The Last and the First (11 page)

“You asked what your uncle gave to the household, Osbert,” said Jocasta, disregarding her grand-daughter. “I could hardly enlighten you and Hollander together. He gave nothing but the cost of his support. His interest lay in harbouring what he had; and I understood him and laid no hand on it. He was in his way such a very good son. It means that Miss Heriot inherits more, and we have less than would otherwise be the case. But we shall not be actually poorer. There will be no difference.”

“I may come in to finish the table, ma'am?” said Hollander, in a tone between question and statement, acting on the latter assumption.

“Yes, come in. We have no secrets from you. Indeed, I think from anyone. Perhaps there are no such things.”

“Well, ma'am, this occurrence would hardly be among them.”

“It is a surprise and shock. But it doesn't bear on the real trouble.”

“No, ma'am,” said Hollander, in sympathy. “Not on the knowledge that after all his feeling was not yours.”

“No, I could not think that. I meant the trouble of his death.”

“Yes, ma'am, but the heart knoweth. And other words ensue.”

“Money is an accidental thing. And we must not grudge Miss Heriot what he wished her to have.”

“No, ma'am? I am inclined to do so for you. And in some people the feeling may partake of pity which has an unwelcome flavour.”

“Some of it will be sympathy, and we shall be grateful for it.”

“Yes, ma'am, if you can place the border line.”

“People sometimes like other people to be poorer,” said Amy.

“It may be so, miss. I have seen a glint in eyes myself.”

“Money played no part in my life with my son,” said Jocasta. “Our concern was with other things.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Hollander, cordially. “Those being fully at disposal.”

“And they were also the deeper ones.”

“Money may go with those, ma'am. It is often bequeathed on that basis.”

“This is a case by itself.”

“And in view of that, ma'am, might the lady relinquish her claim? The idea suggests itself.”

Jocasta was silent, knowing it had had no need to.

“What may have been a passing thought, ma'am, can
have results that don't pass with it. You would not see callers to-day, ma'am, I presume?”

“No, not to-day. It is unlikely that anyone will come.”

“Well, news travels, ma'am, and questions are on people's lips.”

“Hardly on the lips of people who would come here.”

“Not in a literal sense, ma'am. But they can be tacit.”

“And so can the answers,” said Osbert. “I would be responsible for them.”

“This news is not known yet. Unless Hollander has already managed to spread it.”

“Managed is hardly the expression, ma'am,” said Hollander, with a faint laugh.

“We must be prepared for what has to come. And all wills give a wrong impression. Any lawyer would tell you so.”

“Lawyers can tell a good deal, ma'am. As one has done to-day. And their news can go to the heart.”

“This is hardly bad enough for that.”

“Well, ma'am, it has gone to mine,” said Hollander, on a sincere note. “It is much for you at this time of your life.”

“My time of life may explain it. My son thought he would outlive me.”

“And that his secret would remain his own, ma'am. And you would not know that his heart had turned.”

“It shows it had not done so. He thought I should escape all this. But what do wills matter? My concern is with himself. I am going away to think of him, and of the others whom I have lost.”

“It is a strange thing to happen, Miss Erica,” said Hollander, tiptoeing about the room as if Jocasta's presence hovered over it. “And in a way affects us all. A
thought more lavishness in the household would not come amiss.”

“What would not come amiss?” said Jocasta, glancing back. “What was it, Amy?”

“Oh—a little more lavishness in the household, Grannie.”

“In this household? Where people are lapped in comfort from morning to night! So that is what sorrow means for you all, the hope of
lavishness
! That was your thought on losing your master, Hollander.”

“No, ma'am, definitely a secondary one,” said Hollander, in serious assurance. “It followed merely as a corollary.”

“What can you want in this house that you do not have?”

“Well, ma'am, I suppose there are possibilities.”

“Well, that would be so in the case of a king.”

“That is a position I am not conversant with, ma'am. Gulfs have narrowed, but not to that extent.”

There was some mirth, and Hollander's lips twitched, while Jocasta's continued grave.

“You are well housed and fed. And have reasonable time to yourself.”

“Is that the life of a king, ma'am? It is scarcely as it is imagined.”

“It would describe the life of most kings. Except that the amount of work they do is greater.”

“We hear of that, ma'am. There is less said about the amount of work they make.”

“The functions that cause it are often the hardest part of their life.”

“I should not be surprised, ma'am,” said Hollander, half to himself as Jocasta left them.

“Grannie would never spend the money,” said Amy,
“any more than Uncle ever spent it. Miss Heriot might as well have it.”

“Well, for the moment, miss,” said Hollander. “But there is the ultimate future.”

“Do you mean when Grannie is dead?”

“I did not employ the word, miss,” said Hollander, slightly lowering his voice.

“But you meant when she was dead,” said Amy, not modifying hers.

“Well, miss, I put it in my own way,” said Hollander.

“Well, I could have done no more,” said Eliza. “What has my life been? Years of care and contrivance, of asking little for myself and accepting less, in order to serve your father and save the family home! And it is all of no good. I might have done nothing, might have lived for myself and forgotten other people, as they have often forgotten me. It is a heart-breaking thing, too much to have to face. And there is support to be given to your father out of my own need. A further demand instead of the help I might have had. I can look to him for nothing. His trouble takes the whole of himself. His heart is in his home and its past. His life is rooted in it. And now its history is broken, and we are to leave it and live at its gates. Strangers will look over us and look down on us for our fall. It takes the meaning out of out lives.”

“It can hardly do that, Mater,” said Madeline. “Your lives are bound up with each other rather than the place, dear and deeply rooted in them though it is. Your family has come first with you. Think for a moment and you will see it.”

“I don't dare to think any further. I have thought and felt enough. My trouble is not for myself. Should I take it as hard as this? The change is too late for your father. It is a drain on strength he is without. And he has to seem equal to it, and carry his usual face. It will all be too much on us both. There seems no hope in anything. I don't know how to go on.”

“What is the actual position?” said Angus. “I am in
the dark. Father does the books himself, and I have never really known it. Is there any sudden change? Or any sudden reason for it?”

“The changes have been gathering. They have been gradual rather than sudden. Tithes and rents have fallen; farmers have failed; mortgages have been called in; general costs have risen. The usual troubles of people who live on and off the land. We have never done more than strike a balance, and now the climax has come. We are to leave the family home, that was to be for you and your children's children. There is no entail, and nothing in the way. We are utterly exposed to fate. Well, what is the good of thinking about it? I wish I had not the power of thought.”

“I wish you had not. You are being too prodigal with it. We will suffer as little, not as much, as we can. The first will be enough.”

“And it is not the worst kind of trouble,” said Madeline. “There are many deeper ones. We should try to take it well. We shall still be more fortunate than many people.”

“And less fortunate than more,” said Eliza. “How many people give up their home and feel a long service to it is wasted? If we took that too well, it would take the life from the past. When trouble comes it is senseless to deny it. There is no courage in shirking the truth.”

“I was speaking of facing it, not of shirking it, Mater,” said Madeline, in her quiet tones. “There may be a little courage there.”

“No doubt there is a difference,” said Sir Robert, as he joined them, “though I hardly know which I am doing. I need not say the conventional word, Madeline recognised the occasion for it. ‘We still have much to be thankful for'.”

“But less than we had,” said Roberta, “when we did not think of being thankful. It seems an odd moment to begin it, though I believe it is a common one.”

“There will be many moments,” said Eliza. “We shall find ourselves the mark of every eye and our misfortune the matter on every tongue.”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” said Madeline. “We must simply be natural and open about it. Do the servants know of the coming change? It seems they should be prepared.”

“They must soon be told,” said Eliza. “Mrs. Duff is their virtual head. We might send for her and tell her the position, and ask her to explain it to them.”

“Do we not owe it to them to explain it ourselves, Mater? It seems a thing they might expect.”

“There would be nothing gained. They would not think in that way. And we will do our best for them.”

“Is just sending them a word by someone else quite our best, Mater?”

Eliza, as if by way of reply, walked to the bell and rang it. A message was taken to Mrs. Duff asking her to come to the library. She came as if she had expected the summons, and stood with a neutral expression, that threatened to break into expectancy.

“Yes, my lady,” she said as Eliza paused.

“There is something we have to tell you, Mrs. Duff, and ask you to explain to the others.”

“Yes, my lady, it will not cause surprise. A coming event casts its shadow.”

“We would help it if we could, but it is out of our hands.”

“Yes, my lady, I will pass it on for you.”

“It will take a minute to explain it.”

“Yes, my lady, I will pass it on,” said Mrs. Duff with a faint sigh.

“You know we have had anxieties of late. Or perhaps you hardly do know. Of course our troubles are our own.”

“Yes, my lady, in common with other things. Their nature would vary.”

“Well, problems have been gathering. And expenses continue to rise.”

“Yes, my lady? In spite of the steps taken to curtail them? In which we have concurred.”

“Yes, in spite of those. They have not done much. A real change has to come; we must bow to necessity.”

“Yes, my lady, as we all have to at times. Indeed it is at all times for many.”

“We are forced to leave this house, the family home for so long, and move to the smaller one near to the main gates.”

“Well, it offers an alternative, my lady. It is fortunate that the place comprises a lodge, as need has arisen.”

“This house is not a lodge. It has been used as a small dower house, and lately has not been occupied.”

“And the accommodation, my lady? Does it suffice?”

“There are two bedroom floors besides the attics. It should be enough.”

Mrs. Duff threw her eyes over the group before her rapidly and moved her lips and seemed to be satisfied.

“Well, a move from the large house to the lodge is, so to speak, current, my lady. It is a thing we hear and read of.”

“A lodge is a very small house, meant for someone employed. There is nothing we give the name to here.”

“There is no need to dignify it, my lady. No family is lowered by moving to the lodge on the place when adversity indicates it.”

“It is not the word for this house. It suggests quite a different one.”

“I find no fault with the word, my lady,” said Mrs. Duff, gravely.

“Well, we do,” said Sir Robert, less gravely. “We are not making quite such a change. It is enough for us as it is.”

“Well, you will explain it to the others,” said Eliza, “and tell them how much we regret it, and hope that several of them will still be with us.”

“I will do my best for you, my lady,” said Mrs. Duff, her tone suddenly without expression.

“Of course they must decide for themselves.”

“Yes, my lady, it leads to the best decision.”

“We shall not be able to keep all of them.”

“Not in the reduced quarters, my lady. It would be the inference.”

“And we shall not need them when the work is less.”

“Well, my lady, after the stage when it is more.”

“That will soon be over. I hope they are not fair-weather friends.”

“Well, my lady, there is dependence on both sides.”

“They must consider their own welfare. No doubt it is what they are doing.”

“Well, my lady, it is how we are all actuated. I will state the case for you. A move to the lodge is necessitated by retrenchment. The change to be accepted or not, as choice dictates.”

“It will still be a better place than many. And some people are only fitted for household work.”

“Yes, my lady. Or have had no chance of doing any other.”

“You will be a support to me, Mrs. Duff? I have not to regard you as an antagonist?”

“It is not the light in which I am seen, my lady. It is help and not hindrance that has been my motto. And I have earned the name.”

“It is a noble one,” said Angus. “And means you have imagination.”