The carriage that Mrs. Failing had sent to meet her nephew returned from Cadchurch station empty. She was preparing for a solitary dinner when he somehow arrived, full of apologies, but more sedate than she had expected. She cut his explanations short. "Never mind how you got here. You are here, and I am quite pleased to see you." He changed his clothes and they proceeded to the dining-room.
There was a bright fire, but the curtains were not drawn. Mr. Failing had believed that windows with the night behind are more beautiful than any pictures, and his widow had kept to the custom. It was brave of her to persevere, lumps of chalk having come out of the night last June. For some obscure reason--not so obscure to Rickie--she had preserved them as mementoes of an episode. Seeing them in a row on the mantelpiece, he expected that their first topic would be Stephen. But they never mentioned him, though he was latent in all that they said.
It was of Mr. Failing that they spoke. The Essays had been a success. She was really pleased. The book was brought in at her request, and between the courses she read it aloud to her nephew, in her soft yet unsympathetic voice. Then she sent for the press notices--after all no one despises them--and read their comments on her introduction. She wielded a graceful pen, was apt, adequate, suggestive, indispensable, unnecessary. So the meal passed pleasantly away, for no one could so well combine the formal with the unconventional, and it only seemed charming when papers littered her stately table.
"My man wrote very nicely," she observed. "Now, you read me something out of him that you like. Read 'The True Patriot.'"He took the book and found: "Let us love one another. Let our children, physical and spiritual, love one another. It is all that we can do. Perhaps the earth will neglect our love. Perhaps she will confirm it, and suffer some rallying-point, spire, mound, for the new generatons to cherish.""He wrote that when he was young. Later on he doubted whether we had better love one another, or whether the earth will confirm anything. He died a most unhappy man."He could not help saying, "Not knowing that the earth had confirmed him.""Has she? It is quite possible. We meet so seldom in these days, she and I. Do you see much of the earth?""A little."
"Do you expect that she will confirm you?"
"It is quite possible."
"Beware of her, Rickie, I think."
"I think not."
"Beware of her, surely. Going back to her really is going back--throwing away the artificiality which (though you young people won't confess it) is the only good thing in life. Don't pretend you are ******. Once I pretended. Don't pretend that you care for anything but for clever talk such as this, and for books.""The talk," said Leighton afterwards, "certainly was clever. But it meant something, all the same." He heard no more, for his mistress told him to retire.
"And my nephew, this being so, make up your quarrel with your wife." She stretched out her hand to him with real feeling. "It is easier now than it will be later. Poor lady, she has written to me foolishly and often, but, on the whole, I side with her against you. She would grant you all that you fought for--all the people, all the theories. I have it, in her writing, that she will never interfere with your life again.""She cannot help interfering," said Rickie, with his eyes on the black windows. "She despises me. Besides, I do not love her.""I know, my dear. Nor she you. I am not being sentimental. I say once more, beware of the earth. We are conventional people, and conventions--if you will but see it--are majestic in their way, and will claim us in the end. We do not live for great passions or for great memories, or for anything great."He threw up his head. "We do."
"Now listen to me. I am serious and friendly tonight, as you must have observed. I have asked you here partly to amuse myself--you belong to my March Past--but also to give you good advice. There has been a volcano--a phenomenon which I too once greatly admired. The eruption is over. Let the conventions do their work now, and clear the rubbish away. My age is fifty-nine, and I tell you solemnly that the important things in life are little things, and that people are not important at all. Go back to your wife."He looked at her, and was filled with pity. He knew that he would never be frightened of her again. Only because she was serious and friendly did he trouble himself to reply. "There is one little fact I should like to tell you, as confuting your theory.
The idea of a story--a long story--had been in my head for a year. As a dream to amuse myself--the kind of amusement you would recommend for the future. I should have had time to write it, but the people round me coloured my life, and so it never seemed worth while. For the story is not likely to pay. Then came the volcano. A few days after it was over I lay in bed looking out upon a world of rubbish. Two men I know--one intellectual, the other very much the reverse--burst into the room. They said, 'What happened to your short stories? They weren't good, but where are they? Why have you stopped writing? Why haven't you been to Italy? You must write. You must go. Because to write, to go, is you." Well, I have written, and yesterday we sent the long story out on its rounds. The men do not like it, for different reasons. But it mattered very much to them that I should write it, and so it got written. As I told you, this is only one fact;other facts, I trust, have happened in the last five months. But I mention it to prove that people are important, and therefore, however much it inconveniences my wife, I will not go back to her.""And Italy?" asked Mrs. Failing.
This question he avoided. Italy must wait. Now that he had the time, he had not the money.
"Or what is the long story about, then?"
"About a man and a woman who meet and are happy.""Somewhat of a tour de force, I conclude."
