Ivy Compton-Burnett - Elders and Betters

“What did I say that was amusing?” said her cousin.

“Perhaps it was amusing that you should say it,” said Esmond.

Tullia went into her light laughter, as if she could not but find this the case.

“Oh,” said Anna, in a casual tone.

“So the occasion of our engagement has come and gone,” said Terence. “Are we disappointed or relieved or grateful?”

“I do not know why you should be grateful,” said Benjamin.

“Neither do I,” said Terence. “I think I am a little hurt and baffled. But of course I shall always remember your welcome of me.”

“Perhaps our future meetings will drive it out of your mind.”

“I should think they will recall it. None of them will find me with any means of my own.”

“Surely some work will turn up for you.”

“Then why did you cause me so much discomfort on the ground that it would not?”

“I thought that you did not seem anxious for it.”

“I scorned to deceive you,” said Terence. “I hope I shall always be able to dare the right. But are we having another meeting already?”

“ARE YOU TWO going to pace that path for ever?” said Tullia, to her father and Florence, who were walking outside the house. “Are you impervious to rain and blast? you look a most bedraggled and dreary pair.”

“That is what we are going to do, my Tullia,” said Thomas, coming to meet her with Florence’s arm through his. “Pace our path together for ever, with the wind and rain doing us no harm. You have put it into words for us.”

“Well, put off talking in riddles until we have got into the house,” said his daughter, taking his other arm and going at an even pace in this direction, as if she were giving him time to reconsider his words. “We can guess them better in shelter. And perhaps we may be spared them. They tend to be the prelude to something better not said.”

Florence looked across Thomas at Tullia, rested her eyes on her face, and drew back into safety and silence.

“You said it for us, Tulliola,” said Thomas, keeping his eyes on his feet, as he wiped them, glad of the cover for his words. “You have done much for me, and now you do this last thing. I would have heard it from no lips but yours.”

“Your sound as if you had caught the infection in the air, and emulated Terence and Anna,” said Tullia, laughing as if at an impossible idea. “Take your time in disburdening your soul. Remember that follies are harder to live down than sins.”

“We do not want to live it down; we are going to live it out,” said Thomas. “I owe you so many things, my Tullia. I may owe you this one thing more?”

There was a pause.

“Poor thing, he is not serious then?” said Tullia.

“I have never been more so, my dear.”

Tullia threw back her head, glanced down at her shoe as she loosened it, as though it were an equal preoccupation and then gave herself to her mirth.

“What a picture!” she said, as if she could just utter the words. “I don’t know which of you to love and pity the more. I think I shall choose you, because you are older and more pathetic. I don’t think it is because you are a conventional object of compassion just now. Old men and maidens, young men and children! You none of you seem to be exempt. So that is the meaning of the gathering at luncheon. He wanted to be seen as the successful suitor.”

“That is how I shall think of myself,” said Thomas.

“And couldn’t you save him from it?” said Tullia, turning to Florence, and using a different and more serious tone. “You could have managed without letting him get as far as this. It will be the most difficult thing to live down, or at the least the most awkward. I don’t want to make too much of it, but it must stand like that. Of course he has been in an emotional state since my mother died. But you could have kept things within bounds, and spared this exposure for yourself and him. That is the woman’s business, or I have found it is. And how are you going to get out of it? Because it is not such an impossible thing. Not in a legal sense.”

“We want to keep to it,” said Florence, and looked at Thomas for support.

“Can you never do yourself justice at a crucial moment, Tullia? Never show the whole of yourself at a time of test?”

“I don’t know what you would say to the whole of myself at this moment. I am keeping back a good deal. Oh, I know you would pay me with flattery, if I encouraged you in a mistake that would break both your lives. I do not find the reward worth while. I have seen Terence do it, and now I am to see you. And this will go further than mere dreariness and disillusionment. It will not stop short of the ridiculous. The sublime comes near to it. Perhaps you do not know how near. And you who were married to Mother, and linked with a unique and experienced spirit! To lose hold of yourself like this!”

“Perhaps I found it too much for me, Tullia. Even a sacred burden may be a heavy one. Do you grudge me the relief and lightness that have come my way?”

“It was hard on us all, of course. But we have not seen it a reason for this sort of collapse. At least I suppose everyone has, with the exception of me.” Tullia ended on a retrospective note, and seemed to leave the matter.

“You grudge it to me, Tullia?” said Thomas.

“Well, let him have his rest and play then,” said Tullia, after a pause. “Let him gambol a little in private, before he settles down to his ordinary life. But let him beware how he exhibits the antics in public. Friends and family will not put on rose-coloured spectacles to witness them. As he saw those of Anna and Terence, so they will see these of even more discrepant years. It is wise to remember it.”

She went into the drawing-room, and her father would have followed, but a look from Florence sent him into the library, and Tullia heard the door close.

The families assembled at luncheon, supplemented by Claribel, Jenney, Miss Lacy and Florence. The last named sat in silence at the side of the table, and did not look towards the head. Tullia sat at the bottom, as she had done since her mother’s death, and things were as usual except for the tension in the air. Miss Lacy knew of the impending revelation, and maintained an effort to be normal, with almost too much success. She had broken the news to her pupils, feeling it a wise precaution, and they sat with their eyes on Florence, while they followed the enjoinder of silence. Tullia was lively and loquacious, but seemed hardly to follow her own words. Anna and Terence were preoccupied in different ways with each other. Thomas did his duties with a face that was at once inscrutable, emotional and resolute. When he had finished there came a pause, and as he took his seat, it grew to something else.

“What is coming?” said Bernard.

“Something enlivening, I hope!” said Claribel.

“Don’t be too sure,” said Tullia in an amused, untroubled tone. “That is not the word I should give to it.”

“You know what it is, then?” said Claribel.

“Well, naturally my father’s secrets find their home in my ear. But this is not one that would command the sympathy of anyone who did not know him. We must not expect too much of you. It needed experience of him, to anticipate and follow it.”

Florence turned her eyes on Tullia.

“We are all keyed-up and waiting,” said Claribel.

“You have been my friends in more than one trouble,” said Thomas. “And now I ask you to show yourselves so in my joy.” He rose and came round the table to Florence, and placing his hands on her shoulders, moved them down her arms until they reached her hands and held them. “I hope you see what is coming to me. My home is not to continue without a mistress.”