Chapter: <CHAPTER>
14. AN IDEAL FAMILY.

That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the
swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old
Mr. Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring--warm, eager,
restless--was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front
of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on
his arm. And he couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't square up once more
and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the
late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all
over. Quite suddenly he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to stand
this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted
to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, "Be off with
you!" Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual--tipping his
wide-awake with his stick--all the people whom he knew, the friends,
acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that
went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, "I'm a
match and more for any of you"--that old Mr. Neave could not manage
at all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking
through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the
homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts
clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless,
defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams...

It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had
happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until close on four. Where
had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his father
know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye
to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual,
cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so
fascinating.

Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the
trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and
such lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the
servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they
worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some
forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen
his mother's purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook's
bedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement
edge. But it wasn't only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected,
it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they went
before him. So perhaps it wasn't to be wondered at that he expected the
office to carry on the tradition. H'm, h'm! But it couldn't be done. No
business--not even a successful, established, big paying concern--could
be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into
it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes...

And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole
thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself.
Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of ancient
cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The
wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. Sitting at
home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life's
work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold's fine
fingers, while Harold smiled...

"Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There's absolutely no need
for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when
people persist in saying how tired you're looking. Here's this huge
house and garden. Surely you could be happy in--in--appreciating it for
a change. Or you could take up some hobby."

And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, "All men ought to have hobbies.
It makes life impossible if they haven't."

Well, well! He couldn't help a grim smile as painfully he began to climb
the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sisters
and Charlotte be if he'd gone in for hobbies, he'd like to know? Hobbies
couldn't pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and their
horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in the
music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things.
No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable
woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact,
no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other family
entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigar
box across the smoking-room table, had listened to praises of his wife,
his girls, of himself even.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It's like something one
reads about or sees on the stage."

"That's all right, my boy," old Mr. Neave would reply. "Try one of
those; I think you'll like them. And if you care to smoke in the garden,
you'll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say."

That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could
have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were
too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H'm, h'm! Well, well.
Perhaps so...

By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue;
he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were
pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he
faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tulle
curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad
sills. On either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas--famous in
the town--were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower
lay like light among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old
Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on
the drive, were saying, "There is young life here. There are girls--"

The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on
the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and
impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated.

"And were there ices?" came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her
rocker.

"Ices!" cried Ethel. "My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two
kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet
frill."

"The food altogether was too appalling," came from Marion.

"Still, it's rather early for ices," said Charlotte easily.

"But why, if one has them at all... " began Ethel.

"Oh, quite so, darling," crooned Charlotte.

Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started,
she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave.

"Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home?
Why isn't Charles here to help you off with your coat?"

Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair
fell over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running
through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his
youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was
Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not
for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled
handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone
rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of
the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, "Is
that you, father?"

"You're tired again," said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the
rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked
his beard, Marion's lips brushed his ear.

"Did you walk back, father?" asked Charlotte.

"Yes, I walked home," said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the
immense drawing-room chairs.

"But why didn't you take a cab?" said Ethel. "There are hundred of cabs
about at that time."

"My dear Ethel," cried Marion, "if father prefers to tire himself out, I
really don't see what business of ours it is to interfere."

"Children, children?" coaxed Charlotte.

But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No, mother, you spoil father, and it's
not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty." She
laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange!
When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she
had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said--even if it was only
"Jam, please, father"--it rang out as though she were on the stage.

"Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?" asked Charlotte,
beginning to rock again.

"I'm not sure," said Old Mr. Neave. "I'm not sure. I didn't see him
after four o'clock."

"He said--" began Charlotte.

But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some
paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair.

"There, you see," she cried. "That's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with
touches of silver. Don't you agree?"

"Give it to me, love," said Charlotte. She fumbled for her
tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab
with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. "Very sweet!"
she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. "But I
shouldn't have the train."

"Not the train!" wailed Ethel tragically. "But the train's the whole
point."

"Here, mother, let me decide." Marion snatched the paper playfully from
Charlotte. "I agree with mother," she cried triumphantly. "The train
overweights it."

Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and,
dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he
was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were
too much for him to-night. They were too... too... But all his drowsing
brain could think of was--too rich for him. And somewhere at the back
of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up
endless flights of stairs. Who was he?

"I shan't dress to-night," he muttered.

"What do you say, father?"

"Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at
them. "I shan't dress to-night," he repeated.

"But, father, we've got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs.
Teddie Walker."

"It will look so very out of the picture."

"Don't you feel well, dear?"

"You needn't make any effort. What is Charles for?"

"But if you're really not up to it," Charlotte wavered.

"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that
little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room...

There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything
depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. Young
Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced
boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave
lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his
legs, and made his little evening joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" And
Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin
out of his tie.

H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very
pleasant--a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis
court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would
begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to
hear Marion's voice ring out, "Good for you, partner... Oh, played,
partner... Oh, very nice indeed." Then Charlotte calling from the
veranda, "Where is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly not here,
mother." And Charlotte's vague, "He said--"

Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he
took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard
over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and
spectacle case.

"That will do, my lad." The door shut, he sank back, he was alone...

And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights
that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were
like a spider's--thin, withered.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family."

But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why
was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was
no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old
spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the
dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates,
the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody!

Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the window
shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through
the big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-away
sounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long time.
He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him--this house and
Charlotte, the girls and Harold--what did he know about them? They were
strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife.
His wife!

... A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped sorrowful,
mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck.
A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, "Good-bye,
my treasure."

My treasure! "Good-bye, my treasure!" Which of them had spoken? Why had
they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his
wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a
dream.

Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his
hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, "Dinner is on the
table, sir!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," said old Mr. Neave.




</CHAPTER>

 Mr. Neave felt as if he were too old for spring this year. Walking home from work, as he had done countless times before, he suddenly felt very tired and subdued by his surroundings. He could not understand why. It had been an ordinary day at the office. His son, Harold, who stood to inherit the business, arrived hours late from lunch, sauntering into the office, apologizing to no one and yet everyone, especially the women, forgave him all his faults. Harold was too handsome by far with his full lips and eyelashes. Mr. Neave thought them uncanny and recoiled at the praise his son unjustly received from the family. Charlotte, his wife, and their daughters had made a "young god" of Harold and were forever telling Mr. Neave it was time for him to retire and leave the business to his son but how could Mr. Neave do so in good consciousness? Harold was unsuitable for the job: he didn't take the work seriously and had no idea how hard Mr. Neave had worked over the years to ensure the success of his enterprise. No, he could not leave it to Harold. "A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes..." Charlotte and the girls wanted him to stay at home and enjoy all of the luxurious he had worked so hard to acquire. They had the most popular house on Harcourt Ave and Charlotte and the girls were forever entertaining. Mr. Neave; however, bristled at the idea of being at home instead of at the office. His youngest daughter, Lola, had suggested he get a hobby to occupy his time hinting that he would be unbearable to live with otherwise. Mr. Neave, stopping near the ancient cabbage plants outside of the Government buildings to gather his thoughts, reflected that it was a good thing he had invested his time wisely or Charlotte and the girls would not have any of the wonderful things he had bought them over the years including the "sixty-guinea gramophone" in the music room and the many horses, tennis lessons, and the sea-side bungalow. Mr. Neave never begrudged his wife and daughters their accessories, knowing they were all put to good use, as the girls were very popular and Charlotte a remarkable wife and mother. Mr. Neave's house was frequently the site of large parties and he was often complemented on his "ideal family," especially the girls who were very beautiful and sought after but had chosen to stay at home rather than be married. It was a strange arrangement but one that suited Charlotte and the girls nicely. Rounding a corner, Mr. Neave came upon his home on Harcourt Ave. The open windows and beautiful flowers on the porch reflected the young lives of his daughters within. As Mr. Neave entered the house he overheard his wife and daughters talking to one another in the living room. He ran into Lola, his youngest, in the hallway. She had just finished playing the piano and was nervous about something and hardly acknowledged her father's presence. For his part, Mr. Neave barely recognized Lola, a young woman now in her prime. He thought of her still as a little girl and realized he did not know Lola as well as he thought he did. Going into the living room he met his wife Charlotte who reproachfully told him he looked tired. Ethel and Marion, his other daughters, echoed their mother's sentiment and Marion, taking control of the conversation, scolded her mother for allowing Mr. Neave to walk home when he should have taken a cab, implying that he was too old to walk such a distance. Marion's stern tone of voice was at odds with the young Marion that Mr. Neave remembered who had been a shy child and had stuttered. Now Marion shouted wherever she went, making her presence known. Mr. Neave sat down in his chair and was promptly forgotten by his family as they chatted about a dress that Ethel wanted from a catalogue and wondered aloud where Harold was and when he would return. Mr. Neave drifted off to sleep, realizing that Charlotte and the girls were too lively for him tonight. As sleep overtook him he thought he saw an old man climbing an endless flight of stairs. "Who is he?' Mr. Neave woke suddenly and was told to dress for dinner, they were to have guests again tonight. Mr. Neave protested that he was too tired to dress but the girls persuaded him to ask Charles, the butler, for help. Mr. Neave joined the old man on the stairs and walked to his dressing room. There, Charles waited to help Mr. Neave change into new clothes. Afterward Charles left Mr. Neave in the room. Finally alone, Mr. Neave reflected it would soon be time for tennis and the girls would have tennis parties and Charlotte would call out asking where Harold was and someone would reply that he said he would be there...His mind wandered and he saw the old man again, now climbing down the stairs, going out the door and heading to the office. Mr. Neave called out for someone to stop the man and woke himself with a jolt. He must have fallen asleep. He heard the far-away voices of his family. They had forgotten him, again. He listened to them for a moment and concluded that he did not know who they were. They were strangers to him. Life had passed him by and he had spent far too many hours at the office and not enough at home. He did not know Charlotte as well as he wanted to. He thought this Charlotte could not be his wife. His wife was the Charlotte of many years ago who wrapped her arms around his neck and called him "my treasure" The rest of his life has passed by in a dream. Then the door opened and Charles told Mr. Neave that dinner was ready and the old gentleman got up and said "I'm coming, I'm coming"

