desert wastes, and rotted tree trunks, and lifeless lakes where no birds sing. Every pleasurable walk on the moors, looking for snails, listening to larks climbing and plovers calling, was as surely accompanied by the vision of all this rotting and vanishing as their ancestors’ ramblings might have been by the vision of hell-fire, red-hot pincers, and eternal thirst.
Daniel asks Bill, watching him tidy away his post, what news he has of Frederica.
“None,” says her father. “She doesn’t deign to communicate. If I didn’t know her better I’d say she’d cast us off as vulgar relations, butI do know her better—she was properly brought up, as far as
that
goes, she may be an intellectual snob but she’s no social snob and
I absolutely refuse to believe
she married that man out of any desire to rise in the world of saddle-thumping bottoms and hunt balls. Now and then she sends a packet of snaps of the little boy. I notice she isn’t on them. We’ve got lots of pictures of him
on his pony
and
boating on lakes
—”
“Nothing wrong with ponies—”
“You know very well what I mean, Daniel. Very well. She’s bitten off more than she can chew. I can’t say I liked him—that
Nigel
—when we did meet, and I can’t say I’d choose to spend any more time in his company even if I was asked, which I won’t be. No, no good will come of it. She’s closed off from us, like Beauty and the Beast, like Gwendolen and Grandcourt, and one of these days she’ll turn up with bag and baggage, I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s not a patient creature, our Frederica, she might have been knocked sideways, but she’ll stand up again one of these days, and look around, and—”
“I don’t see how you can state all that, Bill,” says his wife. “You’ve no evidence for any of it. She may be very happy.”
“Do you think so? Do you think so?”
“No. But I don’t know. And there’s the little boy.”
“She’s my daughter. I know her. Something got into her. Something was always getting into her. She needed someone like you, Daniel, someone like us.”
Daniel says, “You wouldn’t even come to my wedding, you monster. You made everyone’s life a misery. You can’t just say we’re alike, now.”
“Well, we are. That was a battle of like with like. This isn’t. I should think the attraction of that
Nigel
was exactly that he wasn’t like us, that he had nothing to do with us. Well, there are lots of people who have nothing to do with us who would make better husbands for Frederica is all I can say—”
“You don’t
know
, Bill. You’re just hurt,” Winifred says.
“No, I’m not hurt. I’ve learned a few things. I’ve learned that if one of your daughters is dead, you just have to feel glad the other’s
alive
, even if she won’t come to see you, that’s what. You get things in perspective. What’s alive is alive, and kicking, I suppose. Frederica was always kicking. I’ve upset Daniel. I didn’t mean to. I’ll take myself off and write to Alexander. Daniel, you
know
how things are between us, don’t pucker up.”
“I know,” says Daniel. “Give my best to Alexander. He’s a good man.”
Marcus says he must go, and Jacqueline goes with him. Daniel shakes Marcus’s hand, which is no longer, he notices, limp like a dead fish. Marcus is a perfectly ordinary intellectual-looking thin young man, with longish pale brown hair, and glasses. Daniel asks Jacqueline if she still sees Gideon Farrar.
“No. I gave all that up. It suddenly seemed not to mean anything. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that. I never liked it, myself.”
“It does Ruth good. And it does her
no good
, too, in some ways, I think.”
“Indeed.”
Mary goes to bed, for a regulation prescribed rest, and Daniel is left alone with Winifred, in the quiet kitchen of Bill’s beautiful house. Winifred says, “Honestly, Bill is
too much.
He worries a lot about Frederica. He misses her—and then, with Stephanie
Daniel asks Bill, watching him tidy away his post, what news he has of Frederica.
“None,” says her father. “She doesn’t deign to communicate. If I didn’t know her better I’d say she’d cast us off as vulgar relations, butI do know her better—she was properly brought up, as far as
that
goes, she may be an intellectual snob but she’s no social snob and
I absolutely refuse to believe
she married that man out of any desire to rise in the world of saddle-thumping bottoms and hunt balls. Now and then she sends a packet of snaps of the little boy. I notice she isn’t on them. We’ve got lots of pictures of him
on his pony
and
boating on lakes
—”
“Nothing wrong with ponies—”
“You know very well what I mean, Daniel. Very well. She’s bitten off more than she can chew. I can’t say I liked him—that
Nigel
—when we did meet, and I can’t say I’d choose to spend any more time in his company even if I was asked, which I won’t be. No, no good will come of it. She’s closed off from us, like Beauty and the Beast, like Gwendolen and Grandcourt, and one of these days she’ll turn up with bag and baggage, I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s not a patient creature, our Frederica, she might have been knocked sideways, but she’ll stand up again one of these days, and look around, and—”
“I don’t see how you can state all that, Bill,” says his wife. “You’ve no evidence for any of it. She may be very happy.”
“Do you think so? Do you think so?”
“No. But I don’t know. And there’s the little boy.”
“She’s my daughter. I know her. Something got into her. Something was always getting into her. She needed someone like you, Daniel, someone like us.”
Daniel says, “You wouldn’t even come to my wedding, you monster. You made everyone’s life a misery. You can’t just say we’re alike, now.”
“Well, we are. That was a battle of like with like. This isn’t. I should think the attraction of that
Nigel
was exactly that he wasn’t like us, that he had nothing to do with us. Well, there are lots of people who have nothing to do with us who would make better husbands for Frederica is all I can say—”
“You don’t
know
, Bill. You’re just hurt,” Winifred says.
“No, I’m not hurt. I’ve learned a few things. I’ve learned that if one of your daughters is dead, you just have to feel glad the other’s
alive
, even if she won’t come to see you, that’s what. You get things in perspective. What’s alive is alive, and kicking, I suppose. Frederica was always kicking. I’ve upset Daniel. I didn’t mean to. I’ll take myself off and write to Alexander. Daniel, you
know
how things are between us, don’t pucker up.”
“I know,” says Daniel. “Give my best to Alexander. He’s a good man.”
Marcus says he must go, and Jacqueline goes with him. Daniel shakes Marcus’s hand, which is no longer, he notices, limp like a dead fish. Marcus is a perfectly ordinary intellectual-looking thin young man, with longish pale brown hair, and glasses. Daniel asks Jacqueline if she still sees Gideon Farrar.
“No. I gave all that up. It suddenly seemed not to mean anything. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that. I never liked it, myself.”
“It does Ruth good. And it does her
no good
, too, in some ways, I think.”
“Indeed.”
Mary goes to bed, for a regulation prescribed rest, and Daniel is left alone with Winifred, in the quiet kitchen of Bill’s beautiful house. Winifred says, “Honestly, Bill is
too much.
He worries a lot about Frederica. He misses her—and then, with Stephanie
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