A God and His Gifts (4 page)

“It was Aunt Penelope who recognised it. He never thinks of the difference between her and me.”

“He does not, you fortunate elf. The difference is too great. So in a sense it might not be there. But I was a step on the way. I tried and failed. I aspired to be what I was not. And so I remained what I am.”

“Aunt Penelope says I should improve myself. All she sees in me is room for improvement.”

“She is not quite right there. And I confess I don't mind her being a little wrong sometimes.”

“She and Father are not alike, are they?”

“Heaven forbid!” said Ada, lifting her hands. “If there is a more disparate brother and sister, I have yet to meet them. But she serves Father's purpose. And so serves ours in a way. She may have saved us from a stepmother. So I am grateful to her, or feel I should be, which is much the same thing.”

“I think it is quite different.”

“So it is, you perceptive sprite. I was making a false claim. I can't go the whole length with her, and that is the truth. I see her qualities; I see the scale she is built on; I recognise my second place. But I can't whole-heartedly go the full way. It is a thing I can't explain.”

“I think you have explained it.”

“So I have. And I have explained myself as well. And a poor figure I cut, in my own estimation anyhow. I hope it is disguised from other people. I think I have a
right to that. For it is not my true level. I shall rise above it. I am determined, and that is half the battle. I will not lose hold of myself.”

“A strong resolve,” said a resonant voice, as Miss Merton entered the room, a tall, spare, elderly woman, with an experienced expression, resigned, grey eyes and an untypical but definite face. “But one we can keep, if we will. We have ourselves in our own hands.”

“So we have, Aunt Penelope. And it is a power I am resolved to use. It does not matter along what line. We need not pursue it.”

“We will not, as we are not invited to,” said her aunt, smiling. “Our dealings with ourselves are our own.”

“Is Father in his study? Is he happy by himself? I thought he seemed harassed at breakfast.”

“That was natural, as he was harassed. He is at the end of some work, and beset by the final troubles.”

“I wish I could be of some help. How impotent I feel!”

“You wish you were older and more erudite. It is natural that you are not.”

“I don't wish she was either,” said Emmeline.

“No, I wish I had the nameless thing that you have, Aunt Penelope. I don't think it depends on age and erudition. Those might come to me in the end; and one of them must come; but that will not. I am in no doubt about it. And neither are you.”

Miss Penelope smiled again on her brother's girls, her expression suggesting that she accepted them as they were. Ada was tall and strong and upright, with an opaque, clear skin, thick, brown hair, slightly puzzled, blue eyes and features that were pleasant and plain. Her sister was short and plump and fair, with a pale, full face and uneven, childish features that somehow attained the point of charm. She suggested the confidence in her own appeal, that her family accepted and encouraged.

The house they lived in was book-lined and not without grace, and seemed like a home from an old university
moved to the country, which in its essence and life it was.

“Well, is my pupil prepared for me? I have given her time.”

“I fear she is not,” said Ada. “And I fear the fault is mine. Other subjects arose, and I admit I myself was one of them.”

“Well, they may have had their claim. Certainly the last one had.”

“A little learning is a dangerous thing,” said Emmeline. “And I should never have much. So perhaps I am better without it.”

“Better than many of us, I believe,” said her aunt, smiling.

“You are right, Aunt Penelope,” said Ada. “It is large of you to see it. Ah, the old sayings are the best. Their wisdom never wears out. ‘A little learning' and the rest. ‘He does much who does a little well'. They hold the truth.”

“Perhaps the surface of it. I think not always more. When someone does a little well, that is what he does. And very little it can be. Is there more truth in the theory of the great failure?”

“There may be. And perhaps a little truth in that of the small one. I must hope there is, as that is what I shall be. I feel it more when I talk to you, and glimpse the something beyond myself. But I remain an advocate of sayings. They give us wisdom in a nutshell. And that is what we need.”

“There can't be room for much in one,” said Emmeline.

“I think there is not,” said her aunt. “Real knowledge must have depth and scope. I say nothing for the condensed or more likely the reduced form of it.”

“Well, it is better than nothing,” said Ada. “Though again I glimpse the gulf between us. Half a loaf may be better than no bread.”

“Half is a good deal,” said Emmeline. “And is it much good for a thing to be great, when it is failure?”

‘Well, what is the talk?” said a deep voice, as Penelope's brother entered the room, a tall, handsome, grey-haired man, whose features suggested his sister's controlled to a better form. “Let me know the matter in hand.”

“The great failure, Father,” said Ada. “Aunt Penelope pleads ably for it. I was content to take a humbler stand.”

“If by great, you mean on a considerable scale, I would hardly plead for it. I am involved in one.”

“Oh, no, you are not, Father. It is the exhaustion after a prolonged effort. You need not fear. I do not for you.”

“I share people's fears for themselves,” said Penelope. “They have the true basis.”

“But we need not encourage them. We can render a better service. I do feel my line is right there.”

“Mr. and Miss Egerton,” said a servant at the door.

“Now you have come at an opportune moment,” said Ada. “You find my father out of heart, and can say a word to cheer him. You can be no strangers to the reaction after endeavour. You have a twofold knowledge of it, as your two lives are one.”

“It is true,” said Hereward. “But reaction may not come by itself. It tends to carry a sense of unsuccess. You are right that I am no stranger to it. I can offer nothing better than sympathy.”

“But that may be the best thing. To feel that someone suffers what you do, that it is not an isolated experience, may lift the heart more than anything. You may have said the word that was needed. I somehow felt you would.”

“We are helped in trouble by knowing we are not alone in it,” said Penelope, with a note of condoning the truth.

“Yes, Aunt Penelope. If either was flushed with success, the other might feel the contrast, would be bound to feel it. As it is, each is uplifted. I am sure I am right.”

“You may be,” said Zillah. “It does sound like knowledge of our nature.”

“Well, that is a thing I have. It is a fair claim. It is my own peculiar province, natural to me. It comes to me not out of books, but from something in myself. Human life goes on all round me; human nature is emplified in it. I have watched it and drawn my own conclusions, weighed them in the balance and not found them wanting. I am a companion for anyone on that ground.”

“Then will you be my companion, Ada?” said Hereward, moving towards her. “My province is the same as yours. We need the same companionship. My sister and I have it, and would give it to you. And be grateful if you would take and return it.”

There was the moment of silence. Ada's father came to her side. She was the first to find her words.

“Why, I did not know that proposals took place in public like this.”

“They do not. This is not a usual one,” said Hereward. “It offers what is usual, but it asks more. You would share a home with my parents and my sister. Share me with her, and give her a part of yourself. You see why I make it in your father's hearing. It seemed that he should know the whole.”

“Dear Sir Michael and Lady Egerton! It would be a privilege to share a home with them. And I have always wanted Zillah's friendship, and felt it was presumptuous of me. There is only advantage for me there.”

“Then if you will share even more with me, and share it always, may I feel our word is pledged?” said Hereward, taking her hand and looking at Alfred.

“Yes, there is something to be done there. My father's consent must be sought and gained before we go any further. Father, you have no objection to Hereward as a son?”

“None to him as a son. As my daughter's husband it is hard to be sure. He asks, as he says, more than other men. Is he to give any more? You have a stable nature;
I have valued it, my dear. He is more uncertain, and, as I should judge, could be carried away. If there are risks in the future, are they his or yours?”

“They are mine, Father. I face them with open eyes. I am prepared to give some quarter. I don't feel I am so much in myself. I am hardly on the level of Hereward and Zillah, and am not unwilling to redress the balance.”

“As your father I can hardly support that account.”

“Nor can I,” said Hereward. “I accept it even less than you. I don't ask you to trust me with your daughter. That is asking much. If she will trust herself to me, I will accept and fulfil the trust. I think it is for her to judge.”

“I have judged, Father,” said Ada.

“Then I have no more to say. But I have meant what I said. I hope you will never have to remember my saying it. Well, so the change is to come. And I am not to lose my daughter. And to welcome the son I have not had. I can say with Ada that there is only advantage for me there.”

“You are to have more than a son, Father. You will have a fellow-worker. There will be a healthy rivalry. The scholar and the novelist pitted against each other. With me as the intermediary, ensuring that it remains healthy. Well, it is a character I can fill. It is the sort of secondary one that fits me. Indeed all the parts I am to play will be suited to myself. I need feel no qualm.”

“How you think of yourself, Hereward!” said Emmeline. “You forget that Ada has a sister. She does not like you any better than me, and you will not have the whole of her. I shall often be with her, whether you want me or not.”

“And with me too, Emmeline,” said Hereward, drawing her to him. “You will be with both of us. I shall be your brother. Don't you know that is part of it to me?”

“Oh, what a sister to have!” said Ada. “If our places were reversed, should I have had this welcome? I doubt it. Indeed, I can imagine the difference. It may be a salutary exercise for me. Oh, I expect you will have little
interchanges of your own. Well, I will not grudge them to you.”

“Then you and I will have them,” said Zillah. “We will have as many, and they will both grudge them.”

“Ah, the kind of word I was waiting for! I hesitated to say it myself, in case it should not come first from me. But coming from you, it is the very one for me. I am the last person to put the man before the woman. I am a staunch upholder of my own sex. You may not be sure if I justify my own opinion. In the case of this little sprite there will be no doubt.”

“It is the life before you and me, that is in my mind, Ada,” said Hereward. “And I hope in yours.”

“Yes, it is in mine. Too deep down to take form in words. Not that we can enter on it on quite equal terms. That is a thing that cannot be. Mine is an open sheet, with everything written on it plainly for your eyes. Yours will have its spaces and erasures. A man's life is not a woman's. I am not a woman to expect it. Oh, they are metaphorical sheets, little Emmeline, but none the less real for that. As you will understand, when you have things written on your own. At present it must be a blank.”

“She and I will write on it,” said Hereward, smiling. “We shall find our words.”

“Oh, I expect you will,” said Ada, with a sigh. “I shall be out of it sometimes. I am prepared. It is no new thing. She and Father indulge in companionship that I do not share. I have learned to accept it.”

“I scarcely knew it,” said Alfred. “And she and Hereward will not. The companionship will be between you and him.”

“Yes, in another sense, Father. As it has been between you and me. Oh, I have understood. I have been content with my place. It is a content that is natural to me. I am even content with my own face, with the example of yours before me. And when mine should resemble it by right of inheritance.”

“Your mother reproached me for not transmitting my looks to my daughters. She had little value for them in my case.”

“Yes, it was a strange stroke of fate. I often think of the first impression we must make. Aunt Penelope perhaps makes a bridge between us. Some kind of stepping-stone is needed.”

“So my appearance has its use, and my brother's has not,” said her aunt. “It might hardly be the natural conclusion.”

“It has indeed. And the conclusion might not be so unnatural. Ah, that nameless touch about you might be worth any handsomeness to some minds. Not to mine, as the father and daughter feeling stands in the way. But I can put myself in the other place. In my nature I am more drawn to a woman's quality than a man's.”

“I have never been jealous of my sister,” said Hereward. “I hope I may not be now. You must not find a way of coming between us.”

“There could be no way. And I shall not seek one. I shall strive heart and soul to cement the bond. It is too great and precious a thing to be lightly assailed and weakened. You may trust me. In such a matter I am worthy of trust.”

“In all matters,” said Hereward, in a lower tone. “I will stay no longer to-day. I feel I should take no more. And indeed there is no more to take. I have gained the whole.”

“You are wise, my dear?” said Alfred, when they were alone. “You had little time to think. And only under other eyes. And there is need for time and thought. The change is for your life.”