‘Oh! Miss Templeton — I
was all engrossed in that story — why are we down a coal-mine?’
‘Because they have
wagons that are pulled along iron rails. Very smoothly, and only one way: along
those rails. I began to feel like one of those wagons.’
‘Dear me. Was Dr
Templeton very eager for you to marry?’
‘Well, my father never
pressed me: that is not his belief, and not his way, thank heaven. I dare say
he thought it would be a very good thing if I
were
to marry, and he has
always esteemed Mr Durrant; but still, it must be only of my own free choice.
George, my brother, was rather more pressing: likewise Lady Eastmond, in her
kind way, for she would like to make matches for everyone. But above all it was
the sheer force of society — of what was expected of me. There is no greater
tyranny, Miss Rae, than convention.’
Phoebe nodded
thoughtfully. ‘I am sure you are right.’
Lydia was not sure that
Phoebe ought to be so quickly and completely accepting her rightness: but there
was no denying it was pleasant.
‘And so, who more
suitable than Mr Lewis Durrant of Culverton? The rails were taking me straight
to him. Mr Durrant was so highly eligible — Lord, I remember hearing those
words so often they seemed to lose their meaning.’
‘Oh, yes — like when you
are writing a letter and you look at a certain word and wonder if it’s spelled
right, and then the more you think about it the stranger the word becomes.’
‘Just so. And since—’
‘Like “sugar”, which
when you look at it for a long time seems horribly unlikely and like an anagram
or something made up . . . Sorry. But really, I do ponder this — what
is
the
meaning of eligible? Does it merely mean being rich, and settled, and the right
age, and no madness in the family?’
‘For many people, that
is precisely the meaning. Indeed, you echo the very questions I was asking
myself at the time. Of course I do not, you may have gathered, like being told
what to do in any case. But it was more than that. Mr Durrant — and I speak of
the past, with no reflection on our current situation, where we rub along
pretty well as friends — Mr Durrant shared the general opinion of his
eligibility. He could not remotely conceive that I might not wish to marry him:
it was a matter of ask, and it shall be given you.’
Faces loom and fade in
the candlelight: young men, beseeching the honour of this dance, arranging the
fire-screen, fetching ices: offering here handsomeness, there good humour.
Lewis Durrant does not excel in either. He only acts as if he does.
‘I understand . . . And
yet — I’m picturing it, you see, Miss Templeton, and the picture is lacking
something,’ Phoebe said, with one of her little tangential insights, which
Lydia found very slightly alarming. ‘There must have been something more than
just eligibility. Is that a word? — never mind. Something — I hope I do not
offend — something on both sides.’
‘Oh! well, as to that, I
hope I should never even consider the addresses of a man to whom I was wholly
indifferent. There was, and is, certainly nothing insipid about Mr Durrant: one
could always talk with him and find something of interest, even if it was only
material for a good argument. There was never dullness, at least. And if I had
been absolutely set upon getting a husband, I might have done a lot worse, and
I dare say we would have made shift to get along, as people do.’
He is leading her to a
sofa, and she is reproaching him: he might put a little more animation into his
dancing. He might, he replies, if he considered dancing anything other than a
meaningless absurdity, dictated by convention: as well to talk of putting
animation into his shaving. Lydia: You are so very sure of everything! Mr
Durrant: Anyone who makes that reproach is sure of everything likewise: all
they mean is that they disagree. And between Lydia’s amusement and irritation a
firmer, sharper feeling arises: a conviction that she could never endure being
continually snuffed out like a candle in this way. Yes, she always looks for
that dark head and taut figure amidst the anonymity of maleness, and yes, there
is always a certain relish in striking her mind against his. But only relatively,
comparatively. For some that might be enough, but for Lydia merely enough is
not enough.
‘Oh, Miss Templeton, I
see what it is. The picture is complete: and I am sorry I was so behind-hand
with it. Of course, you were not in love with Mr Durrant: and that is the
sadness of the whole story.’
Lydia stiffened, and
found herself inhaling noisily in just the way she had always deplored in the
headmistress at Fulham. Then she laughed. ‘My dear Miss Rae, I think you are
right. You do see the picture complete; but I would not exactly call it sad. If
Mr Durrant had been in love with me, then it might have been sad indeed — but
on both sides, thankfully, there was so much solid indifference beneath our
superficial partiality that the result was both happy and inevitable. I settled
to the single life, which I must have known even then would suit me best, and
time has vindicated my choice.’
A wet November day, and
at Heystead Lydia stands gazing into the fire in the winter parlour, and
listening to the sounds of Mr Durrant’s horse being brought round to the
courtyard just outside the window. Chock of hoofs on gravel: some cheerful
remarks by the groom, unanswered: sharp trot quickening and dwindling into a
gallop. The fire smokes, making her eyes sting as new-minted memories drift
before them: the way the raindrops stood out like beads on his crisp black
hair, the tense tapping of his riding-crop against his leg, the look he gave
her after her answer — sharp, even contemptuous, as if he had caught her out in
some particularly despicable lie. Her feelings are complex, as is to be
expected: few pleasant: disliking agitation above all things, she is already
looking forward to their subsidence. Especially this quite unexpected one,
which certainly ought to have nothing pleasant about it: the feeling of power.
‘Well, I must admire
your resolution,’ Phoebe said, with a wistful shake of her head. ‘To have such
a command over yourself . . .’
‘Alas, self-command is
the only one we can be sure of. We cannot command the weather, or the
affections of others, or the health of our bodies. Why not avail ourselves of
the one power that is truly ours?’
They had come to an
avenue of lime trees, with a delectable prospect of the lake and the woods beyond,
and paused to admire it: though Lydia felt that both were looking inward as
well as out.
‘And now that is quite
enough about me,’ she said at last. ‘And at the risk of
my
appearing a
gossip, I confess that I too have heard something from Lady Eastmond — about
your own conquests, during your late London season. If it is a secret, I hope
you will forgive her making me privy to it.’
‘Oh! no, I knew she had
told you all about it, because she said so. “Miss Templeton is the one to
advise you,” she said, “and so she must know all.”‘
Lydia took a deep
breath. Well. That is certainly very — very direct of Lady Eastmond. Again, I
hope you are not offended.’
‘Not at all, for I badly
want advice,’ Phoebe said earnestly. ‘I was only afraid — with all respect to Lady
Eastmond — that you would find it rather an annoyance and a presumption. And
all the more, when she said she would persuade you to be my companion for a
stay in Bath.’
Lydia stared, gasped,
and at last burst into laughter.
‘I am glad you are able
to laugh about it,’ Phoebe said, smiling doubtfully, ‘because I — well, I have
had such pleasure in your company, Miss Templeton — indeed, I hope, friendship
— that I would hate it to be spoiled by something that to you may be an irksome
duty. Rather than that, I would happily drop the subject altogether.’
After a short struggle,
punctuated by an image of herself once more running on rails, Lydia squeezed
Phoebe’s hand and said: ‘Friendship is my hope too. But it is a poor sort of
friendship where the concerns only of
one
are to be talked of. Still, I
would not press you, if I had not felt several times that you had something on
your mind, which it would be a relief to let out.’
‘You are very
perceptive! I have set myself not to be mopish about it: I have told myself it
is better for the present
not
to think about it,’ Phoebe said, closing
her parasol as they entered the shade of the trees. ‘Still, it is like one of
those tunes that fixes itself in your mind and will not be driven out — and
isn’t it odd that they are usually tunes you do not particularly like?’
‘The two gentlemen in
question, though, you
do
like — is that not so? And the unpleasant tune,
as it were, is the difficulty of there being two of them.’
‘I must seem like the
completest idiot,’ Phoebe said bleakly.
‘I would have to meet
the two gentlemen to pronounce on that,’ Lydia said; then, feeling this to be a
step too far, added quickly: ‘However, Lady Eastmond has told me something of
them, and of the manner of your meeting, and so on. And my first thought — if
you will allow me — was that there should be no haste in the matter. You are
young — I know, by the by, how vastly irritating it is to be told that — and I
understand the acquaintance has not been long; and in short, there is all the
time in the world.’
‘Also, I have not met
many men,’ Phoebe said promptly, as if these arguments were familiar to her.
‘That is why Lady Eastmond feels Bath may benefit me, as I will see more
society. And perhaps choose another man altogether. Dear me. Now I sound like a
— a light o’ love.’
‘As to the variety of
men,’ Lydia said, laughing, ‘I fancy it is a little exaggerated. You are sure
to encounter pretty much the same types of men wherever you go. But yes, time,
reflection — I’m sure, you know, your own good sense has already recommended
these things to you.’
‘I’m afraid my good
sense works rather fitfully. Else I would not be in this ridiculous position.’
‘Why ridiculous? Two
eligible gentlemen — yes, we must have the word — have paid their addresses to
you: you have discovered in yourself a liking for them both; and you have the
perplexing responsibility of choosing wisely. I would call it difficult rather
than ridiculous.’
‘You have put the case
as it ought to be — as if Miss Templeton were in it, and not Miss Rae,’ Phoebe
said, very mournful. ‘Perhaps instead of ridiculous, I should have said
dreadful.’
‘You do not mean,’ Lydia
said, with a quiver of alarm, ‘you have made some undertaking — given some
promise—’
‘No, no — nothing so
sensible even as that. That at least would imply some sort of intent. The fact
is, Miss Templeton, I am in love with both of them.’ Phoebe aimed a very
creditable fencer’s jab at a tree-trunk. Yes! There. Now you really will regret
not dropping the subject, as I have revealed the full extent of my absurdity,
and you must wish to retreat from the acquaintance as fast as politeness will
permit.’
A little of this had,
indeed, flickered in Lydia’s mind at Phoebe’s avowal: enough to make her start
guiltily, and reply with willed firmness: ‘Nonsense — nothing of the sort. My
dear Miss Rae, you must think me quite the termagant. If, as you say, you are
in love with both of them, then — then the difficulty is merely increased . .
.’ She floundered.
‘What you wish to say,’
Phoebe sighed, ‘is that one cannot be in love with two people at the same
time.’
Lydia prepared a
spirited contradiction; but it would not do. She pressed Phoebe’s hand again.
‘I do wonder at it,’ she said simply.
‘So do I — when I think
about it, that is; but most of the time I am not thinking but feeling, and that
is such a very different matter. Lady Eastmond hoped, and yes, I hoped too,
that being away from them would bring some clarity to my feelings. I fear it
has only confused them more. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” says the
proverb — and then the other proverb says, “Out of sight out of mind,” which
makes nonsense of it. Indeed I dislike proverbs very much, don’t you?’
‘My dislike of them is
proverbial. Miss Rae, I don’t in the least mean to make light of your feelings:
I can see that your situation — your dilemma — is thoroughly uncomfortable. The
one question I would raise is, I suppose, of definition. Have you mistaken for
love what are simply feelings of liking and attraction?’
‘Exactly what Lady
Eastmond says,’ Phoebe replied, with a faint shrug.
‘Well, of course the
question is subtler than that,’ Lydia went on, a little nettled. She had not
wanted the role of counsellor, but if she must play it she would show herself
expert in it. ‘I dare say there are degrees and gradations of love also. One
may be a little in love, with a sort of delicate hesitation about it: or deep
in, beyond all thought of anything else.’
‘That is me, I fear:
deep in.’
‘But my dear Miss Rae,
surely not in both cases. Surely it is the nature of love to be exclusive.’
‘Well — not always —
after all, I loved both my father and my mother.’
‘Ah, familial love: that
is different from romantic love, entirely different.’
Phoebe was silent; and
for a moment Lydia thought she was going to ask her how she could know, when
she had never been in love herself. If so, then she would have to end the
conversation. There were limits.