Cy Norton, remembering what they had talked about that afternoon, felt a stronger twinge of uneasiness.
"I address myself," said Manning, "to my three children. Naturally I should prefer to do so in private. But there is a reason, which I shall keep to myself, why we must have witnesses."
Manning put his fingertips together, and spoke like a judge from the bench.
"So I ask you three." He paused. "Do you consider that I've always been a reasonably good father?"
The question made Cy Norton want to crawl under a chair with embarrassment It had much the same effect on most of the others, always excepting Sir Henry Merrivale.
Rain spattered against the windows. Crystal was the first to speak.
"But of course!" she exclaimed, with open eyes of wonder under the wings of dark brown hair.
"Y-yes," said Jean, and turned her face away.
Bob Manning still sat and stared woodenly at the floor. At last, and with obvious effort, he contrived to mumble out, "Sure, Dad. You've been great."
"Another question," Manning continued relentlessly. "How many times have you heard of a really perfect marriage?"
"Oh, Dad," cried Jean, "are you going to start again about Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett?"
There was a twinkle in Manning's eye.
"You're quite right," he told Jean. "I might mention Browning or Elizabeth Barrett. But I'll put something else first. You've been kind enough all three of you"—his slight smile vanished instantly—"to give your opinion of me. Now let me tell you what I once thought of you."
He paused a moment
"When you were born, each of you," he went on, "I disliked you and at times I hated you. After your mother died, it took me years before I could become even mildly fond of you."
The shocked silence that followed was as though at the crack of a whip. Manning still spoke quietly.
"Has it ever occurred to you that a really happy marriage can be not spoiled, but badly hurt by these intruders called children? No! It hasn't occurred to you! The sugary sentiment of our day won't permit it
"In the sort of marriage I mean, husband and wife are all in all to each other. They're really in love. They want no intruders of any kind. If they need to have children to bind them together,' they were never happy in the first place. They know a perfect happiness. Well, your mother and I were like that"
There was a small clatter as Crystal upset a cocktail glass.
"My mother.she cried out.
Manning lifted his hand.
"Your mother," he said wearily, "felt much as I did. But she was conscientious. She was a good mother. Until..."
Here Manning glanced across at H.M., as though to explain.
"It was nearly eighteen years ago," he said. "We were on one of those river steamers. Happily alone for once, we thought There was a boiler explosion. Most of the passengers, including my wife, were drowned. I was left with the side of marriage which, rightly or wrongly, I didn't like."
(For God's sake stop! thought Cy Norton. Crystal wont actually care, whatever she says. Bob doesn't likeyou much any way. But Jean! Jean, with her hands over eyes and her look as though she had been struck with a whip!)
At the same moment Huntington Davis, all virtue and respectability, got up from the sofa and walked over to face Manning.
"Forgive me, sir," Davis said. "But are you sure you know just what you're saying?"
"Yes. I think so."
"When people have children," Davis floundered, "they have a duty..."
"I’ve done that duty, Mr. Davis. Three witnesses have just said so, though they're not quite sure about it."
"I mean"—Davis shook his head as though to clear it—"it's our duty to have children, isn't it? What would happen if the rest of the world thought as you do?" Manning spoke dryly.
"Ah, the old question! Don't let it trouble your sleep." "I insist!..."
"Fortunately, most people are fond of children. Admittedly I am an exception and a bounder. And yet"—Manning whacked the arm of his chair—"if twenty thousand parents could hear my words now, how many of them wouldn't secretly agree with me?"
"You..." Davis began; then checked himself in time. Manning rose slowly from his chair and faced the young man. Both were as erect as grenadiers; they looked at each other, steadily, on dead-straight eye level.
"Dave, come back here!" cried Jean. "Please! There's something I've got to know! Come back!"
Davis complied. But he moved slowly backwards, to show he could still meet the older man's eye. Manning sat down again.
"Listen, Dad!" Jean begged. "All those lovely things you said about mother awhile ago—were they true?"
Her father's voice was gentle. "Every word, Jean. And please remember: I spoke of you all as young children. Not as you are now."
Then—I tried to ask you today, but you evaded it—why must you degrade yourself with this Stanley woman?"
"Because, Jean, eighteen years make too long a time of mourning. The flowers are dead. Miss Stanley is vulgar, yes." An odd, obscure smile twisted Manning's mouth. "But I find her stimulating. Shall I give you Browning?
"What’s a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day what his youth took a year to hold: When we mind labour, then only we're too old—
What age had Methuselam when he begat Saul?
"Though there will be no more begetting, I hope," Manning added politely that's rather out of its context, isn't it?" Crystal asked, with an effort at casualness. "Browning was a young man when he wrote it."
"And I am fifty-one," smiled her father. "Perhaps two or three years younger than your last husband."
Crystal's face went white. Both she and Bob had pretended not to notice when Jean referred to Irene Stanley.
"We all know, Dad dear," Crystal remarked lightly, "that we can't match you at repartee. But is it really necessary to insult us?"
"Insult you, my dear?" Manning was genuinely startled. "I was not trying to insult you, believe me."
"Then why are you telling us all this?"
"Because," answered Manning, "something will probably happen to me, by tomorrow at the very latest. I want to provide for your future, all of you, in case you never see me again."
5
Now there was dead silence, except for the swirling of rain.
Jean and Davis exchanged glances. Bob sat open-mouthed, looking up. Crystal regarded her father as though this were some sort of joke in bad taste.
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Crystal.
"Never see us again?" Bob forced out the words incredulously.
"Forget I said that, for the moment," Manning urged. "Try to forget it! Mr. Betterton (you remember my lawyer?) has phoned to say he can't get here until nine o'clock. But we don't need him yet Let's concentrate on providing for the future."
Manning sat back in his chair, his fingertips together, his vivid blue eyes veiled yet his whole imposing presence concentrated.
"Let's take you first, Crystal. You're the oldest"
"Dad, I insist on knowing..." Crystal began shakily. There was a very faint gleam of tears in her eyes.
"I don't think," said Manning, "I need worry about you financially. You, or more probably your own lawyer, can show real genius at getting alimony. If you really want one of those estates at Sandy Reach on the Sound"—he nodded toward the back of the house—"why don't you buy it yourself?"
Crystal was startled. "Buy...?"
Her father laughed.
"You're quite consistent, Crystal," he said. "It has simply never occurred to you, never once in your life, to buy anything for yourself when you could get some man to buy it for you. And yet," he hesitated, "I may be misjudging you, even now. As for you, Bob..."