He was really very angry. It was always difficult for him to be anything else with Aunt Laura; for he felt that it was somehow horribly unjust for her to be alive when his mother was dead, and he could never, never forget what his darling had told him of her stupid jealousy. On this occasion Aunt Laura seemed to be less disturbed than usual by his violence. She spoke with a calculated coolness that compelled the admiration of her husband, sitting very uncomfortably on the edge of the storm, desperately anxious to show that without his taking sides his wife could rely on his support.
“It’s funny, Edwin,” said Aunt Laura, stroking her black skirt, “that you should use the word Reverence. . . . It reminds me of something that I wanted to speak to you about. You realise, don’t you, that we are all supposed to be in mourning? And yet, day after day, I see you going down the town in a pair of white canvas gym. shoes. White. . . ! Now, you mustn’t talk to me about reverence, Edwin.”
Edwin burst out laughing. It was no good arguing with the woman. He gave a despairing glance at his father. Was it possible that the man could listen seriously to superficial cant of this kind? Was it possible that he could tolerate the woman’s presence in the house? He looked, and he saw nothing but tiredness and desolation in the man’s face. He saw that in reality his father was too tired for anything but compromise. All life, all determination had been stamped out of him, and though Edwin clutched at the sympathy which he knew must be concealed in the man’s mind, he began to realise that, after all, circumstances had left the whole household curiously dependent on Aunt Laura; that without her the whole domestic machine would collapse, and that, therefore, the infliction must be suffered patiently. Edwin determined to leave the matter where it stood, but Aunt Laura, inflamed with approaching triumph, would not let it rest. “I am sure that you agree with me, John,” she threw out challengingly.
“No doubt Edwin did not understand. You know more about the people in the town than we do, Laura.”
“Compromise . . .” thought Edwin, “but I suppose it can’t be helped.” At any rate nothing that he might do should give the man a moment’s discomfort. He possessed himself in silence.
“But I think, perhaps,” Mr. Ingleby went on, “that Edwin is right. It would be hardly worth while going back to St. Luke’s for a fortnight.”
“Of course you know best, John,” Aunt Laura hurried to assure him, “but it’s really quite impossible for us to put him up while the house is closed and you are away. You know that we’ve arranged to have the painters in.”.
On a matter of fact, and one outside controversy, Uncle Albert felt that he was safe in giving his support.
“I quite understand that,” said Mr. Ingleby, “but it’s a simple matter. Edwin can come with me.”
“Oh, father, how wonderful!”