Chapter 2
‘Is this a house or a hutch? It is meant, I suppose, for human habitation,’ said Blanche’s father, walking about his new home. ‘It is well that I shall soon be gone and leave you alone in it. For it is better for one than for two, as I cannot but see.’
‘Come, Father, pluck up heart. You are an able-bodied man and not a crippled woman. I must not be given any more to bear. You must remember your poor invalid, though I never remind you that I am that.’
‘If that was not a reminder, I need not take it as one. I grant that that fall made a poor thing of you, but you want a chair to sit upon, all the more. And I don’t see where we are to put one, on a first sight.’
‘There are plenty of chairs, Father. Let us sit down in two of them. Come, I think they have done their best. It only needed a little best for such a little home, but such as it had to be, I think it is done. And we must be as grateful as they will expect us to be.’ Blanche’s sister put back her head and went into mirth. ‘This room is quite a pretty little place. So we must try to feel at home in it. We are not people to fail in courage.’
Matilda Seaton was two years older than Blanche, of the same height as her sister, but of the suppler, stronger build of her niece, Justine. She had hair less grey than her sister’s, a darker skin less lined, and the same narrow, dark eyes looking out with a sharper, deeper gaze. A fall from a horse had rendered her an invalid, or rather obliged her to walk with a stick, but her energy seemed to accumulate, and to work itself out at the cost of some havoc within her. Her voice was deeper than her sister’s and had some sweeter tones. She appeared handsomer, though she also looked her age and her features were of the same mould. Her father admired her the more, and believed her maidenhood to be due to her invalid state, though her accident had not happened until she was middle-aged. It had done him a service in a way, as he had been at a loss to account for the position. The truth was that Matty had had many chances to marry and had not accepted them. She had never met a man whom she saw as her equal, as her conception of herself was above any human standard. She may also have had some feeling that a family would take her attention and that of others from herself. The idea that anyone could pity her found no place in her mind; there was no place there for such a feeling. Even her lameness she saw as giving a touch of tragic interest to an already remarkable impression. Oliver knew of her efforts, or rather had been told of them, as his daughter kept nothing which seemed to exalt her to herself, but he thought it normal self-respect in a woman to invent proposals if they were not forthcoming. Matty did not guess that she had not justice from her father, as he thought it wise to keep his doubt to himself, indeed knew it was. The father and daughter were less alike than they had been, for Oliver’s face, once the original type, was fallen and shrunk from age. His figure was of the same size for a man as his elder daughter’s for a woman, and had a touch of the awkwardness of the younger’s which was something apart from the stiffness of the old. When he was seen with Blanche and her youngest son, this lack of balance became a family trait. His wife had been some years his senior and had herself lived to an advanced age, and at her death he had been old enough to accept his daughter in her place.
‘Yes, I am sure they have done what they can,’ said Matty, still looking round, ‘It is a funny little pattern on the paper. Suitable for the funny little room, I suppose. We are not to forget how we are placed. They thought it was better for us to take the plunge at once. Well, I daresay they are right. We will try to think they are. That is a lesson we shall have to learn.’
‘You seem to be failing at the moment,’ said Oliver, as Matty wiped her eyes. ‘I can’t see that the scrawl on the paper makes much odds. And the room seems to hold two people, which is what we want of it. What are you crying about? Aren’t you thankful to have a home?’
‘I am not so very at the moment. I can’t help thinking of the one we have left. Perhaps it shows the feeling I had for that,’ said Matty, putting her handkerchief away with a courageously final movement. ‘I shall soon be able to be myself, but it is rather a sudden difference, the little paper and all.’ She put her hand to her mouth in her sudden laughter. ‘Well, shall we say that we appreciated our old home so much? I think we may say that without being unthankful.’
Oliver was silent. He had suffered from leaving his home as well as his daughter, almost feeling that he left his youth and his prime and his married life behind in it, but the lessening grasp of his age had saved him the worst. He had lived all his life on private means, and his capital had dwindled, partly in the natural course — his investments suffering from age like himself, and even in some cases succumbing like his wife — and partly because he had annually spent a portion of it. The eventual result struck him as a sudden misfortune, and his daughter faced their retrenchment in this spirit.
‘Is that commotion to continue?’ he said, as sounds of adjusting furniture came from the hall. ‘No one would guess that we left our possessions behind. I should not have thought that the place was large enough to allow of it.’
‘We must have a few necessities even in a little home. But there is less to be done than if we were to have what we have always had. That is one bright side to it.’
‘And you see it, do you? When did you get your glimpse?’
‘Things will soon be done, and you can have your dinner,’ said Matty, retaliating on her father by explaining his mood. ‘Miss Griffin will come and tell us.’
‘You will eat as well as I, I suppose, and so will she. Will she be able to put up with the corner in which she finds herself?’
‘It is the only home we can give her. We have to be content with it.’
‘I meant what I said, her corner of it,’ said Oliver, with a grin which recalled his youngest grandson. ‘I still mean what I say.’
‘We cannot help having had to leave our house for this one. It is not a pleasure for us.’
‘No, my dear, you give no sign that it is. I grant it to you. Well, Miss Griffin is a good woman not to leave us. She has indeed been a remarkable person not to do that. I cannot say what she gets out of serving us.’
‘Of course you can. It is quite clear. We give her a home when she has no other.’
‘Sell it to her for herself, I should say. I would not congratulate her on her bargain.’
‘It is better to stay with people who are fond of her, than to start again with strangers.’
‘Strangers would treat her as a stranger. That was rather in my mind. And fond of her! You may be that; I am myself. But I shouldn’t be proud of your way of showing it. Indeed I am not proud of it.’
‘It would take her a long time to get to the same stage with another family.’
‘Why, that is what I meant; this stage could not come at once. But I suppose women understand each other. I can only hope it. I don’t see what I can do more. But it doesn’t seem enough to keep a human being at my beck and call.’
‘They have not come down to see us,’ said Matty, glancing at the time. ‘They have not run across from their big house to see how we are faring on our first evening in our small one. Well, I suppose they have many other claims: we must think they have.’ She looked again at the clock and tapped her knee with her hand, making a simultaneous movement with her foot, as if she would have tapped the ground if she had been able.
‘Well, I cannot tell. But we have not been in the house above two hours.’
‘They are long hours when you have to sit still and hear other people about and doing, and feel how much better you could do it all, if you were as they are. They have been long ones.’
‘Why, so they have, child, for me as well as for you.’