Part 40 (1/2)
Aloud he said mechanically:
”You? You are always young.”
”Age does not matter when you are really old; it is only the getting old that matters,” said Boase; ”it is like death. No one minds being dead; it's the dying that appals. But seriously, my dear boy, what really matters is to have the quality of youth. Don't lose that.”
”I'm not sure I ever had it,” said Ishmael slowly, sitting down by the long chair.
”Perhaps not. You were acutely young, which is not quite the same thing.
Our friend Killigrew had the quality of youth. One can say of him that he died young. I think your Nicky has that quality too. That's why he'll be so good for you.”
”What about the girls? Aren't they enough to save my soul alive?”
”Oh, well, girls are never quite the same thing. A father loves his daughters if anything more than his sons, but it's as a father and not as a fellow human. You know, I've seen a good deal of Judith this summer; she's always good at coming and talking to an old man, and what interests me about her is that she keeps so fluid. I mean that she never sticks where she was. I don't want you to either. You came in the days of Ruskin and Pater and of great men politically, but I don't want you to stick there. There's no merit in being right at one time in one's life if one sticks to that rightness after it has lost its significance.
You know, a stopped clock is right twice every twenty-four hours, but it's a rightness without value. Keep fluid, Ishmael. It is the only youth.”
”Is that why you're reading 'Robert Elsmere'?” asked Ishmael, with a smile.
”Exactly. I'm not going to change what feeds my soul daily for what is offered me between these covers, but that's not the point. One can always discriminate, but one should always give oneself things to discriminate between.”
There was a short silence, which the Parson broke. ”I too have had a letter,” he said, and there was something in his voice which made Ishmael aware of a portent beyond the ordinary. ”From Archelaus ...”
added Boase.
”From Archelaus?” echoed Ishmael. The name came upon him like the name of one dead, it seemed to him that when they spoke of Killigrew they touched more upon the living than when they mentioned Archelaus. ”Why does he write?” he added; and his voice sounded harsh and dry even to his own ears, so that he felt a little shame at himself.
”He has met Nicky in Canada.”
”I thought Archelaus had gone West in the States, if he were still alive at all. I was beginning to think something must have happened to him. No one has heard for so long. He took a funny idea into his head at one time to write to Georgie, whom he had never seen--queer letters, telling very little, full of sly remarks one couldn't get the rights of.”
Ishmael paused, waiting for the Parson to produce the letter and show it him, but Boase made no move. ”It's funny Nicky never mentioned it,” went on Ishmael with an odd little note that was almost jealousy in his voice....
”He says he did not tell Nicky who he was,” said the Parson reluctantly.
”I think there is more good in that queer, distorted creature than you think for, Ishmael. Seeing the boy seems to have roused him to old feelings of home.... He writes oddly, but in a strain that is not wholly base.”
”I can't make out why he wants to write to you at all, Padre; he always hated you, blamed you so ... for the marriage and all that.”
”There is not much accounting for the vagaries of a man like that. Your father thought to be ironic when he had you called Ishmael; he saw every man's hand against you--you the youngest and the one against so many.
And you have made a strong, secure life for yourself and your children, and it is Archelaus who wanders....”
”Archelaus would always have wandered. He has it in his soul. Do you remember the day Killigrew was cla.s.sifying men by whether they wandered or stayed at home? He was right about Archelaus then. Da Boase--you don't think I could have behaved any differently to him, do you? He wouldn't be friends. That time in the wood ... you know ... I always knew in my heart that he had hit out at me, though I was so afraid of really knowing it that I never spoke of it even to you. And then when he came home after my marriage to poor little Phoebe--he made the first advances, it's true, but I never felt happy about them, although he seemed so altered. I've reproached myself sometimes that I was glad when he went away after she died. I always hoped he wouldn't come back any more. What else could I do, Da Boase?”
”I too hope he will never come home any more,” said the Parson slowly, ”and yet ... if he does, try and remember, Ishmael ... not that he is your brother--that would not make things easier--but that he is not quite an ordinary man, that in him the old brutalities dormant in most of us have always been strong and that he has had nothing to counteract them. He is not quite as we are. If we cannot understand we should not judge.”
Again a little silence fell. Then Ishmael said suddenly:
”What does feed your soul, Da Boase? I shouldn't have asked you that,”
he added swiftly. ”Besides, I know. But though I know, and though I believe in it too, yet I can't yet find all I want in it.”
Boase lay silent, looking out of the rainy window at the wash of green and pearly grey without. His hand caressed Ishmael's as though he had been a little boy again.
”That feeds my soul from which my soul came ...” he said slowly, ”and daily the vision draws nearer to me and its reflection here strengthens even to my earthly eyes. This world is dear and sweet, but only because I know that it is not all, or even the most important part. Each day is the sweeter to me because each day I can say 'Come quickly, O Lord Jesus.' I do not need to say to you all that knowledge means.”