“But they don’t care in return, Bernard! They care so little. That’s the heart-break. Parents are everlastingly giving out, and getting so little in return. It’s an empty feeling. Children give so little, in comparison with the love that is lavished on them.”
“Who expects them to care?” demanded the Squire. “It’s nature that the old should look after the young; it’s nature that the young should fly away. It’s no use bucking against nature! You are thinking of your own satisfaction, and the amount of happiness you are going to get out of the business. That’s where you’re wrong. There’s too much talk of happiness these days. I don’t believe in it. It makes people soft and finicking. If they thought less about their feelings, and more about their work, it would be a damned sight better for all concerned. We were not put into this world to be happy.”
“Weren’t we, Bernard, weren’t we?” Cassandra asked piteously. Five minutes ago it had seemed that happiness was the be-all and end-all of life, that in fact it was life itself, the only thing worthy of the name, but that was five minutes ago, and since then the veil had fallen. Pacing the terrace by Bernard’s side, the hard theory of work and duty seemed infinitely more applicable. And yet—life was so long! Barely thirty years behind and perhaps forty or more to come. Cassandra’s heart shrank at the prospect. She could have faced death bravely, but life appalled; long, dragging-out years of duty, unillumined by love. If it were hard now in the days of youth, and health, and beauty, what would it be in the searing of the leaf? She looked into her husband’s face, so strong and wholesome in its clear, out-of-door tints, and her heart went out to him in a wave of longing. As a drowning man will cling to the first support that his arms can reach, so did she turn to the man who had vowed to give her a lifelong support. If Bernard would care! If just for once he would show that he could care. Her starving heart cried out for food. It seemed impossible to live on, without a word of love or appreciation. She pushed her hand further through his arm, and gently smoothed the sleeve of his coat. It lay just beneath his eyes, the long, beautiful hand, the tapering fingers delicately white, with a tinge of pink on the almond-shaped nails; the square-cut emerald sent out gleams of light. Cassandra knew that that hand was a lovely thing. Surely the sight of it, resting there, would bring that other strong, brown hand to meet it! Then, grasping it fast, she could speak out, and say: “Help me, Bernard. Show me your love! I am only a woman, and I am afraid...” But the strong hand did not come. Bernard slackened his arm, and turned towards the house. His ear had caught the tremor in his wife’s voice, and it was his fixed decision that when women waxed emotional it was wisdom to leave them alone. He looked at his watch, announced that there was just time for a wash before lunch, and took his departure. And as he went he whistled a lively song.
Cassandra leant her arms on the stone balustrade and looked over the sloping gardens. The shimmer of green buds was on the trees; through the brown earth were springing living things. All the world was new, but in her breast her heart lay dead.
Chapter Twelve.
Her Infinite Variety.
“I should like,” announced Grizel to Martin over the breakfast table, “I should like to publish an apology, illuminated and framed, dedicated to middle-class house-mistresses, to explain how I’d misjudged ’em, and say I’m sorry.”
“Now that, in a manner of speaking, you have become one of them yourself.”