“And what good does it do? Haven’t I seen the way people treat them - the ‘nice’ people, the ones they want to know? They’ll take anything from them - they’ll lie down and be trampled on. The nice ones hate that - they just sicken them. You’re the only really nice person we know.”
“Are you sure? They don’t lie down for me!”
“Well, you shan’t lie down for them. You’ve got to go - that’s what you’ve got to do,” said Morgan.
“And what will become of you?”
“Oh I’m growing up. I shall get off before long. I’ll see you later.”
“You had better let me finish you,” Pemberton urged, lending himself to the child’s strange superiority.
Morgan stopped in their walk, looking up at him. He had to look up much less than a couple of years before - he had grown, in his loose leanness, so long and high. “Finish me?” he echoed.
“There are such a lot of jolly things we can do together yet. I want to turn you out - I want you to do me credit.”
Morgan continued to look at him. “To give you credit - do you mean?”
“My dear fellow, you’re too clever to live.”
“That’s just what I’m afraid you think. No, no; it isn’t fair - I can’t endure it. We’ll separate next week. The sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep.”
“If I hear of anything - any other chance - I promise to go,” Pemberton said.
Morgan consented to consider this. “But you’ll be honest,” he demanded; “you won’t pretend you haven’t heard?”
“I’m much more likely to pretend I have.”
“But what can you hear of, this way, stuck in a hole with us? You ought to be on the spot, to go to England - you ought to go to America.”
“One would think you were MY tutor!” said Pemberton.
Morgan walked on and after a little had begun again: “Well, now that you know I know and that we look at the facts and keep nothing back - it’s much more comfortable, isn’t it?”
“My dear boy, it’s so amusing, so interesting, that it will surely be quite impossible for me to forego such hours as these.”
This made Morgan stop once more. “You DO keep something back. Oh you’re not straight - I am!”
“How am I not straight?”
“Oh you’ve got your idea!”
“My idea?”
“Why that I probably shan’t make old - make older - bones, and that you can stick it out till I’m removed.”
“You ARE too clever to live!” Pemberton repeated.
“I call it a mean idea,” Morgan pursued. “But I shall punish you by the way I hang on.”
“Look out or I’ll poison you!” Pemberton laughed.
“I’m stronger and better every year. Haven’t you noticed that there hasn’t been a doctor near me since you came?”
“I’M your doctor,” said the young man, taking his arm and drawing him tenderly on again.
Morgan proceeded and after a few steps gave a sigh of mingled weariness and relief. “Ah now that we look at the facts it’s all right!”
CHAPTER VII
They looked at the facts a good deal after this and one of the first consequences of their doing so was that Pemberton stuck it out, in his friend’s parlance, for the purpose. Morgan made the facts so vivid and so droll, and at the same time so bald and so ugly, that there was fascination in talking them over with him, just as there would have been heartlessness in leaving him alone with them. Now that the pair had such perceptions in common it was useless for them to pretend they didn’t judge such people; but the very judgement and the exchange of perceptions created another tie. Morgan had never been so interesting as now that he himself was made plainer by the sidelight of these confidences. What came out in it most was the small fine passion of his pride. He had plenty of that, Pemberton felt - so much that one might perhaps wisely wish for it some early bruises. He would have liked his people to have a spirit and had waked up to the sense of their perpetually eating humble-pie. His mother would consume any amount, and his father would consume even more than his mother. He had a theory that Ulick had wriggled out of an “affair” at Nice: there had once been a flurry at home, a regular panic, after which they all went to bed and took medicine, not to be accounted for on any other supposition. Morgan had a romantic imagination, led by poetry and history, and he would have liked those who “bore his name” - as he used to say to Pemberton with the humour that made his queer delicacies manly - to carry themselves with an air. But their one idea was to get in with people who didn’t want them and to take snubs as it they were honourable scars. Why people didn’t want them more he didn’t know - that was people’s own affair; after all they weren’t superficially repulsive, they were a hundred times cleverer than most of the dreary grandees, the “poor swells” they rushed about Europe to catch up with. “After all they ARE amusing - they are!” he used to pronounce with the wisdom of the ages. To which Pemberton always replied: “Amusing - the great Moreen troupe? Why they’re altogether delightful; and if it weren’t for the hitch that you and I (feeble performers!) make in the ensemble they’d carry everything before them.”
What the boy couldn’t get over was the fact that this particular blight seemed, in a tradition of self-respect, so undeserved and so arbitrary. No doubt people had a right to take the line they liked; but why should his people have liked the line of pushing and toadying and lying and cheating? What had their forefathers - all decent folk, so far as he knew - done to them, or what had he done to them? Who had poisoned their blood with the fifth-rate social ideal, the fixed idea of making smart acquaintances and getting into the monde chic, especially when it was foredoomed to failure and exposure? They showed so what they were after; that was what made the people they wanted not want THEM. And never a wince for dignity, never a throb of shame at looking each other in the face, never any independence or resentment or disgust. If his father or his brother would only knock some one down once or twice a year! Clever as they were they never guessed the impression they made. They were good-natured, yes - as good-natured as Jews at the doors of clothing-shops! But was that the model one wanted one’s family to follow? Morgan had dim memories of an old grandfather, the maternal, in New York, whom he had been taken across the ocean at the age of five to see: a gentleman with a high neck-cloth and a good deal of pronunciation, who wore a dress-coat in the morning, which made one wonder what he wore in the evening, and had, or was supposed to have “property” and something to do with the Bible Society. It couldn’t have been but that he was a good type. Pemberton himself remembered Mrs. Clancy, a widowed sister of Mr. Moreen’s, who was as irritating as a moral tale and had paid a fortnight’s visit to the family at Nice shortly after he came to live with them. She was “pure and refined,” as Amy said over the banjo, and had the air of not knowing what they meant when they talked, and of keeping something rather important back. Pemberton judged that what she kept back was an approval of many of their ways; therefore it was to be supposed that she too was of a good type, and that Mr. and Mrs. Moreen and Ulick and Paula and Amy might easily have been of a better one if they would.
But that they wouldn’t was more and more perceptible from day to day. They continued to “chivey,” as Morgan called it, and in due time became aware of a variety of reasons for proceeding to Venice. They mentioned a great many of them - they were always strikingly frank and had the brightest friendly chatter, at the late foreign breakfast in especial, before the ladies had made up their faces, when they leaned their arms on the table, had something to follow the demitasse, and, in the heat of familiar discussion as to what they “really ought” to do, fell inevitably into the languages in which they could tutoyer. Even Pemberton liked them then; he could endure even Ulick when he heard him give his little flat voice for the “sweet sea-city.” That was what made him have a sneaking kindness for them - that they were so out of the workaday world and kept him so out of it. The summer had waned when, with cries of ecstasy, they all passed out on the balcony that overhung the Grand Canal. The sunsets then were splendid and the Dorringtons had arrived. The Dorringtons were the only reason they hadn’t talked of at breakfast; but the reasons they didn’t talk of at breakfast always came out in the end. The Dorringtons on the other hand came out very little; or else when they did they stayed - as was natural - for hours, during which periods Mrs. Moreen and the girls sometimes called at their hotel (to see if they had returned) as many as three times running. The gondola was for the ladies, as in Venice too there were “days,” which Mrs. Moreen knew in their order an hour after she arrived. She immediately took one herself, to which the Dorringtons never came, though on a certain occasion when Pemberton and his pupil were together at St. Mark’s - where, taking the best walks they had ever had and haunting a hundred churches, they spent a great deal of time - they saw the old lord turn up with Mr. Moreen and Ulick, who showed him the dim basilica as if it belonged to them. Pemberton noted how much less, among its curiosities, Lord Dorrington carried himself as a man of the world; wondering too whether, for such services, his companions took a fee from him. The autumn at any rate waned, the Dorringtons departed, and Lord Verschoyle, the eldest son, had proposed neither for Amy nor for Paula.