A Heritage and its History (6 page)

There was a pause.

“Do we leave the mistress alone on her side, sir?” said Deakin, in a low, incidental tone, not raising his eyes.

“She does not want any pretence from us.”

“No, sir?” said Deakin, in faint question.

“What if Father is near us, Simon, and knows what you think?” said Julia.

“He would understand it. It is what he thought himself.”

“He must know better now.”

“Well, in that case he realises we have not had his opportunities.”

“Simon, I dislike this ironic note, if that is what it is.”

“He likes it to be called that,” said Walter.

Sir Edwin gave a faint laugh.

“Well, we shall start again tomorrow,” said Julia. “And face a life full of difference.”

“There must be many changes,” said Simon. “There is the great one, and others must follow. One comes into my mind, Uncle. There is my father's way of keeping the rent accounts in one schedule, when the conditions vary. Do you think it would be well to alter it, while changes are being made?”

“It would be a surface difference, not a real one. And I am not thinking of changes.”

“Do you object to my making this one?”

“Yes, but you may make it. I must see things go past myself; go onward, if that is the word. It is not in this case, or it is not mine. But make any pretence you will.”

“Bitterness does no good, Uncle.”

“None. But what you are doing will do none either.”

“Simon,” said Julia, “why have you started this way of saying ‘my uncle' and ‘my father' instead of ‘Uncle' and ‘Father'? It is quite a new thing.”

“It is?” said Simon, with his laugh. “I suppose I have taken a step forward in my life. The ways of a boy are no longer mine.”

“I admire your ease in answering such a question,” said Walter. “I should have been most embarrassed. But I don't know whether to copy you.”

“Be yourself, my boy,” said Julia. “I am content to have you different. Simon will be my progressive son, and you my dependable one.”

“But I am not sure that I am content.”

“Your ways would always be those of a boy to me. And to me this last fancy of Simon's is really one of them.”

“Then it seems I need not copy him,” said Walter.

“The hall is as dim as the dining-room,” said Simon, looking through the door. “It is that great bookcase in the middle. Do you like it there, Uncle? I have heard my father speak of moving it.”

“You did not hear him order it to be moved. If you had, it would not be there. And you may come to have heard him speak of many things.”

“If it was put at the back of the staircase, the hall would be twice the size.”

“It would look so you mean, and that is overstated.”

“We like it where it is, Simon,” said Julia. “Or it would not have been there all these years. We want to keep all we can of our old life. That is the real one to us.”

“I do not believe in this fear of change. If we can never change, we can never learn. I hope I shall go on learning all my life.”

“We can make a change without learning,” said Sir Edwin. “Indeed change may involve a certain forgetfulness.”

“And it is to go on all Simon's life,” said Walter.

“His changes may be good, or good to him. But the time for them is not yet. There is still a life in the way.”

“I hoped it would not be, Uncle. I hoped you and I might make some improvements together. There are some that need to be made.”

“Simon, your father and uncle would have made
them, if they had seen them as such,” said Julia. “I cannot think what has come to you. Your position is not altered. And if it was, it would be too soon to act upon it. You would hardly choose today.”

“I was not thinking of the day. I was just saying what came into my mind.”

“You can do that too much and too often. And some people would feel you might be thinking of the day.”

“I usually suppress what comes into mine,” said Walter. “And as for just saying it, I did not know that was ever done.”

“I may be the better of the two,” said Simon.

“I see no reason for thinking so,” said his mother.

“Walter has suggested a reason.”

“Have I?” said Walter. “What was it?”

“That my ideas were of a kind to be revealed.”

“I am sure I did not suggest that, Simon.”

“I see that difference between them,” said Sir Edwin. “Simon is the more likely to expose himself. And that may imply that he has not much to hide.”

“Uncle, pray do not hint things about me,” said Walter. “I am such a defenceless person.”

“I do not believe in this self-exposure,” said Julia. “I think we have had enough.”

“Would you like to be exposed, Deakin?” said Walter.

“Few of us would care to be completely, sir. We might be surprised ourselves.”

“And that might not be the only consequence,” said Julia. “Other people might be surprised, and show it!”

“I don't think they would be so surprised,” said
Simon, laughing. “Though of course they would not show that.”

“Well, I should be glad for the self-revelation to cease. It goes further than you know.”

“We always meet as much as is useful,” said Sir Edwin.

“Edwin, that is how you spoke to Hamish. For a moment I felt I had you both with me again.”

“I fear it was not for longer. And that it will not often be so.”

“Simon,” said Julia, “I wish you would not talk so often to Deakin. He will get into such odd ways.”

“Oh, he has been with us so long. And he only answers when he is spoken to. He never enters into the talk.”

“He can hardly do one without the other. And it is you I am criticising, not him.”

“Well, cease your criticism. I am tired of it. I seem to hear nothing else. You often talk to Deakin yourself. He is your intimate friend.”

“He is a good friend to us all. I am the last to deny it. But that does not alter what I said.”

“It was Walter who spoke to him this last time.”

“My dear boy, you cannot think that makes a difference.”

“Deakin,” said Simon, as the former returned, “do you like the position of that bookcase in the hall? Would you not rather see it behind the stairs?”

“I should not see it there, sir. It would not strike the eye. And I feel it has a claim to its place. It is like the appeal of a dumb animal.”

“Why are animals called dumb?” said Walter. “No one thinks they can speak.”

“They can anyhow move,” said Simon, “and the bookcase cannot. It looms before one like a cloud. We seem to be cultivating gloom.”

“It is not a moment when we should be so cheerful,” said his mother.

“You know what I meant. Why do you pretend you do not? You misjudge me on purpose. It is a second-rate thing to do.”

“I must sometimes judge you, my son. You rather lay yourself open to it.”

“Just because I want the house as cheerful as I can have it. As you imply, we have no other kind of cheer.”

“It is not for you to take the lead. Your uncle will suggest any changes he wishes.”

“But he will not wish for any, even those that cry out to be made. We shall go on and on in the same way.”

“It is what we shall do,” said his uncle. “If you can call it the same.”

“There it is again. You give my words a wrong meaning. You should be ashamed of it.”

“I was confusing the kinds of sameness, it is true. I am not at my best.”

“And Simon is not at his,” said Julia. “I think he is upset by the day in his own way.”

“It is not in anyone else's.”

“And my Walter is silent. We are none of us ourselves.”

“Simon seems somehow to have come into his full self.”

“When a part is always better,” said Walter. “And he should be upset by the day in other people's way.”

“Well, you know the worst about me now,” said his brother.

“And we do not about them. You see their way is best.”

“Shall I take coffee into the drawing-room, ma'am?” said Deakin.

“Perhaps Sir Edwin would like his alone in the library.”

“No, I must ask more of you. I cannot be alone. And I am fit for nothing else.”

“I am glad you have asked something. I was wondering if you ever would. And I am afraid a good deal has been asked of you. We will all have coffee in the library, Deakin, as Sir Edwin likes that room. Simon, will you see that your uncle's chair is in its place?”

Simon did so, waited for his mother to take the opposite one, and when she did not do so, took it himself.

“Simon, would you sit there?”

“Why not? We do not want the place empty.”

Julia glanced at her brother-in-law.

“It does not matter. Nothing matters or alters the truth. Nothing can press it further home to me. But I should have thought the place was yours.”

“To me it is Hamish's. I would rather sit here. And I should have thought it would be his to Simon too.”

“Well, I represent him now,” said her son. “He
cannot have it himself. And we do not want chairs empty, as if they were occupied by ghosts.”

“I could almost feel that your father's spirit was there.”

“Well, I suppose it might be, according to your belief.”

“Julia, will you take the chair?” said Sir Edwin. “And may it be yours in future?”

“Well, I daresay my father would rather share it with her than with me,” said Simon, as he relinquished it.

“Simon, I don't know what has come to you,” said Julia.

“What has come to us all. My father's death. He has no place any longer. In losing his life he has lost what it held. Nothing can affect him. Nothing can be his. You must really know it.”

“His wife's heart is his,” said Julia.

“That is saying the same thing in a different way.”

“I agree that it is different,” said Walter.

“I might say that my heart is his,” said Simon. “I had a sincere feeling for him.”

“But do not say it, Simon,” said his brother.

“I shall always think of my early years with him. But a show of sentiment has no meaning.”

“I think it may have a great deal,” said his mother. “I never believe much in things that are not shown. If we are left to imagine them, they may be imaginary.”

“My uncle is not showing so much.”

“Simon, you know better than to say that. I wonder you can utter the words.”

“What is it? I did not hear,” said Sir Edwin, turning his head.

“It was not worth your attention,” said Julia.

“Those books are covered with dust,” said Simon, who was walking about the room. “They cannot have been done for days.”

“Your father dusted them himself. The bindings are old and delicate. He did not like the servants to touch them.”

“I will do them,” said Simon, taking out a handkerchief.

“No, no, Simon, you will be too rough.”

“I am the last person to be so. The books will be mine one day. And the duty is surely a simple one.”

“Have you asked your uncle's permission?”

“Why should I? He has not dusted them. You and Walter have not. It appears that the servants may not. Is it to be left to my father's spirit?”

“Simon, I am ashamed of you. Go out of the room.”

Simon smiled and continued his task.

“He does it as his father did,” said Sir Edwin, in an empty tone. “There will be no harm.”

“There!” said Simon, folding the handkerchief. “There is a true word at last.”

“I want something to dust,” said Walter, looking round.

His uncle gave a little laugh.

“One of us will do them every day,” said Simon.

“The matter will be as your uncle wishes,” said Julia.

“Matters can go on in front of me. I will not check them. There is no time or need.”

“You are patient with Simon, Edwin.”

“We see how patient he has had to be, and still has, and will have to be.”

“We have to look beyond a single life,” said his nephew.

“At yours you mean. It may be left to you.”

“I hope this is not the real Simon,” said Julia.

“I am showing the depths within me. You are doing the same. And I may be as surprised as you are.”

“That is unfair and untrue,” said Sir Edwin.

“Are there depths in you, Deakin?” said Walter.

“Well, sir, I must own there are. And they have stood revealed at times.”

“I should be nervous of seeing it.”

“It is hardly on that scale, sir. Merely a forgivable outbreak.”

“I have not met that kind. And I don't think I could forgive it. I suppose it is like lovable weaknesses. I find them so unlovable.”

“Have you none of your own?” said Simon.

“I think the whole of me is weakness. But I am almost sure it is lovable.”

“Simon, you are only pretending to read,” said Julia.

“Yes,” said her son, laughing. “I am upset by the recent scene. Future generations will not realise what they owe to me. Debts to the past are forgotten.”

“And they are usually to the past,” said Walter. “And then they prevent our incurring them in the present.”

“I don't know what to think of my sons,” said Julia. “I have no husband to help me with them now.”

“Well, we know that,” said Simon. “You have not made a discovery.”

“I hope you will remember it, and make things easy for me.”

“I thought a woman's path was always hard,” said Walter.

“A widow's is,” said his mother.

“So we belong to the widow and the fatherless. I feel that is dignified of us.”

“I think it is pitiful,” said Simon. “And we are forgetting my uncle.”