“I think I should have agreed. Indeed I do agree. I am conscious of a definite feeling of self-complacence.”
“I am glad you are in such a hard and unhappy, not to say humiliating position.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to be rescued from it.”
“I am content to return to my old habits, those I formed for myself.”
“People will be sorry for you, and no one is satisfied with that. They will say that your father has filled your place.”
“They will be wrong,” said Tullia, seeming to speak to herself.
Bernard looked at his uncle and saw that his eyes were upon them.
“He could not grudge you to me, now that he has supplanted you. I don’t mean in his heart; I mean in ways that count. And are you really not jealous of Florence? I cannot help asking. You know I am Anna’s brother.”
“I might be, if I had any reason.”
“Then your situation is impossible. People will think you have reason, when you have none. What could be worse than that?”
“Having reason,” said Tullia.
“But your father is going to be married. I don’t see how you can pass that over. Other people will not. We can see that they don’t.”
“Well, he could not marry his daughter,” said Tullia, “any more than Terence could marry his sister.”
“I am fortunate in your admirers. If they had not been related, you might have married so many. When shall we announce our engagement?”
“What makes you think we have made one?”
“Well, you would have married all your relatives, if they had not been too near. I am the only one who is not. That does seem to settle it.”
“I ought to feel complacent,” said Tullia. “They say that the best women appeal to their families.”
“Shall we announce it at the table? Or shall I ask for an interview with Uncle Thomas? Which would be more painful to him? I feel that he deserves to suffer.”
Tullia laughed.
“I think we will announce it now,” said Bernard. “Then his suffering will be as public as he allowed yours to be.”
“I had none, except what came from other people’s opinions.”
“That is the last kind to be made public. He ought to have known that. His mind must have been full of someone else. It is a horrid thing to have to say of him, and we must hope that a lesson will do him good. Uncle Thomas, may I follow your example, and use this occasion for an announcement of my own?”
“What is in your mind, my boy?” said Thomas.
“I am glad that you call me that, as it is what I am going to be. You are to have another son.”
“What is this?” said Thomas.
“I see you understand the language used between men.”
“What is this, Tullia?” said Thomas.
“I have told you what it is,” said Bernard. “It was for me to take everything upon myself.”
“Tullia, is there any truth in what he says?”
“Why should you be incredulous?” said Bernard. “She is doing a thing that you like to do, yourself.”
“Tullia has always looked to me for everything. Tullia, are you doing this, because I am going to be married?”
“Why should it not be because she is inclined to be married herself? She may be your true daughter. I expect you think she is.”
Thomas did not turn his eyes to his nephew.
“Tullia, my dear, you do not think I would ever fail you?”
“Well, filling my mother’s place, without consulting me, was coming rather near to it.”
“I thought you would wish for my happiness.”
“I am crediting you with a like regard for mine.”
“Florence would do her best for you.”
“That must seem to me an odd way to talk to me of a girl younger than myself.”
Thomas was silent for a moment.
“Would you be marrying your cousin, if I had not done as I have?”
“I think we are entertaining the table too much at our expense. I am glad to be a success as a hostess, but we must know where to draw the line.”
“We are having a most exciting luncheon!” said Claribel. “We are very grateful to all four of you.”
“Three marriages and two deaths!” said Anna. “I hope it is not true that all things come in threes.”
“Marriages and deaths come in larger numbers,” said Miss Lacy.
“Wouldn’t Tullia like to be here with Florence?” said Dora.
“No, Tullia would not,” said Miss Lacy. “And Florence will like better to be here without Tullia. And Tullia and Florence will be the best of friends.”
“Won’t anyone be here but Florence and Father?” said Dora, in a rather forlorn tone.
“I shall come very often to see you,” said Tullia. “We shall be living very near. And Bernard will be your brother, like Terence.”
“Do brothers always live in a different house?”
“We are neither of us held to be human,” said Thomas, smiling at Florence.
“No, as regards the children I do not think you are human,” said Miss Lacy, in her sibilant tone. “They do not seem to feel it, and it is probable that they know.”
“What a mix-up of family relationships!” said Anna. “Can’t anyone cast his net further afield?”
“Anna does not seem surprised by the news,” said Miss Lacy. “Did she have an inkling of what was coming? I think that must be such a satisfying position to hold.”
“I saw the direction Bernard was taking, some time ago.”
“And are you not going to give me your congratulations?” said her brother.
“I don’t remember that you overwhelmed me with them, or with what corresponds to them in the case of a woman.”
“I give you my blessing, my son,” said Benjamin. “I ask nothing better than to have my sister’s daughter for my own.”
“I wonder which daughter will be the favourite,” said Claribel.
“Oh, thirty years give one a start,” said Anna. “We can hardly talk as if they could be swept aside. I might as well suggest that I could supersede Tullia in Uncle Thomas’s affections.”
“That is quite true,” said Benjamin.
“I wonder if I should have been different, if I had had another father,” said Terence. “Of course, now I am to have one.”
“I think we are overdoing this intermarrying,” said Anna, as if a serious protest might have its effect. “I know I set the example, but I did not mean to start a fashion. We shall be simmering in a family cauldron indeed.”
“Are you really going to support a wife?” said Terence to Bernard. “And in the manner to which she is accustomed? It is impressive to meet a normal man, and see what is expected of him.”
“I am going to give Uncle Thomas an account of my position. It is just what might be thought. I am proud of being so like other men.”
“It is cowardly of you to insult me.”
“Why are so many things cowardly?” said Bernard. “Why is it cowardly to hit a person when he is down, or to strike a woman? Unkind and violent and quite inexcusable, but why cowardly? And why are bullies always cowards?”
“They cannot be,” said Terence. “Bullying is very brave. That is why they bully people weaker than themselves. They know how brave it is.”
“Which will have the odder husband, Tullia or I?” said Anna.
“You will,” said Bernard. “I just escape the term.” “Yes,” said Miss Lacy, looking from one to the other. “Yes, I think we may say so.”
“I really do not understand the ordinary man,” said Terence. “I once heard a friend say that he was glad he had had a hard bringing up, or he might not have been the worker he was. What astonishing things to be glad about! And he was quite ordinary.”
“Then perhaps I am not,” said Bernard. “I think I should be ashamed to have suffered early hardship. I never know why such a point is made of it in writing people’s lives. I would rather be able to respect them.”