A God and His Gifts (12 page)

“Father does more for you than Nurse does.”

“No,” said Henry, surprised.

“When you are big, you will know it.”

“Big now; very big boy.”

“Yes, very big. You have lived nearly three years.”

“Five,” said Henry, erroneously. “Seven, five, eight.”

“You will be more than that one day.”

“A hundred,” said Henry, with force.

“Even Father is not as much as that.”

“Oh, no,” said Henry, compassionately.

“How old do you think Father is?”

Henry raised his eyes in silence, unequal to the demand.

“It was Father who brought you a toy to-day.”

“Broken,” said Henry. “Poor horse!”

“Oh, how did that happen?”

“Break it,” said Henry, illustrating the movement with his hands.

“Oh, that was not very wise.”

“Very good boy,” said Henry, in a precautionary tone.

“Let me see if I can do anything. Why, the horse is without a head.”

“No,” said Henry, putting the head and body together to remedy the position.

“You would not like your head to be apart from you.”

Henry broke into mirth at the idea, and took his head in his hands as if to safeguard it.

“So you did not like the horse?”

“Love it,” said Henry, stroking the head.

“You are not very kind to your toys.”

“Not put them away,” said Henry, in agreement.

“Not when Nurse tells you to?”

“She could spare herself the trouble,” said Henry, reproducing more than the words.

“She does not make you do it?”

“No good when they are young. A waste of breath.”

“Why, here is Mother coming. Show her how pleased you are to see her.”

“Always see Father.”

“Oh, you have the child, Hereward,” said Ada. “What a difference he makes to you!”

“Do you?” said Hereward, putting his face against the boy's. “Ah, you make a difference.”

“One, two, three,” said Henry, as his grandparents and aunt appeared. “Poor Grandpa has a stick.”

“Yes, poor Grandpa,” said Sir Michael. “You would not like to walk with one.”

“Yes,” said Henry, holding out his hands.

“No, it is Grandpa's stick.”

“No, Henry's,” said Henry, getting off Hereward's knee and advancing to the stick with open purpose.

Sir Michael gave it up, and Henry walked about the room, imitating his use of it, and appearing to find it an employment that could not pall. When he caught his foot and fell, he waited to be picked up and resumed it

“Give the stick to your big brother,” said Salomon.

“Not big,” said Henry, looking at him.

“Yes, we are bigger than you are.”

“Men,” said Henry, in a somehow baffled manner.

“You are right. We are not big for men.”

“No,” said Henry, smiling at the expression of his thought.

“What do you call your horse?” said Reuben, as Sir Michael retrieved the stick.

“Horse,” said Henry, surprised.

“But hasn't it a name of its own?”

“Horse,” said Henry, after a pause.

“Isn't its real name
Dobbin
?”

“Yes,” said Henry, smiling again.

“And what does Dobbin call you?”

“
Sir
” said Henry, laconically.

“Does anyone call you that?”

“Yes, the coachman and his boy.”

“What do you call him?”

“Davis. Or Davis dear.”

“Why don't you call him
sir?
”

“Not a coachman,” said Henry. “But the boy does.”

“Would you like to be his boy?”

“Yes,” said Henry, rather unexpectedly.

“And would you call him
sir?
”

“Oh, yes.”

“And what would you do?”

“Hold the reins and have a whip.”

“You have them both,” said Hereward, who had provided them in miniature.

“Very small,” said Henry, incidentally.

“Mr. and Mrs. Merton Egerton,” said Galleon at the door.

Henry alone of the company gave no sign.

“Here are brother Merton and sister Hetty come to see you,” said Ada.

Henry did not disagree.

“And will you come soon to see us?” said Hetty, stooping towards him.

“No, not soon.”

“But you want to see little Maud?”

“See you,” said Henry, as if this duty should suffice.

“Maud talks as much as you do,” said Merton. “And she says words of her own.”

“Baby,” said Henry, seeing this as a mark of the state.

“We must ask her to come to tea with you,” said Joanna.

Henry turned and climbed on Joanna's knee, got down and returned with the horse, and settled himself with a portion in each hand.

“They both change with every day like flowers,” said Hetty, looking at him.

“Maud is at the age when it is almost with the hours,” said Joanna.

Henry turned and put his hand over her mouth.

“Not talk about Maud,” he said.

“Oh, but why not?” said Ada. “We talk about you.”

“Yes, talk about Henry.”

“We talk and think about you both.”

“Yes, think,” said Henry, as if this did not matter.

“Maud is a dear little girl. She does everything her nurse tells her.”

Henry looked up at Joanna with a light in his eyes.

“Naughty Maud,” he said.

“Now you are making a joke,” said Ada.

“Yes,” said Henry, giggling in recognition of it.

“Well, who is this coming in?”

“Great-aunt Penelope,” said Henry, glancing at the door. “And poor Grandpa Merton.”

“Why is he poor?” said Joanna.

“Spectacles. Poor eyes! Oh, poor Grandpa Merton!”

“Would you like to wear the spectacles?”

“Yes,” said Henry, doubtfully.

“Go and ask if you may try them on.”

Henry did so, and walked about, wearing the glasses and laughing rather unnaturally. Then he suddenly threw them off and returned to Joanna.

“Oh, you might have broken them. What would Grandpa Merton have done then?”

“Not wear them,” said Henry, stamping his foot. “Never wear them any more.”

“They did not suit his sight,” said Alfred. “The result of the lifetimes between us. He thinks they affect me as they do him. I had better have them back.”

“No,” said Henry, trying to intercept them. “Not wear them ever again.”

“Grandpa Merton sees nicely with them,” said Joanna.

“Oh, yes,” said Henry, standing with tears in his eyes.

“They make everything good for him.”

“Yes,” said Henry, finding her tone dependable and sighing with relief.

“He sees what you do,” said Salomon. “And is just as happy as you are.”

“Ring-a-ring-a-roses!” said Henry, struck by the idea of happiness.

The younger people accepted the prospect, and the rite began.

“Again,” said Henry, as they rose from the ground.

It was repeated.

“Again,” said Henry.

The door was opportunely opened and Nurse appeared.

“May Master Henry come now, ma'am?”

“Not
Master
,” said Henry, with a wail.

“Come then, Nurse's little boy.”

Henry put his hand in hers and turned to the door.

“Won't you say good-night to me?” said Hetty, whose eyes had followed him.

“Good-night, sister Hetty,” said Henry, in a tone of quotation.

“And you will say good-night to Father,” said Salomon, seeing the direction of another pair of eyes.

Henry suffered the observance, and Hereward lifted him and held him close. He disengaged himself to the point of comfort, and remained passive, awaiting release.

“The first shall be last, and the last first,” said Salomon, looking at them. “Of all Father's infants I have been the least to him.”

“The last, the child of my old age,” said Hereward, almost to himself. “No other has been so much blood of my blood, so deeply derived from me. We go forward, a part of each other. We join the future and the past.”

Hetty's eyes changed, and in a moment went to Merton, who had moved away. Reuben glanced at her and looked aside. Hereward continued in another tone.

“Henry's way of echoing and copying everyone gives him his own place to me. He seems to represent you all.”

“I have noticed that about him,” said Ada. “He gets little touches from each of them. He is young to observe so much.”

“He is not always beyond his age,” said Merton, brushing down his clothes.

“Nuts in May!” said Henry, seeing the movement and accepting its suggestion.

“No, no, you have had enough. You know how it will end,” said Nurse, referring to the outbreak of violence by which the young signify exhaustion. “You must come upstairs.”

“Horse,” said Henry, in an acquiescent tone.

The parts were put into his hands, and he was led away.

“Now we can talk to Hetty and Merton,” said Ada. “They will feel it hardly worth while to visit us.”

“When a child is about, no one else's existence is recognised,” said Merton. “I sometimes feel with Henry that Maud's might be ignored.”

“You are looking tired, my son. Are you working too hard?”

“All day and part of the night,” said Hetty. “He has never had such a spell.”

“I have had a grim moment,” said Merton. “I will say a word of myself. I never know why it is a sign of baseness. I collected and revised what I had written, to
prepare it to see the light. And suddenly and finally consigned it to outer darkness. I face the world with an empty sheet, and feel it will be long before it is filled. It may be a forward step, but it feels like a backward one.”

“Which it is not, my son,” said Hereward. “It is a man's step forward. It takes a man's strength. I would have taken it myself, if there had been need. It makes a bond with your father.”

“And I have my own good fortune. In a way I am doubly blessed. I appear to work for my wife, and I work to fulfil myself.”

“I could envy you,” said Reuben. “I find that independence as a state is over-praised.”

“I do not agree,” said Ada. “I should be proud of anyone belonging to me, who achieved it.”

“Then you are proud of Father and me. I hope equally.”

“Well, in proportion to yourselves, my son. And I am proud of the qualities that lead to it. It needs self-denial and courage.”

“I said it was over-praised. But it is more so than I thought.”

“Most people pretend to admire such qualities,” said Merton. “What they really admire is the power to avoid them.”

“They don't even pretend to in my case,” said Hereward. “They are disturbed when they hear I put effort into my work. They want to feel it is spontaneous.”

“Well, I think that is nice of them,” said Reuben. “I can't think of a kinder feeling.”

“I am ashamed of understanding it,” said Joanna.

“Well, I understand it too,” said Sir Michael. “To do that would be a mark of genius. And they would like to think he had it.”

“They seem nicer and nicer,” said Reuben.

“And no doubt they do think so. And I daresay he has. If they want the proof, his books give it.”

“I agree that they are nice,” said Salomon. “They
don't think that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. It is a grudging and heartless theory.”

“And a false one,” said Merton.

“Well, we ought to appreciate them,” said Sir Michael. “They are Hereward's readers, and we can't have too many of them.”

“His work would always create readers,” said Zillah.

“Yes, of course. It has created me. I feel I now belong to them.”

“I have not been created,” said Joanna. “I enjoyed the books from the first. And I am not at all sure I enjoyed them for the wrong reasons.”

“Well, I must go and work for the readers,” said Hereward. “If it is a humble position, it is.”

“And I must go and work to gain some,” said Merton. “And it is a humble position.”

“And we must go home,” said Penelope. “It has been good to have an hour with you.”

“And to us to have one with you, Aunt Penelope,” said Ada. “You don't know what these flashes of you and Father mean to us. They hold all the echoes of the past for me. My girlhood and my sister seem to be carried in them.”

“Well, your girlhood and motherhood are in the hours for us,” said Alfred. “It is no wonder that we seek them.”

The older people went with the guests to the hall, and Salomon and Reuben were alone.

“You heard, Salomon? I saw you heard. Hetty heard too, and Merton did not. Don't pretend you don't understand. We both know you do.”

“Would it be best not to understand? Best to forget?”

“We shall not forget. No human being could. And we must speak of it. No one could be silent.”

“Well, words may be a safeguard. It is the suppressed things that escape. ‘Blood of my blood, so deeply derived from me'. It is a warning. We are Father's sons.”

“Things fall into place,” said Reuben. “There are a number to be explained.”

“Yes. Father's sympathy with Hetty. The way he saw other people's feeling for her. His acceptance of the news of the child. His wish to adopt it, and his contriving to represent the wish as his wife's. I was struck by that at the time, but could not explain it. His caring for Henry more than his own grandchild. The touches in Henry supposed to be copied from us. What a story it is! It should not belong to real life.”

“It would be better in a book. I am sure I wish it was in one.”

“It would. It is a pity Merton cannot use it. It is hard to be the victim of it, when he might find it useful. And the light on the character of Father! It is a pity he cannot use him too. He may be short of material. His progress seems in doubt.”