To Paradise

VIII

For a few moments, David merely sat, stunned by the story that Charles had related, a story that had the effect of abruptly deflating his own giddy happiness, but also any annoyance he may have felt for his grandfather. He thought with pity of poor young James, whose life was now, as Charles had said, transformed, and who would be haunted by this event forever—he was not to blame, but he would never quite believe that fact. He would spend his adulthood either trying to apologize for what he thought he had done or denying it. One path would make him feeble; the other, bitter. And poor Charles, to have once again brushed against death, to once again be associated with the loss of someone so young!

But he was also aware of a shame of his own, for until his grandfather had handed him the letter, he had quite forgotten about Charles Griffith.

Or—not forgotten, perhaps, but ceased to be curious about him. The idea of marriage itself had similarly lost any of the sense of intrigue it had once had, even if that intrigue had been tempered by wariness. It seemed, suddenly, a declaration of timidity to allow oneself to be shuttled into a marriage, to surrender the idea of love for stability, or respectability, or dependability. And why would he resign himself to a dun-colored life when he could have another? He pictured himself—unfairly, he knew, for he had never seen Charles Griffith’s house—in a spacious but plain white clapboard structure, prettily bordered with hydrangea bushes, sitting in a rocking chair, a book in his lap, staring at the sea like an old lady, waiting for his husband’s heavy tread on the front porch. In that instant, he was again furious at his grandfather and his grandfather’s desire to condemn him to a colorless existence. Did his grandfather think that was the best he might imagine for himself? Did he, despite his protestations to the contrary, believe that the best place for him was an institution, if not a literal one, then a domestic one?

It was with these confused thoughts that he entered his grandfather’s drawing room, shutting the door behind him a touch too forcefully, which caused his grandfather to look up at him, surprised. “I apologize,” he mumbled, to which his grandfather said only, “What had he to say?”

He handed his grandfather the pages, silently, and his grandfather took them, and unfolded his glasses, and began to read. David watched him, able to discern by his deepening frown how far into Charles’s narrative he had ventured. “My goodness,” said his grandfather, at last, removing his glasses and refolding them. “Those poor boys. That poor family. And poor Mister Griffith—he sounds wretched.”

“Yes, it’s a terrible thing.”

“What does he mean when he says he was embarrassed by your last conversation?”

He told his grandfather, briefly, about Charles’s loneliness, about how forthcoming he had been, and his grandfather shook his head, not with disapproval but with sympathy.

“So,” he said, after a silence, “are you planning on seeing him again?”

“I don’t know,” David replied, after his own silence, looking into his lap.

A third silence ensued. “David,” said Grandfather, gently. “Is something the matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been so—distant. Are you feeling all right?”

He realized then that his grandfather thought he was entering one of his illnesses, and as bothered as he was by this, he also wanted to laugh at how incorrectly his grandfather had interpreted his life, at how little he truly knew of him, though understanding this made him sad as well.

“I am perfectly fine.”

“I thought you enjoyed talking to Mister Griffith.”

“I do.”

“He certainly seems to enjoy talking to you. David. Don’t you think?”

He stood then, seizing the poker and jabbing at the fire, watching the neatly stacked logs spit and tumble. “I suppose.” And then, when Grandfather said nothing: “Why do you want me to get married?”

He could hear the surprise in his grandfather’s voice. “What do you mean?”

“You say it is my decision, but it certainly seems as though it is yours. Yours and Mister Griffith’s. Why do you want me to get married? Is it because you think I cannot do better for myself? Is it because you think I cannot take care of myself?”

He could not turn to look at his grandfather’s face, but he felt his own grow hot, both from the fire and from his display of impertinence.

“I do not know, nor understand, what prompted this,” his grandfather began, slowly. “As I have told not just you but all of you, I have worked to ensure that the only reason my grandchildren need marry is for companionship. You, David, you had indicated you were interested in the possibility; it is only because of that that Frances began indicating that we were open to offers. As you know, it was you who had declined a number of offers before even meeting the gentlemen—perfectly good candidates, I might as well tell you—and so, when Mister Griffith’s offer arrived, Frances suggested, and I agreed, that I ought to urge you to at least try to entertain the idea of indulging the man before wasting yet more of everyone’s time.

“This is for your future happiness, David—all of it. It is not for my pleasure, nor for Frances’s, I assure you. This is being done for you, and only for you, and if I sound resentful, or peeved, I do not mean to be—only bewildered. You are the one responsible for making the decisions, and it is at your prompting that this process is even underway.”

“And so, because I had rejected so many previous candidates, I was left with—who? People no one else would consider? A widower? An old man with no education?”

At this, his grandfather rose to his feet so swiftly that David was afraid he meant to strike him, and grabbed David’s shoulders and made him face him.

“You astound me, David. I did not raise you nor your siblings to speak of other people like this. You are young, yes, younger than he is. But you are—I had thought—wise, and he is clearly tenderhearted, and many marriages are made on much, much less. I don’t know what has inspired this—this tantrum, this suspicion of yours.

“He is obviously fond of you. He may even love you. I imagine he would be amenable to discussing whatever concerns you may have, about where you might live, for example. He has a house in the city; he had never indicated to Frances that you must live in Massachusetts, if that’s what’s troubling you. But if you are truly not interested in him, you are obligated to tell him. You owe the gentleman that. And you must do so in person, and do so with kindness and gratitude.

“I don’t know what is happening to you, David. Over the past month, you have changed. I have meant to speak to you of it, but you have been so unavailable.”

His grandfather stopped, and David turned away again to look at the fire, hot with shame.

“Oh, David,” his grandfather said, softly. “You are so dear to me. And you are indeed correct—I do want you to be with someone who will care for you: not because I think you incapable of caring for yourself but because I believe you would be happiest with another. In the years since you returned from Europe, you have become less and less a part of the world. I know your sicknesses have been trying—I know how depleted they leave you and, moreover, how ashamed you are of them. But, child, this is a man who has endured great sorrow and illness in his past and has not run from them; he is therefore a man worth considering, because he is a man for whom your happiness will always be his concern. That is who I want for you.”

Together, they stood in silence; his grandfather looked at him, and David looked at the floor. “Tell me, David,” said his grandfather, slowly, “is there somebody else in your life? You can tell me, child.”

“No, Grandfather,” he said to the ground.

“Then,” his grandfather said, “you must write to Mister Griffith at once and tell him you accept his offer to see him again. And at that meeting, you must either break off relations entirely or you must tell him of your intentions to continue communications. And if you do decide to keep speaking with him, David—and though you have not asked me, I think you ought—then you must do so with sincerity and with a generosity of spirit of which I know you to be capable. You owe the man that. Will you promise me this?”

And David said he would.