The Last and the First (7 page)

“You must be glad of each other's support,” said Jocasta, turning to the partners. “There is a great deal to discuss and decide at a time of change like this.”

“What was it that someone said?” said Miss Murdoch. “Someone who had a right to say it. ‘There is something a wise man knows. Change is never for the better.'”

“A wiser man would know more,” said Hermia. “What of the reforms of the past? We can't say they were anything but what they were. Conscious change is seldom for the worse. There would be no reason for making it. Its object is the bettering of things.”

“Ah, what is better? There is the rub, the question that is not answered, the uncertain thing. Is it what seems good to ourselves, perhaps does good? That is what it is?”

“It may be at times. We must judge as we can. It is anyhow better than what seems harmful to ourselves and perhaps does harm.”

“I say nothing myself,” said Hamilton. “I should not dare to enter the lists with two such able contestants. I will leave my mother in the field.”

“Change has to come,” said Jocasta. “Though I may be too old to judge of it. This may be the place for it. It is for youth and a school is for the young. Perhaps it should not look too like itself. It may be better disguised.”

“It is better still in the open,” said Hermia. “If a thing is good it should stand the light. It should seek it and appear as itself, as what it is.”

“As you do,” said Hamilton, in a low tone. “You appear as yourself, as what you are. An exile from your own world and an alien in this. You have the strength to stand alone. It could not be said of many.”

“It can scarcely be said of me. It needs more strength than I know. I am more alone than I thought to be. I tried and failed to live with nothing, and it is again before me. I hardly dare to look forward.”

“A house divided against itself,” said Hamilton, still speaking to her. “It cannot stand.”

“It is true. The slow death will go on. I am losing hope.”

“I do not lose it for you. You are young, or young to me. There will be another future.”

“There are not so many. For me there was the one. I strove for it and gained it, and it is gone.”

Hermia moved away, unwilling to go further with Hamilton, and the voices round them went on.

“Does your grandmother spoil you, Amy? People are supposed to spoil their grand-children.”

“Oh, I daresay she does in a sense,” said Amy, in a light tone.

“In what way does she spoil you?”

“Oh, everyone does that in a different way,” said Amy, aware that Jocasta's method must appear as her own.

“You didn't have a dress for the school play. And it meant you couldn't take part in it.”

“Oh, yes, there was a touch of spoiling there. That was an escape indeed.”

“And you didn't subscribe very much to Miss Murdoch's Christmas present.”

“Oh, I don't suppose Grannie wants to spoil Miss Murdoch,” said Amy, with a little laugh. “I think she rather despises her for keeping a school.”

“Wouldn't you really rather be more like everyone else?”

“Oh, there are plenty of people to be that. There is no harm in a few exceptions.”

“I am glad I am not an exception,” said a reflective child, judging the role to be beyond her.

“Why do you not come to see Amy sometimes?” said Jocasta to the girls. “I should like to see her friends about the house. She must not let shyness prevent her asking you. You could sit in the garden and have tea in the schoolroom afterwards. There can be nothing against it.”

Amy summoned a smile to her lips at the mention of this prospect, and stood with it hovering over them.

“If I am apprised of the date of the visit I will endeavour to be present,” said Hamilton, “and to efface the indefinite impression I have perforce produced to-day.”

The girls responded to his smile, and startled his niece who was not prepared for a normal acceptance of him.

“We should like to come and see you, Amy,” said one. “It would be a change.”

“Would it? I don't know what it would be,” said Amy, in an absent tone. “It sounds as if it would be nothing. I shouldn't have anything to do with it. It would be done for me.”

“You don't seem to do much for yourself. Do you choose your own clothes?”

“Oh, I don't care about clothes. I never think about them. I wonder people ever do. I hardly know what they are.”

The girls held their eyes from the examples before them in case they might hardly suggest this unawareness.

“Your grandmother's clothes are good. She must know what they are.”

“Oh, no doubt she does. For Grannie nothing but the best.”

“Does she think much more of herself than of anyone else?”

“Oh, well, everyone does.”

“I don't think parents always do.”

“This is a grand-parent,” said Amy, her tone still light, but holding a note of weariness.

“The man whom you call Uncle is your real uncle, isn't he?” said an older girl, using a mild tone to ease the admission. “He is really your grandmother's son?”

“Yes, of course he is. What else would he be? He is her ordinary legitimate son. I said he was not because I was ashamed of him. As I am really ashamed of everything.”

Amy had reached the end of her capacity for suffering and was impervious to further cause for it. The girls accepted the feeling of shame as a natural part of life, but glimpsed unusual grounds for it and carried things no further.

“You look tired, Amy,” said Jocasta, as they reached home. “It is standing about with nothing in your hands or your head. You get no good out of vacancy.”

“No, perhaps not, Grannie,” said Amy, accepting the account of her afternoon without surprise.

“How will you feel if the school is given up and you have to go to another?”

“I am not sure, Grannie,” said Amy, seeing no prospect of real change unless all schools met this fate.

“Miss Heriot stands by herself,” said Hamilton. “And not only in a literal sense. She is indeed an unusual figure.”

“Oh, she is not a tragic one,” said Jocasta. “She has a home and a family. And would do better to return to them.”

“They may be where the trouble lies, Mamma. In a sense they could be the seat of it.”

“We will not waste our thought on her. She will not waste hers on us. Nothing is being done for Amy there. And if one of the women has not made an end of the school the two of them will. We will not talk about it. We will not talk about anything. I am worn out and fit for nothing. I must ask for silence.”

She leant back and closed her eyes; Hamilton tiptoed from the room; and Osbert began to murmur under his breath.

“She can't have quite what she asks. We must hear what Amy has to tell.”

“It is nothing,” said Amy, in the same manner. “Or nothing you would understand.”

“Was it everything?” said Erica, in a tone that denoted understanding.

“Yes it was,” said Amy, in one that accepted it. “I mean it was what Grannie said.”

“Could you voice it?” said Osbert. “Even that would be better shared.”

“She said I was moved by the sight of this dress. And that I never had any money.”

“I hope that was all. It seems to comprise everything.”

“No, it was not. She has asked the girls to tea.”

“Here?” said Erica, on a higher note.

“Here,” said Osbert. “It is the unlikely that happens.”

“There is nowhere else,” said Amy. “It doesn't seem so very unlikely. And the likely really happens oftener.”

“It is true. There is no escape. It comes under either head.”

“There is something else,” said Amy, with a faint smile. “Uncle Hamilton said he would be here. He talked to the girls himself. But he matters less than Grannie.”

“Well, he would. She is built on a larger scale.”

“Did I or did I not ask for silence?” said Jocasta. “What would this incessant muttering be called? And what are you saying about me?”

“That you are built on a larger scale than Uncle Hamilton,” said Erica.

“Well, I may be. I daresay I am. My sons were not equal to me. There is often an outstanding member in a family. But there is no reason why she should be harried to death. You know what I have asked for, and you know I will have it.”

As the hush fell, Amy leant back and rested her head on her hand, an attitude that caused her grandmother to frown, though it resembled her own and came from similar feelings.

“Amy, try to look as if you were alive. There is no reason for this exhausted pose. You have had a great deal done for you to-day. Your afternoon has been very different from mine. It seems that pleasure does not agree with you. We must see you don't have too much of it.”

“No, yes, Grannie,” said Amy, finding she concurred in this view, and hoping that hospitality came under the same head.

“Well, here I am at home!” said Hermia. “Not where you thought to see me. Not where I hoped to be. Mater is not in the offing? I can say an open word? I am not a welcome figure any more than I am a willing one.”

“Why are you at home?” said Madeline, with her eyes and tone grave. “We can hardly be glad of it if you are not.”

“Because a break was needed. Because it had to come. Because other things had come. Miss Murdoch and I are like flint and steel. We can't come together without breaking into flame. She holds to her place without the power to fill it. She stands in the way of everything. What I could do is not to be done. What I have done is to be undone. I don't know what the end will be. I begin to feel there must be an end.”

“It may be that tact and patience are needed,” said Madeline, as if such qualities could not be depended on.

“I told myself that, as everyone would. And I found they did nothing, as everyone does. And I found the decline will go on, as nothing is done to check it. A deadlock has been reached, and is not resolved. I am here for the break to achieve it. Though where my presence failed, it is unlikely that my absence will succeed.”

“So you are here again, Hermia,” said Eliza's voice. “Sooner than I thought to see you. Not that I felt it would be long. So the school is not the whole of your world? This house is still your background, if not your home?”

“It seems it may be both,” said Hermia, in an even
tone. “You sound as if you want me to admit it. Does the admission afford you any pleasure? It affords me none.”

“Why, what is the matter? What do you mean? I hope there is nothing wrong.”

“I hope so indeed,” said Sir Robert, as he came to greet his daughter. “It is soon for a threat of this kind. I trust it is one that will pass.”

“The trouble lies deep,” said Hermia. “Madeline knows what it is. She will tell you and save me from doing so, and you from hearing it from me.”

“I know what it is,” said Eliza. “None of us needs to be told. It is what I was afraid of, Hermia. Your temperament has betrayed you. You had great patience here, and it unfitted you for the world outside.”

“That is not where I am. I am in a narrower world than this, one where the temperament you mention, or what you mean, was the one that might have served. No other would have been of any good. I could only show it and hope it would prevail. But nothing would or could have. I see there was no hope.”

“You showed your temperament and hoped it would prevail. The epitome of your life. And put into words by yourself. We need not say any more.”

“How far has the failure gone?” said Sir Robert. “Is it definite and complete?”

“Not either as yet, Father. Or not allowed to be. The threat is not recognised, but it is there. It is best to be open about it. I decided to speak the truth.”

“Well, it can seldom be hidden,” said Eliza. “In this case it could not be. What has happened to the money we gave? It must have been put to some use.”

“Much of it has gone on Miss Murdoch's debts. They were more than I knew. And more than she knew or would know. It was made over to her in payment for my
part in the goodwill. I had no control over it. It was not mine.”

“No, it was never yours. It was your father's and meant for you all. What a tale for you to tell, and for Angus and Roberta to hear! Are you glad to see them?”

“More than they can be to see me, the tale being as you tell it.”

“I was impressed by it,” said Angus. “I have a great respect for failure. For letting things pass to other people and having nothing oneself. It is a thing we can speak of openly. It is so much less furtive than success.”

“People never speak of that,” said Roberta. “And they pretend it is not in their thoughts. There is something shamefaced about it.”

“There are other things,” said Eliza. “And other things too about failure. I fear that Hermia will find it.”

“It is a serious threat,” said Sir Robert. “But we took the risk with open eyes. It is of no use to regret it. It is a thing we must sometimes do. But do all you can, Hermia. Try to see Miss Murdoch's point of view. Don't be too sure of your own. The future is largely in your hands.”

“It is almost wholly out of them. And it is Miss Murdoch's point of view that is bringing disaster, not mine. It is no good to say any more. You would not be any wiser. There are other matters under the sun. It seems that the post is here.”

“With a letter for each of us,” said Angus, handing them round. “It is not often so fair.”

“Mine is a bill,” said Sir Robert. “And it is not at all fair. I have paid it.”

“Mine is also a bill,” said Roberta. “And it is quite fair. I have omitted to pay it.”

“Mine is just from a friend,” said Madeline, closing
her lips and her letter after the words in a way that had become accepted.