A God and His Gifts (5 page)

“I am wise, Father. Indeed I am more. I am fortunate. I see it as a signal chance. I should not attract so many. I see myself as I am. And Hereward sees me as I am too. I shall not have to edit myself. There is no idealisation, and that is the line of safety. I am not in doubt.”

“I think it would be better if there was some,” said Emmeline. “I hope there will be for me.”

“I daresay there will. I believe there might be now, if you had come to the age. I half-think I saw there would. If it was a few years later, I don't know how things would be.”

“The years will pass,” said Alfred. “You must see the matter from all its sides.”

“Oh, I don't believe in roundabout views, Father. I look straight at a question, and feel that is enough. Aunt Penelope, let me have a word from you. What do you feel about having Hereward for a nephew?”

“For myself what goes without saying. As regards you I feel with your father.”

“And a fair degree of feeling too. Not too much and not so little. A kind that may last and grow, when another might fade away. I am not a person for any strong romance. And I would not disturb the brother and sister relation, that I have viewed from a distance as something beyond myself. Now I am to be near to it, I shall go gently and keep a light touch. I shall not rush in where angels fear to tread.”

“I would rather have something myself than be careful of it for other people,” said Emmeline.

“I daresay you would. It is the difference between us. There is a strong vein of veneration in me. I am a person who tends to look up. I have looked up to one brother and sister, and now shall look up to another. They will feel they are safe with me, and it is a trust I value in them. And they will value my own trust. I also feel I am safe. I could hear their talk of me without a qualm.”

This talk was proceeding, as the latter brother and sister went home.

“You are sure, Hereward? It was the work of a moment. It is to last to the end. It will change your daily life. You need to be sure, if you will ever need to.”

“Yes, I am sure. I want to marry. I feel the urge, and it is time. Ada is goodhearted and will adapt her life to
mine. She will accept our parents. She will be content with what I can give. There is much that I like about her. I need not say all that it is. She may hardly be a friend for you, but she will leave us our friendship. That is a condition I must make, and could not make with every woman. We are not asking nothing, Zillah. We can hardly ask more.”

“Should you not have more? For yourself, if not for me? More for the years ahead? More foundation for all that is to come? Is it a better future for me than for you? I see it takes less from me than any other.”

“Then it is the one for me. I will have nothing taken from you. No relation shall supersede our own. That is the one I will not do without. Only the woman to leave it to us can be my wife. I could not live with any other, would not ask her to live with me. My work is hard and never-ending. It will never end. I could not have another taskmistress. I serve only the one.”

“How will you put it to our parents? Not in that way.”

“No. You will put it for me as you please.”

Zillah led the way to Sir Michael and his wife.

“I bring you some news. You are prepared for part. If you claim to have foreseen the rest, you must prove it.”

Sir Michael spoke in a moment.

“My Zillah, I am prepared and not prepared. I knew it must come some day. And you have been going with your brother to the house. You act together, as you always do. And Merton is a good fellow and a good father. And as he has been a good husband, he will be so again. And if he was younger and not a widower, he would not be the man you choose. We cannot decide for other people, however near they may be. Joanna, come and wish our daughter all that is good. It is what she has always given.”

“No, it is I who claim your feeling,” said his son. “That is, if you have any over for me. It is Ada, not her father, who is to join our family. She is to be your
daughter as well as his. Zillah will remain with me. I could not lose her. I was startled by the picture that you drew.”

“Then my congratulations, my son,” said Sir Michael, holding out his hand. “We rejoice with you, if you rejoice. And of course you do. Your time has come for it. I remember when my own time came. And it is a good girl whom you have chosen, whom fate has thrown in your way. We must choose from the people we meet. We hunt in our own demesne. And the long friendship is a safeguard. It atones for not breaking up new ground. Ah, it is great news, the greatest we could have. It is true to say that words fail me, as I find they do.”

“I am not quite sure they did,” murmured Joanna. “Of course a mother's feelings are too deep for words. How sad it would be, if they were not!”

“You feel it is a humdrum marriage,” said Hereward. “It may mean it is the one for me. It breaks no ground, as is said. I use my energy for other ends. It is safe and open and sound. It carries no doubt and no risk. It will not separate Zillah and me. We will leave you to see it as it is, as she and I and Ada see it.”

“Michael, we have failed,” said Joanna. “Failed our son in a crisis of his life. But it did not seem like a crisis, when it depended on dear Ada Merton. What do we feel about it? Well, you have said.”

“I believe I did almost say it. I was taken by surprise. I wish I could re-live that moment. And that blunder I made about Zillah! What a thing to have said and unsaid! I wish I could undo it. Not that any harm is done. She and Hereward are enough for each other. I only hope there will be something over for the wife. Well, she will not ask too much. She is a good, unexacting girl. I hope I did her justice. I hope I did not give a wrong impression.”

“No, you gave the right one. Now all you can do is to erase it, knowing it can never be wholly effaced. I saw Hereward carrying it away with him.”

“Tell me what you feel, Joanna.”

“I could not tell anyone else. I am too ashamed of it. I am glad that Hereward can't like his wife any better than me. Because I don't see how he can. And glad that we may have grandchildren. All this selfish gladness, and then to have failed my son!”

“Well, Galleon,” said Sir Michael. “You have not heard our news. Or have you heard? You look rather full of something.”

“Some stray words did reach me, Sir Michael. I don't know if I gained the right impression.”

“I daresay you did. So tell us what you feel.”

“Well, it was a case of proximity, Sir Michael. That is how things must ensue, as I believe was said.”

“So you listened to it all.”

“I mentioned that some stray words reached me, Sir Michael. That happened to be one of them. I could have supplied it.”

“We could not be more pleased with the marriage than we are.”

“No, Sir Michael; it is a line of safety. There is the familiarity with everything. And so no uncertainty to come.”

“Miss Ada is proud of Mr. Hereward's place in letters.”

“Well, Sir Michael, it is even better, going so far.”

“You would not go to the length yourself?”

“Well, Sir Michael, I have learned to go some way. I must suppress any personal bias. Sufferance is the badge of all my tribe.”

“Ring-a-ring-a-roses,

A pocket full of posies,

A-tish-a, a-tish-a,

All fall down.”

Sir Michael Egerton sank to the ground, and assisted his wife to do the same, an example that was followed by their three grandsons, with mirth in inverse proportion to their age.

“Galleon fall down too,” said the third, observing that the butler was at leisure.

“No, Master Reuben, I have other things to do.”

“No,” said Reuben, as if seeing this was not the case.

“You can do them afterwards,” said the second grandson.

“No, Master Merton, I have no time to waste.”

“It seems as if you have,” said the eldest.

“I know what I am doing, Master Salomon. You are not old enough to understand.”

“I am not, if you are really doing something.”

“Galleon fall down too!” said Reuben, more insistently.

Sir Michael made a sign to Galleon, who complied with openly simulated liveliness, resorting to the aid of a chair, as if unconsciously.

“That is not falling,” said Merton.

“Poor Galleon!” said Reuben, looking at him.

“It must be easy to be a butler,” said Salomon. “It would make other things seem hard.”

“Nuts in May!” said Reuben, suddenly.

“Yes, that is an idea,” said Sir Michael. “We must choose our sides.”

“Do we have to fall down?” said Joanna.

“No, my lady. Merely move forward and backward to the jingle,” said Galleon, his choice of word shedding its light.

“Oh, what a good game! I wonder who invented it.”

“I cannot say, my lady. Or to what purpose.”

“There are not enough of us for sides,” said Salomon.

“Yes, I think there are,” said his grandfather. “You and I and Galleon on one, and Grandma and the little ones on the other.”

“Salomon little too,” said Ruben, at once.

“Not as little as you,” said Merton.

“Yes, all the same,” said Reuben, shrilly.

“Yes, all the same,” said Salomon, in a pacific tone.

“Always all the same,” said Reuben, sighing.

Salomon was a short, solid boy of seven, with a large, round head, a full, round face, wide, grey eyes and features resembling Sir Michael's. Merton, two years younger and nearly the same height, was a dark-eyed, comely boy with a likeness to Ada's father, whose name he bore. Reuben at three was puny for his age, with a pinched, plain face surprisingly like Emmeline's, considering the vagueness of feature of both.

“There are Father and Mother,” said Merton.

“And Aunt Zillah, if Father is there,” said Salomon.

“Well, that will swell our numbers,” said Sir Michael. “And I hear your Aunt Emmeline too. It will give us a good game.”

“Why are things called games?” said Salomon.

“I don't know,” said Joanna. “It is not the right word.”

“What would you call them?” said her husband.

“They are a kind of dance,” said Merton.

“Something handed down,” said his brother.

“Yes, they are old games,” said Sir Michael. “Handed down to us from the past. I don't know their history.”

“I am glad of that,” said Joanna. “So no one else need know.”

“Play again,” said Reuben.

“Yes, in a minute,” said his grandfather. “The others are on their way.”

“All unknowing, my lady,” said Galleon, with a smile for Joanna. “Or they might be disposed to divert it.”

Hereward and his wife and sister entered, followed by the group from the other house. Alfred looked disturbed, Penelope grave, and Emmeline sober and aloof.

“Grandpa Merton play,” said Reuben, laughing at the idea. “One, two grandpas play. Galleon grandpa too.”

“No, Master Reuben. I have no little grandsons.”

“He means you are old,” said Salomon.

Galleon did not reply.

“No, Hereward, I can't put it off any longer,” said Ada, in a tone that did not only address her husband. “I have tried to shut my eyes, but the time is past. I can't go on being blind and deaf and silent. I have eyes and ears, and now you will find I have words as well. You can feel you are finding it late. My father and aunt see the truth. Your father and mother see it. You and my sister know it in your hearts. Emmeline, my sister! To think what has come between us!”

“There need be nothing between you. No change has come to her or me. If there is a change, it is in you.”

“It is true. No change has come. It was there from the first, the feeling between you. The change in me is that I see it. It is strange that I did not before. But I thought of her as a child.”

“Of course the feeling was there. You were anxious that it should be. You put it in my heart. It was a thing we shared.”

“No, something else is the truth. It helped your feeling for me. It went through everything. I see it now. I should have seen it then. You hardly hid it. It could not have been hidden from yourself.”

“Why should I hide it? From myself or anyone else? I cared for you both. I do so now. What is there wrong about it?”

“We need not say,” said Alfred. “But there is something that must be said. We know our world. We know its limits and its laws. We know they must be followed. We do not make our own.”

“You need not think of me,” said Emmeline. “I shall not be with you any longer. I am going away. I shall live at a distance from you all. Father and Aunt Penelope have arranged it. I see myself that I must go. I believe everyone would like me to stay. It is only that someone would like it too much.”

“Oh, there it is!” said Ada, with a sigh. “As it has been, so it will always be. It is no good to talk of it. It must simply be accepted.”

“I fear it must be,” said her father, in the same grave tone. “And dealt with for the threat it carries, for the harm it does.”

“Play game,” said Reuben, as if matters had left their course.

“Yes, let us blow the cobwebs away,” said Sir Michael.

“Cobwebs are light things,” said Salomon, as though the word was not in place.

“And some things are not,” said Ada. “Out of the mouth of babes! What would my sons say, if it was twenty years hence?”

“I know what to say now,” said Salomon. “Father ought to love you, and not Aunt Emmeline.”

“And I do love her,” said Hereward. “And I love Aunt Emmeline too. And I love you and your brothers, and your aunt and your grandparents and others. So many people are dear to me, that I don't always judge between them.”

“I think you will have to now. Mothers can't be quite the same. And you did judge in a way.”