‘Is there?’ Phoebe said
wonderingly ‘I dare say . . . But then the strength of his feelings, you know —
I can allow for that in my own case. With you, it is a different matter—’
‘Phoebe, I insist that
you do not take this into account. Mr Beck’s feeling for you and his feeling
for me are entirely separate things.’
‘But they aren’t — not
to me. I cannot bear to think of the people I care for not liking each other.’
‘Can’t you? Then you must
live alone, Phoebe. Whoever you may choose to marry or not marry, this one
certainty remains: that you will think your husband’s friends contemptible
fools, and wonder how he tolerates them, and he will think the same of yours.’
‘Oh, Lydia — you exaggerate,
surely.’
‘Well, yes. There are
exceptions: occasionally the husband likes his wife’s friend so much he runs
off with her. Or vice versa. But generally the rule holds good. It is curious,
as presumably the same taste makes one choose friends and spouse.’
‘I suppose . . . But I
cannot think of things in the way you do, Lydia — in the abstract. I have
tried, but it’s no good.’
‘About things like this,
you should certainly not think in the abstract. But if anyone should think — well,
call it objectively, then it should be me. After all, that is what I am here
for.’
‘Yes — and I am very
thankful for it. I hardly know what I should do, left to myself.’
This, too, was a rather
alarming utterance. As brightly as she could, Lydia said: ‘Now, surely not. You
would do — as I am sure you are doing, as far as the shock of the moment
allows: think, reflect: consult your feelings as well as your reason: consider
the proposal in all its aspects, in every way that it tends to your happiness or
disquiet.’
‘Yes . . . but the one
consideration I keep coming back to is that I did not say yes at once. And
surely that is revealing: surely if one were certain, the yes would come
unbidden — without thinking — straight from the heart.’
Lydia hesitated. The
fact that Phoebe had not said yes to Mr Beck at once was, to her, a hopeful
sign — because she felt that Phoebe should never say yes to him at all. This,
of course, could not be said. But nor could she simply sigh and agree with
Phoebe that it was all too revealing. Intellectual honesty would not allow it.
‘It reveals, if
anything, your great surprise and confusion,’ she said, ‘and that
perhaps
reveals
the approach was a little hasty — a little soon — no more. But as for things
coming straight from the heart, I am not sure they are always to be so
implicitly accepted. I fancy they should at least pass through the head on the
way out, to receive the impress of reason, before they can be accepted as legal
tender. It makes them more valid, not less.’
Phoebe gave that a good
deal of thought. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I am passing it through my head —
but I am afraid it comes out no clearer. Still, I am glad to hear you say that:
that I was not wrong in hesitating.’ She walked to the window and gazed out, fixedly,
mistily. ‘It is dreadful to think of Mr Beck’s feelings just now — not knowing
what his answer is to be: whether he is to be happy, or . . .’ She turned
abruptly. ‘Oh, Lydia, I must accept him. Mustn’t I? It is too cruel — to think
of him being made miserable, when it only needs a simple answer—’
‘To make him happy.
Quite so. Nothing simpler. But that is to consider only his feelings, and not
yours. A thief may declare that he will be enormously happy if you give him all
your money, and miserable if you do not: is that a reason to hand over your
purse?’
‘No: to be sure, no,’
Phoebe said, but without total conviction: Lydia feared that she was picturing
the scenario of the beseeching thief and finding it problematical. Quickly she
took up a more promising line.
‘Your position, Phoebe,
is a difficult one, and it is no use pretending it isn’t: especially as there
is a third person to consider. I’m sure he has been present in your mind all
the time.’
Phoebe nodded, and with
a subdued smile came and sat down beside her. ‘Of course I did not say anything
of that to Mr Beck. But at the back of my mind was the thought of Mr Allardyce,
and how there was
his
happiness or unhappiness to consider. Though to be
sure, if a thief—’
‘Never mind the thief
Lydia said, stopping her with an affectionate, or at any rate powerful squeeze
of the hand. ‘We are talking of Mr Allardyce. We must establish how far he is a
factor in your decision, and what it means. For example — if there were
no
Mr
Allardyce, would your response today have been different?’
Phoebe took a deep
breath. ‘That is a very difficult question. My heart has an answer, but I had
better pass it through my head first.’
‘Let us just hear the
heart,’ said Lydia, beginning to regret her tendency to metaphor.
‘Then yes: I think I
would have been much more decided. I fear that when Mr Beck knelt before me, I
felt: This is not right, a woman in this position should not be — should not be
divided.
I felt unworthy, somehow.’
‘Well, now we are getting
somewhere: though I assure you, Phoebe, you are quite worthy of Mr Beck, or
indeed—’ Lydia was going to say ‘or indeed ten Mr Becks’, but caught herself in
time. ‘Or indeed anyone.’
Phoebe shook her head as
if to say she doubted that. ‘Well: the fact remains, there
is
a Mr
Allardyce, and my feelings must take account of him . . .’ She frowned. ‘Lydia,
I declare this must be dismally tedious for you, hearing me prate of my
feelings. You should not have to bear it. Perhaps — perhaps I ought to write to
Lady Eastmond: tell her all, and wait.’
‘By all means do that as
well. Certainly if you do wish to accept a marriage proposal, it will have to
be referred to Sir Henry and Lady Eastmond, as your guardians, for their
consent: but that we need not think of yet.’ And it would have little material
effect, she thought, as the consent was sure to come: Lady Eastmond had made it
plain she had no objections to either gentleman. ‘But my dear Phoebe, none of
this talk of tedium. It would be a poor sort of friend who could complain of
it, or indeed feel it, when the question is of such profound importance. Now
let us try another supposition. Imagine it had been Mr Allardyce making the
same proposal. What do you think your feelings would have been then?’
Phoebe stared resolutely
at a certain spot on the floor, which Lydia presumed was where Mr Beck had
performed his prostration. Then she shook her head again. ‘Really I cannot
imagine it, Lydia. It is quite a weakness of mine. You are very good at that —
picturing things that didn’t happen but might have: I really think you ought to
write a novel. Yes, why don’t you? I borrowed the most insipid thing from
Duffield’s the other day, and I’m sure that you could—’
‘Thank you, I shall bear
it in mind,’ Lydia said, restraining a smile, ‘but just now it is your story I
am concerned with, and how it is to be continued to a happy resolution. Mr
Allardyce proposing — think of it as a possibility, then, rather than a
picture.’
‘You do ask difficult
questions. You see, in the first place I know Mr Allardyce would never have
made an approach with such — with so little decorum. Also —’ Phoebe’s colour
rose ‘— I know he would never have behaved with such rudeness to you, which I
have not forgotten, by the way. But beyond that . . . Lydia, I cannot quite
imagine it because I do not feel, somehow, that Mr Allardyce’s regard for me is
such that . . . well, I do not think it reaches so far.’
‘Phoebe, this is modesty
beyond reason. Mr Allardyce’s attentions — his so evident desire of renewing the
acquaintance, after that time in London—’
‘Oh, I do not say there
is no regard: I should be a dull, ungrateful creature to think that. I even
flatter myself that there is a degree of attachment — but as to the issue of
it, I am unsure. Mr Allardyce’s manners are so universally obliging, and there
is such charm in his address, that one may be easily misled—’
‘Phoebe, you do full
justice to Mr Allardyce’s qualities, but you err in how you value them, and
still more in how you value yourself. Trust me: there is no question of the
strength of his attachment: I have particular reasons for my certainty in this
matter. The issue of it, of course, I cannot speak for — but if any doubt about
his present sincerity is clouding your mind, then dispel it.’
‘I confess there has
been a little doubt,’ Phoebe said, with a look half mournful, half glowing.
‘But if I have your assurance—’
‘You do. And I give it
with no interested motive; only so that you may be quite clear about everything
that affects your decision.’
Yes . . . my decision.’
Phoebe’s eyes dwelled again on the spot of carpet: then she turned with a
sudden uneasy flash of hope. ‘That is — if I do have to make one.’
‘Well — you might pack
your trunk at once, leave Bath incognito, and run away to sea; but I am not
sure that anyone would find that a satisfactory solution.’
‘No,’ Phoebe said
seriously, as if she had already considered it, ‘but I must give Mr Beck an
answer; and I do not know what answer to give — I am so torn — no sooner coming
to one conclusion than thinking of another. And so I wonder if I might not say
so to him. Tell him that I am gratified by his proposal, and so forth, but I
cannot yet come to a decision on it; and if he will be so good as to accept a
postponement . . .’
Lydia was shaking her
head, partly in admiration at Phoebe’s desperate resourcefulness, but chiefly
in pity for Mr Beck, as she imagined him condemned to such a tantalising
durance. She might wish some minor ills on him, but not that. ‘Phoebe, I’m sure
on reflection you will see that that is a hard thing to ask of Mr Beck. It
offers him hope, but does not guarantee him against the ultimate pain of
refusal — the worst of both worlds. A simple “No” would hurt, but it would not
torture. I am afraid the decision must be made, no matter how hard it seems: a
man accepts that risk when he poses such a question. That does not mean the
decision must be made
quickly —
only that it is not fair to tantalise.’
‘You’re right, of
course,’ Phoebe said, with a deep, full sigh. ‘You think, then, that I should
refuse him?’
Lydia kept the closest
rein on her own expression. No hint of alarm: above all no hint of the loud
‘Yes!’ resounding in her mind. ‘I hope, I devoutly hope, that I have said
nothing so categorical on either side of the question. I think you should do
whatever appears, on careful reflection, to offer you the best chance of
happiness in the long life ahead.’
Phoebe’s great rich eyes
pinned her. She was waiting for more.
‘If it should appear
that accepting Mr Beck’s proposal of marriage — and marrying him, of course,’
Lydia went on, in what she feared was a rather lumbering fashion, ‘if that is
what you feel will secure your lasting happiness — leaving aside Mr Allardyce,
leaving aside all other considerations — then, to be sure, you cannot do better
than accept.’
‘Leaving aside all other
considerations,’ Phoebe repeated trustfully.
Yes. If on the other
hand you entertain any doubts — any scruples — if you find that anything more
than mere surprise and temporary flutter of the spirits is holding you back
from accepting him, then — then you must give those doubts their due weight,
put aside any squeamishness about wounding his feelings and . . . act
accordingly.’ Lydia drew breath: she felt rather as if she had had to deliver
an extempore lecture on a difficult subject to an expert and hypercritical
audience.
Phoebe was silent: she
seemed to be making an effort not to look at that place on the carpet. I shall
have to put a table on it, Lydia thought.
‘Would it be acceptable,’
Phoebe said, stirring, ‘or at least, would it be right, to answer Mr Beck in
writing? I am only wondering if it is an option — for I am such a coward.’
‘It is quite
acceptable,’ Lydia said — electing not to add that a letter tended to be
associated with a refusal. ‘But please, Phoebe, do recall that this must be
your decision alone: that in matters of the heart you are your own best
counsellor, and that even the most well-meant advice is not so very far off
from mischief. Having said that, I will proffer one piece of advice, which I
excuse by referring it to folk wisdom: that is, it is best to sleep on such a
question, and see how it looks in the morning. Mr Beck can find no excessive
delay in that, and you will find your own feelings much more manageable.’
‘That would indeed be a
relief. I feel I must stop thinking and thinking of it — as if that were
possible . . . Do you think — would it be very bad if we were— to drink some
wine before supper?’
‘I think it would be
very good, not very bad,’ Lydia said, almost bouncing off the sofa in her haste
to ring the bell. ‘A glass of wine fortifies, and you have had a — well, a
tiring experience, which requires fortification.’
‘Dear me, you make me
sound like a castle.’
Lydia was glad to find a
little lightness entering Phoebe’s tone, even though her face remained grave
and pale, and her eyes were elsewhere. ‘Even two glasses will not hurt you,’
she said, maintaining the same tone, ‘and while we drink them, you can tell me
what I should write my novel about. It is not a thing I have ever considered,
and I am sure I could not do it, but you have whetted my curiosity. Is it to be
Gothic? We are back to castles again. I must warn you, Phoebe, I have a healthy
disrespect for ghosts, and my only response to a Bleeding Nun would be to offer
her a piece of court-plaster.’