.a.green case on the dressing table; Hubert evidently refuses to let me off his present. But I doubt whether I shall ever muster up civility enough to wear them. 'Tis a pity, for lack of wearing makes pearls tarnish.
I have just opened the case to look at them. This is very curious. The case is new, has the smell of new leather; and the diamond clasp looks recently furbished, even to a little chalk about it. But--the man must be oddly ignorant in such matters--the pearls, seen by daylight, have evidently not come from a jeweller's. For they are yellow, tarnished, unworn for years; they have been lying in this house, and, heirlooms or not, there is something wrong about them.
I have been glad of a pretext, however poor, of returning them.
”Uncle Hubert,” I said, handing him the case, ”you must put these pearls in a box with holes in it, and put them back in the sea.”
I never saw so strange a look in a man's face. ”Back in the sea! What do you mean, dear Lady Brandling?” he cries. ”Why do you suspect these pearls of coming from the sea?”
”All pearls _do_ come from the sea, I thought, and that's why sea water cures them when they have got tarnished from lack of wearing.”
He burst into an awkward laugh, ”To think,” he says, ”that I had actually forgotten that pearls were not a kind of stone, that they came out of sh.e.l.l fish.”
_February_ 20, 1773.
G.o.d help me and forgive my ingrat.i.tude for the great, unspeakable blessing He has given me. But this also, it would seem, is to become a source of estrangement between me and Eustace. Ever since this great hope has arisen in my soul, there has come with it the belief also that this child, which he used so greatly to long for (vainly trying to hide his disappointment out of gentleness towards me) would bring us once more together. Perhaps it was wicked graspingness to count upon two happinesses when one had been granted to me. Be this as it may, my ingrat.i.tude has been horribly chastened. I told my husband this morning.