A God and His Gifts (9 page)

“Well, the hour of the meeting will come,” said Sir Michael. “It is an exciting thought. We have had no change in the family since Reuben was born. And that wasn't much, as he was a third son.”

“Fate was against me from the first,” said his grandson. “I have trodden a hard way. It is really quite dignified.”

The hour came, and with it Alfred and Penelope to meet the newcomer. She was a tall, dark, quiet young woman, clearly more mature than Merton, with straight, rounded features, large, dark eyes, and a way of looking fully into people's faces, as if in appreciation and interest. Merton was too sure of her appeal to show more than his usual consciousness.

“Well, here is the patriarch, my grandfather; his consort, my grandmother; his son, my father; his daughter-in-law, my mother; his daughter, my aunt. Oh, and his grandsons, my brothers.”

“I did not know I was a consort,” said Joanna. “Then I think Ada must be one.”

“I have avoided the stigma,” said Penelope. “And have had no credit for it.”

“My maternal great-aunt, Miss Merton; my maternal grandfather, also of the name.”

“Are we not to hear another name?” said Ada. “The one we are waiting to hear.”

“It is
Hetty
,” said its owner, in quiet, even tones. “The only one to all of you. The other I am going to share with you. I must learn that it is mine.”

“There will be more for you to share,” said Sir Michael. “We will give you all we can.”

“It cannot be much,” said Hetty, smiling. “What you have can only be your own.”

“I would give all I could,” said Joanna. “But I can't think of anything.”

Hetty laughed, with her eyes on Joanna's face.

“You make such a difference to so many people. You are making it to me.”

“It is a thing that will be true of you,” said Salomon. “I hope Merton will let me say it.”

“I knew he would not let me,” said Reuben. “So I had to waste it. It did come into my mind.”

“Merton's parents await judgement,” said Hereward, standing by his wife. “We need not speak of the one we have made.”

“Neither need I,” said Hetty. “I envy Merton the background to his life. It must mean so much to have one.”

“Well, now it will be yours,” said Sir Michael. “With everything else that is his.”

“I feel less poor already. I see how poor I have been.”

“My brothers' names can come later,” said Merton. “When we have had some meat and drink.”

Sir Michael led Hetty to the head of the dinner table. Merton sat by her, and the others fell at random into place. Alfred and Hereward were opposite to Hetty, and found her resting her eyes on them.

“What a pair to have before me! I am not used to people on the heights.”

“Merton does not see me in that way,” said Hereward. “He thinks lightly of his father's place.”

“It may be too far removed from him. It is yours and belongs to yourself. He must see it from a distance, and judge it as he can.”

“You do not put him above us all in everything?”

“I put him in the place he is right to fill. The place that is his own.”

“What do you say to it, Merton?” said Salomon.

“Oh, Hetty is not versed in such things as yet. She is content to be simply herself. She never pretends to be anything she is not.”

“You are brought to this! I have no conception of your state.”

“No, I can see you have none.”

“You are my first grand-daughter,” said Alfred. “And I am your second grandfather. I must seem to you a superfluous figure.”

“How can I say what you are? What do I know of you and your work? What can I know?”

“What of me and my work?” said Hereward, in a lower tone, as his son looked aside. “Have you not your knowledge there?”

“Yes, I have,” said Hetty, meeting his eyes. “But it is still only mine. Merton's time for it has not come. We don't know the whole of each other yet.”

“Would you dare to tell him the truth?”

“I have dared to tell him part. And he recognised my courage and disputed my judgement. But he will grow towards it. I am older than he is, you know.”

“Surely not much,” said Alfred.

“Five years. A good deal for a woman over a man. I should be content to go further than he does. I have gone further.”

“And you are content?” said Hereward, smiling. “And so am I.”

“Come, come, you elderly men,” said Sir Michael.
“Is Merton to have a share of his future wife? Or are you taking his place?”

“They have their own place, as he has,” said Hetty. “And I am learning mine.”

“She has a liking for men two or three times her age,” said Merton. “It is a tribute to me that she accepted a younger one.”

“They may have a liking for her,” said Sir Michael. “They can see age in their own way.”

“I would ask no one's opinion of her. I have my own.”

“My daughter!” said Ada. “It would be safe to ask mine.”

“I might say the same,” said Hetty, meeting her eyes. “Indeed I have said it. To myself, when I first came in.”

“I must appear another superflous figure,” said Penelope.

“Well, luxuries may seem superfluous things. But they can be among the best.”

“What will you say of me?” said Zillah. “I am more of a problem. Even you may be at a loss.”

“I will say nothing. What can I say? To you, to whom we owe everything, even the great man himself.”

“What is that?” said Hereward, as they left the room, seeming just to catch the words. “Yes, we may talk to each other. We are not to separate to-night. We are all to have our share of you. And I will have mine. Tell me what the talk was about.”

“Why should I tell you what you know?”

“Well, I will understand you. And it was not Merton's voice I heard.”

“No, it was mine. I know his would be his own. I know his work is different from yours. I wish it was not. And he does not see yours as I do. I wish he did. I wish he could see it as it is.”

“Well, with you I wish he could. As much as would be of use to him. It need be no more. I would not be of use to me. And I do not serve myself.”

“He may in the end. It seems he must.”

“I think he will not. And I do not ask it. I would ask nothing to which I had no right. We have none to be looked up to.”

“Some of us have earned it. We know you are among them.”

“Not in my own family. I have earned it in many others. I am what is called a household word. It is what I wanted and have had. My son has other hopes. He has told you what they are.” Hereward smiled and then let his voice get fuller. “My wish is to reach the multitude, to go deeper into many hearts. I think it comes from a deeper one. It meets a greater need.”

“The difference in Merton may be in himself. His aims must come from his powers, as everyone's must. They may be nearer to yours as they grow. And that will show him their distance.”

“Ah, I should have had a daughter. I have always known it.”

“You will have one now. And you will have others through your other sons.”

“I only want one. It is what I need. It is the classic relation, rooted in the past. My wife has done much for me. But now all she can do. And my sons go their distance, and can go no further.”

“It must be true of all of them. It would have to be.”

“Yes, I should remember. You will help me not to forget. I know what they have to give. They do not fail to give it. I myself can say no more.”

“You always have your sister?”

“We have gone through life together. She goes with me still. She will always go with me. I have no doubt of her. And my wife has not grudged us to each other. I have had all I could from both.”

“And now you will have something from me. On my own small scale.”

“It will be what I want, what I have not had. You
will come to me often, come when I am thought to be alone. It is what a daughter would do.”

“What are you saying, Hereward?” said Ada. “You will bewilder Hetty and ask too much of her. You have no right to ask anything yet. You are going too fast and too far. Merton is turning his eyes on you.”

“I am taking what he gives me. We do not reject a gift.”

“I have become so many things,” said Hetty. “And I am still only myself.”

“I can't say he has given me a sister,” said Reuben. “He might turn his eyes on me.”

“Do you feel you can say it?” said Hetty, smiling at Salomon, whose voice had been more seldom heard.

“Well, it is all a matter of Merton's eyes.”

“He is giving me a grand-daughter,” said Joanna. “But I am not sure that he thought of it. I believe he just meant to give himself a wife.”

“So you need not show your gratitude,” said Salomon. “And it might be a false step.”

“I shall not show any. I see no reason. And it is better not to take steps. They are so often called false.”

“The evening is too much of a success,” said Merton. “I must appeal to you, Aunt Penelope. A great-aunt is a safe character. Will you give Hetty your protection? Mine is not enough.”

Penelope and Hetty turned to each other, the former at a loss for words, the latter at none.

The evening moved to its end. Alfred and his sister took their leave. When Merton returned from taking Hetty home, Galleon was standing in the hall.

“May I add my congratulations, sir?”

“You may. I am in a mood to expect them. I feel they are earned.”

“May I also be glad of the accompanying circumstances, sir?”

“You may. I am glad of them myself. They will mean more ease.”

“Complete ease I imagine, sir,” said Galleon, smiling. “There will be no call for anything else.”

“My work may improve, when I have no sense of urgency.”

“Or be discontinued, sir,” said Galleon, in an almost roguish tone.

“You would hardly expect me to do nothing.”

“Well, sir, if there is no need of anything.”

“Would you like to do nothing yourself?”

“Well, sir, I appreciate my occasional leisure. Nothing further is in question.”

“But you would not like leisure and nothing else?”

“Well, sir, my life being of the opposite nature, I have no means of judging. I sometimes wish the duties were intermittent.”

“As mine are? I have to wait on the mood. It must be so with my kind of work.”

“It is not with mine, sir. Mood is not taken into account. It might lead to inconvenience.”

“I believe you think writing is not real work.”

“Well, sir, there is no great resemblance.”

“It is not like digging potatoes?”

“No, sir, or like the manual duties of a house.”

“Well, that is something.”

“Yes, sir, it is in its favour.”

“There is something I have not dared to tell you, Galleon,” said Reuben.

“Oh, the attempt at schoolmastering, sir. It is a passing phase.”

“Suppose it is a lasting one?”

“There is hardly any likelihood, sir.”

“It is little better than writing?” said Salomon.

“Well, sir, hardly as good,” said Galleon, in a serious tone. “In writing you are master of yourself, and there are no contacts.”

“We ought to love our pupils,” said Reuben.

“It is our neighbours, sir. The term is hardly inclusive.”

“So our pupils are not neighbours?”

“Well, if their attitude was neighbourly, sir! But I gather it is not the case.”

“But we are supposed to love our enemies.”

“Well, if that is the ground, sir.”

“Their attitude does present problems.”

“Well, you will not have to solve them, sir.”

“Why not? I have no share in my brother's prosperity.”

“And prosperity need not end all human effort,” said Merton.

“It tends to end a good deal, sir. It is often its object.”

“I suppose another side of us can assert itself.”

“Our better nature, sir? There is not always any need of it. In which case it is not resorted to.”

“There is surely need of yours, Galleon,” said Salomon.

“Well, sir, my life consisting of service to others, it must at one time have asserted itself once for all.”

“But you do not remember it?”

“There is no point in recalling it, sir. It was not to my advantage.”

“You did not really wish to live for others?”

“Well, sir, it was perhaps as far as I could go in living for myself. It could not be to any great length.”

“You don't enjoy a glow of righteousness?”

“I am not subject to glows, sir. There is need of something to give rise to them.”

“I believe I could be,” said Reuben. “And I suppose Merton is at the moment.”

“It is true,” said his brother. “And the moment fore-shadows a life.”

“Here is a man we have not known,” said Salomon.

“You are simple in your idea of me. Have you no depths yourself?”

“Yes, I have them myself.”

“Then you have a weak imagination.”

“Well, you need me to have such a strong one.”

“One would think nothing had ever happened to you.”

“Well, nothing ever has,” said Salomon.

“And this has made you realise it?”

“It may have brought it home to me. And I am affected by the change in your life.”

“And you would like a change in your own?”

“Well, I think I have become unfit for it,” said Salomon.

“What is it, Merton, my son? You have something on your mind? You will not hide it from your mother. Tell her what it is.”

“I can tell the assembled family. Indeed I was about to. I will tell you first, if you will find it an advantage. I am not going to be married.”