It looked like a month before Emmeline had recovered sufficiently to allow her to resume her classes. Actually the time had been so short that Luke and Dussie had not discovered her absence. But they had so many preoccupations! Luke was writing detective stories. He wrote for dear life, as though he had never had a hobby before and could not conceivably have another.
Dussie collaborated, criticising with a contemptuous common-sense the more outrageous effronteries of his plots.
They had had one accepted.
‘Stout old yarn,’ − Luke was telling Martha all about it, about its cruise among the editors, its ultimate haven − ‘We’ll go down to posterity yet: Sherlock and Missus.’
They were dreadfully − and quite sincerely − sorry to hear that Emmeline had been ill, and eagerly gave Martha the magazine to read that contained their detective story.
Dussie Enters on an Affair of Moment
Dussie had all this while been engaged on an affair of moment: to find someone for Martha to fall in love with. Happy herself, she longed to make her friend as happy, and knew only one way for doing it. But the men to whom she was introduced made little of Martha. She did not repulse them; but she seemed not to know that they were there.
‘I can’t get her to see,’ Dussie said.
‘Why should she see?’ Luke asked. − ‘No, she’s not too innocent. She’s not innocent at all. She’s integral. Herself. And a singularly rare self. It would be criminal to alter it.’
Philosopher though he fancied himself, he had fallen into the plain man’s error over Martha. He had made up his mind about her and was satisfied with that. She was the spirit made visible in flesh; tangible thought. He forgot that she was alive.
‘No man in his senses would want Marty changed,’ he said.
‘A woman in her senses would,’ retorted Dussie.
But Dussie did not get far that summer in the management of Martha’s affairs. In August she bore a son, who lived an hour. Dussie was very ill too, for all her splendid vitality.
Luke took it hard. He had wanted his son. But in her weakness Dussie became dearer. She made no lamentation over the dead child; but sometimes in the darkness, slipping from her bright defiant capriciousness, with low words that were maternal in their solicitude, she consoled him for his loss. He divined that in comforting him she comforted herself and loved her as he had never loved her before, this new tender Dussie, comforting him in the night.
When the winter session was in swing again she was ready for company. There were merry meetings in Union Street; but she refused passionately to have Macallister in the house again. The Greek statue glare. …
Luke laughed, and talked philosophy with Miss Warrender instead.
‘A most informative lady,’ he called her.
Martha had never lost her early fear of Miss Warrender. Less diffident now, she talked in company; but if Miss Warrender were present she sat mute, anxious and self-distrustful.
‘But why?’ persisted Dussie. She rather liked Miss Warrender herself. She talked so well − kept a conversation going. Martha, Dussie reflected, must be cured of this over-sensitiveness: now that she herself was growing well again it was time to resume that important undertaking to which she had vowed herself − the finding of someone with whom Martha could fall in love: but meanwhile it was pleasant to dissect Miss Warrender.
‘O shut up, will you!’ cried Luke from the other side of the fireplace. ‘Can’t you see that I’m engaged on a deathless work?’ He waved his sheet of paper, and read aloud:
‘Strange that the spirit’s infelicity
Should rob the world of beauty −
‘That’s deathless, but I can’t get any further.’
‘Didn’t know you were a poet,’ said Dussie.
‘Neither did I, until today.’
He mouthed the lines again.
‘That’s a magnificent opening for a man’s first sonnet, you know.’
He continued to write poetry. Magnificent openings that reached no conclusions. He had none of your young poet’s diffidence in showing them off. No hole-and-corner self-consciousness. He displayed his accomplishment gratuitously. Why not? Had he possessed a Cloisonné vase, a fine quartz crystal, a son, he would have showed them off with the same eager gesture. Like his faculty for verse, they were among the myriad enticements that life offers to the curious.
In spring he announced the advent of his first long narrative poem.
‘It’s about the Archangel Gabriel. He gets tired of hopping about heaven, so down he comes, moons about on earth for a bit and does a star turn.’
‘I don’t wonder − much more fun out of heaven,’ said Dussie.
‘Nonsense! More fun out of heaven? Fat lot you know about it. Much more fun in heaven than anywhere else. Isn’t it, Marty? Don’t you expect fun in heaven?’
Martha looked at him, a slow considering look. She was not an eager talker. I can wait, her willing silences implied; but her pauses were not hesitant, giving rather a sense of hoarded powers. Now she said, slowly:
‘Of course. There will be so much to discover.’
‘Of course! Hell’s the sort of place where everyone sits around with a teacup and wonders what on earth to say next. O, they’re a dull lot down in hell. Sensible. Everyone as like everyone else as ginger-beer bottles. Nobody with a mind of his own. Whereas in heaven you’ll have all the really interesting people, the cranks and eccentrics, the fanatics and fools, all the folk who aren’t afraid to be really themselves. No, my dears, there will be neither originality nor style nor humour in hell.’
‘I hope we’ll get some humour in heaven, then,’ said Dussie. ‘It would be awful to be serious all the time.’
‘Never you fear. Heaven isn’t serious. How do you imagine we could stand being as wise as we shall be if we weren’t able to laugh at ourselves? You take my word for it, a sense of humour’s a paradisal possession. It’s the liberating agency. You go crawling about under a heavy tombstone, suitably inscribed, Wife of the Above and all the rest of it, until suddenly one day you see how confoundedly funny it all is, and then you come out with a great shout of laughter at yourself, and hey presto! up you walk to the next ring of the circus.’
With his arm round Dussie, he began to declaim his lines.
‘What’s that?’ she asked. ‘The new pome?’
‘My latest and greatest. Wait till I tell you about it.’
Eager, impetuous, he spoke: as though the doings of the Archangel Gabriel were all that mattered in the world.
‘You see, he grew tired of heaven, because he wanted to know what God was really like to the people on earth. So he visited a man, and took him up to heaven. Tremendous experience for the man, of course, but that’s not what really matters. What really matters is what Gabriel discovered by taking the man up. But I’ve got them hung up between earth and heaven just now, and I can’t get any forrader.’
He swung into the lines again, chanting them, hypnotised with his own creation:
‘But the full certainty of understanding
Was his not ever. He had oft to go
Among the worlds, and knew their fierce