A Heritage and its History (5 page)

“It must be soon,” said Simon, as he took his leave. “Or the visit will be too late, or of another kind.”

“There is a pair of steadfast friendships,” said Rhoda, looking after them. “How one hopes nothing will break them!”

“Something is to break one of them. There is no hope.”

“I do not count death. That can break nothing. It may forge it stronger.”

“It breaks everything. And broken things are not of use. They both know it.”

“I am not sure about Sir Edwin. He seemed to be looking beyond the coming loss.”

“Well, the time of suspense goes on, and his thoughts must go on with it, and go beyond. It was nothing more.”

“Well, I will not read in too much. He was opening his mind to a friend. I was grateful for his seeing me as that.”

“It is a thing he does seldom. I daresay to no one else. You were singled out.”

There was a pause.

“Oh, what a dull, old-maidish life we must lead, to make so much of so little!” said Rhoda, lifting her hands. “Fanny, if you wanted to marry, you would not find me in the way? Thoughts of me I mean. Of course, I should not be, myself.”

“We should both think of ourselves in such a case.”

“And there would be someone besides ourselves.”

“It seems to take two to do most things. To argue and to quarrel and to marry. Man is said to be a social creature. But it does not all seem so very social.”

“We think more of Sir Edwin's loss than of Mrs. Ghalloner's. I do not know why.”

“It will be the greater. And he will be left with nothing.”

“Yes, she will have her sons,” said Rhoda. “Somehow the family do not on the whole—seem as much affected by what is to come, as we might expect. I hardly know how to put it.”

“It can be said in no other way. That is why I did not attempt it. I left it to you. I knew it was a thing that would break out.”

“People can be greatly misjudged in such matters.”

“And sometimes must be, as the verdict is always the same. They feel less than they ought to feel. If I died, it would be said of you, and if you died, of me. It will be said of one of us. It is quite disturbing.”

“It will hardly be said of Sir Edwin.”

“He is a person who will be expected to control his feeling. And so he may show less than passes muster. It is impossible to strike the mean, and the mean itself may be misjudged.”

“Self-restraint is required and misinterpreted,” said Rhoda. “But it may be that knowing so long before-hand will soften the edge of the grief. We can get used to anything.”

“So time is to begin to heal the wound, before it is dealt. That will not be accepted.”

“This is a slow, sure thrust, not a swift and sudden one. The healing must be different. And there will be young life about him, to make a stake in the future. Which do you like better, Simon or Walter?”

“Simon,” said Fanny. “He has more to give.”

“Is that a good reason?”

“It is a strong one, and it is mine.”

“Have you more to give to him? That would be a better.”

“Perhaps I have, as I like him the best.”

“I should have thought Walter's poetry might make a bond between you.”

“I did not say I admired it more than I did. And that broke the bond, or rather prevented it.”

“I don't see why you should have said that.”

“Well, it would have been putting his satisfaction before my own.”

“Simon sometimes seems to me rather a heartless person.”

“He is only honest,” said Fanny.

“It can be heartless to be that, as you seem to have found.”

“He shows what he is, and not many of us do.”

“Surely you and I do. We have not so much to hide.”

“About the usual amount. And we are wise to hide it.”

“Then he might be wise to do the same.”

“It appears that he might. But he does not do so. And people judge him by themselves, and think he must.”

“You seem to know him very well.”

“He is easy to know, as he wears no disguise.”

“I cannot feel that I do, either.”

“You have become used to doing it. You accept the picture you present.”

“I don't think this talk means much.”

“Too much. And it may mean more, if it continues.”

“And there is something underlying it, that is not to my mind.”

“If it underlies it, it would not be. That is why I like Simon's talk. It has no hidden depths. And it tells you all it can.”

“I think you mean depths that are not really hidden.”

“I daresay I do. It is true that we are conscious of them.”

“I think you are more guilty of them than I am.”

“I daresay I am. I know I am very guilty.”

“Fanny, you have many good qualities. Why do you cultivate the poor ones?”

“I do not. They stand in no need of it.”

“You seem to push them to the fore.”

“No, it is their natural place.”

“I should like to see you make the most of yourself.”

“As you have been doing. But I don't much enjoy the sight.”

“Now is there something underlying that?”

“No, but it should have underlain it.”

“You give a wrong impression of yourself.”

“Do I? You think you have the right one.”

“I sometimes feel you have not the true one of me.”

“You mean the one that other people have.”

“No, I mean what I say. Why should the two be different? And there is that underlying something again. Cannot you speak without it?”

“I do rather like speaking with it.”

“You don't know how little it adds to you.”

“So you think it does add something?”

“No, it takes more from you than it does from anyone.”

“I don't think I did know that,” said Fanny.

“It is unworthy to show off yourself at the expense of
others. I do not mince my words. To say openly what is to be said! Ah, how much braver and better!”

“I think it is much worse. I can't tell you how bad it seems to me. And I never admire courage. It is always used against people. What other purpose has it?”

“I have said what I had to say. I shall not add another word.”

“I hope not, unless you mince it,” said Fanny.

“Shall I sound the gong tonight, as usual, ma'am?”

“Yes, I think so, Deakin. Life has to go on. It will not come to a standstill with our little lives. It will move on without us.”

“It is as you say, ma'am. We are pawns in the game.”

“Has Sir Edwin been by himself this afternoon?”

“Yes, ma'am, since the sad function. After a word to me he entered the library. And the door closed.”

“We must try to do what we can for him. It will be better than thinking of ourselves.”

“The one thing cannot be done, ma'am. Either for you or for him.”

“I have my sons to help me.”

“Yes, ma'am, the new generation cometh. It is coming now,” said Deakin, with a faint smile, as voices sounded.

“Does Uncle know it is time for dinner?” said Walter.

“Not unless he has been told, sir. The thought will not suggest itself. But I am about to sound the gong.”

“So the normal routine returns,” said Simon. “And not before it is time. This paralysis of things has done no good.”

“It is the usual observance, sir.”

“The darkening of daylight and muting of sound! It is a savage survival. It strikes back into a primitive past.”

“It may be the deeper rooted for that, sir. And life and death may be called primitive,” said Deakin, as he went to the door.

“Deakin has followed the custom,” said Julia. “It was what he could do. We will not criticise it.”

“I will,” said her son. “The oppression has made things worse. We are supposed to rise above a trouble, not to sink ourselves in it.”

“We are hardly assumed to recover quite at once.”

“A beginning must be made. And there it is! And my uncle's step is following. So normal cause and effect are working again.”

“I hope I am not late?” said Sir Edwin.

“No, not at all,” said Julia. “The gong has only just sounded.”

“I thought perhaps it was a signal to me.”

“To us all,” said Simon. “It would have gone anyhow. Our life is as usual again.”

“Will you carve tonight, Edwin? Or shall Simon do it for you?”

“I would depute it to Deakin first. But I will do it myself. As usual, as Simon would say.”

“Oh, there is nothing in it,” said his nephew. “It has become a habit to belittle what I do. It is time it ceased.”

“Never mind about yourself today, my son,” said Julia.

“Today will pass. I shall have to be reckoned with. I am the only person now to follow my uncle, or to represent him, if he should fail. You must really know it.”

“I do not pretend to forget what has happened, my boy.”

“To forget its implications is to forget it in a sense.”

“It has been remembered for five days,” said Sir Edwin. “With the help of convention.”

“We have the lights rather soon,” said Walter, quickly.

“The dusk fell early, sir,” said Deakin.

“Because we drew up the blinds?” said Simon, half laughing. “It tried to do our duty for us.”

“Have you been tampering with—touching your father's papers, Simon?” said Sir Edwin. “They have been disturbed.”

“I have been going through his accounts, Uncle, and following his method. You cannot do his work and your own. I must take his place.”

“That is hardly a word to be said.”

“It is a thing that must be done.”

“You cannot expect to do it, Simon,” said Julia.

“Not as a man, of course. In his work I hope I can. I must do my best.”

“You should have waited for your uncle to suggest it.”

“So it seems to us,” said Sir Edwin. “But to him that time has passed. He has had his fill of waiting.”

“I could not help my father's death. I would have done so, if I could.”

“You are alone in saying so. You would not have been alone.”

“The moths are falling into the lamps,” said Walter.

“They come from the creeper,” said Simon. “It grows apace.”

“They come from the night, sir,” said Deakin, in faint reproach. “There are none in the day.”

“I don't know why we should suffer this oppression as well as our trouble.”

“It comes from it,” said Julia. “We are out of heart and hope. It is what has to be.”

“It is not the way to help each other. I suppose we cannot really want to do that.”

“I fear the words are true of you, my boy.”

“I shall do what I can in my new place. Whether you like it or not, that is the word. It is senseless to make me feel guilty over it. You cannot be revenged on Fate by venting your feelings on me.”

“It is a part of the truth,” said his uncle.

“Well, you can feel that Father is watching you, Simon. That will help you to learn from him.”

“Oh, I could not work under anyone's eye. And the level was not such a high one. I mean, not so high that another man cannot reach it. Why should it have been?”

“I cannot bear this speaking of your father in the past tense,” said Julia, drawing in her shoulders.

“You are like my uncle. You resent my being his successor. It is a natural feeling, but he would not feel it a good one.”

“You talk as if you were royal, Simon.”

“You treat me as if I were. Neither of you is royal either. So you need not conspire against me, as if we were dynasts with a place in history.”

“Simon, you are a very cultured man,” said Walter.

“You were failing in respect to Father's memory,” said Julia.

“His memory! What is that but speaking of him in the past tense? And we can hardly use any other. This is a feast for your ears, Deakin.”

“It had not struck me in that light, sir.”

“Well, you can listen or not, as you please.”

“That again is hardly the expression, sir.”

“My Walter has not much to say,” said Julia. “Does he feel his brother has enough for two? I like to hear my sons talk, if they do it in a way that pleases me.”

“We all like what is done in that way,” said Simon.

“Simon, you have become so quick and sharp. I do not understand the change in you.”

“There is no change. That is your trouble. You want me to be altered by my father's death. And I have not been, and shall not be. I am what I am.”

“I cannot be that yet,” said Walter. “I have not decided what it is. I should not dare to be like Simon. What do you feel you are, Uncle?”

“One elderly man out of many left alone. I hope you will never have to dare to be it. It needs the quality.”

“You are not alone, Edwin,” said Julia. “You have your brother's sons and me. And I don't feel he is far from us.”

“I don't feel he is anywhere,” said Simon. “I can't feel it. It is best to be honest about it.”

“I wonder if it is,” said Walter. “All these things you are, don't seem always to be best.”

“If I felt that, I should not find life worth living,” said Julia. “And I am sure your uncle would not.”

“I feel it, and do not find it so,” said Sir Edwin. “And I shall not.”

“I feel it, and do find it so,” said Simon. “And I am not ashamed of it. I think it is the braver thing.”

“Simon! Surely you are ashamed,” said Walter.

“I think we deserve something better,” said Sir Edwin. “It is a meagre dole.”

“What do you think, Deakin?” said Simon. “Were you listening?”

“I think I caught the words, sir.”

“Well, what is your own feeling?”