A Heritage and its History (3 page)

“If so, they have gained little. And nothing that would serve them.”

“Their concern is not the end of our lives, but the beginning of their own. Though Walter may have thought we were occupied with his failings.”

Walter had feared this, and had taken a position that would enlighten him. As his brother passed with a smile of connivance, he beckoned him to his side.

“Are they talking of you?” said Simon.

“No, of themselves. It is strange that I was not in their thoughts.”

“What were they saying?”

“Noble things to each other about life and death. I wish I had not listened. I really had a right to hear no
good of myself. And I heard so much good of them, that I shall never be at ease with them again.”

“Did you not hear anything of us?”

“Only words of gentle acceptance of what we are. And I did not know they knew. They see us with open eyes, as we see them. And that is a shock.”

“We don't seem to have seen the whole of them.”

“Well, I have seen it now. Or I hope it is the whole. I hardly think there can be any more.”

“Anyhow we will not find it out,” said Simon.

“And I was confused by their not talking about my debts. I did not think of other things being in their thoughts. It might almost seem that my being in debt did not matter.”

“Or that you did not,” said Simon, laughing. “So they did not mention them?”

“Well, they heard me outside the door and guessed I thought they would be doing so. And they were not, which was humbling for me. I could rise above that, but they knew it was humbling; and from that I turn my eyes.”

“You might have got more into debt, if you had known.”

“Or I might not have done so at all. I did not know it was not a serious thing.”

“Well, it is not, compared to Father's health. They must think first of that.”

“That will do, Simon. I am brought low.”

“It is not a good prospect for either.”

“I wish it did not bring out the best in them. The best in people causes me such discomfort. And I hardly
think it does much for anyone. It is difficult to see what good it is.”

“I daresay you would not mind it in yourself.”

“There is none in me,” said Walter. “When I tried to find some to correspond with theirs, I found nothing but natural, human feelings.”

“Perhaps you are none the worse for that.”

“Yes, I am much worse.”

“I suppose our friendship is an echo of theirs to them. And they hope it will serve us as well.”

“It would have been no good for you to listen. You may be more like them than they know.”

“They certainly do not know,” said Simon, laughing.

“Ought we to promise faithfulness, as Uncle did?”

“I promise it,” said Simon.

“So do I. So now we are equal to them, though they do not suspect it. Perhaps it adds to us to be a little misunderstood.”

“It is a pity they don't know they are adding to us, when they would think it so desirable.”

“Simon, I did like the serious note underlying your promise. Perhaps we are more than equal to them.”

“To your father and uncle?” said Julia, passing through the hall. “You can only do your best to reach their level.”

“We have reached it,” said Walter. “You were not in time to hear.”

“Walter, our lenience about your debts does not mean we are not troubled by them.”

“No, Mater, of course it makes me regret them more.”

“And you need not regard me as too simple a person.”

“How could I, when it is known that sons take after their mothers?”

“You will turn over a new leaf, like my good son,” said Julia, as she went her way.

“Yes, I hope you will do so, Walter,” said Sir Edwin, coming out of the dining-room. “We do not talk of your troubles——“

“I know you do not, Uncle.”

“As things are, they will be your affair more than ours.”

“I wish people
would
talk of Walter's troubles,” said Simon. “When they don't, they seem a recurring topic.”

“One more word, Walter. I need only say it once. You are old to listen at doors.”

“I don't think I am old enough, Uncle. For contact with the depths of life.”

“Neither is anyone,” said Hamish. “I try to forget I am involved in them. You must do the same.”

“I think they have done so,” said Sir Edwin. “They must expect us sometimes to remember.”

Walter looked after the older men.

“It is terrible to meet selfless courage and try to be worthy of such a father. And in a way it is easier for him. He only has to feel that his sons are not equal to him. And there may be a shred of comfort there.”

“I don't think we are less intelligent than he is.”

“Simon, pride of intellect is not in place.”

“Very few things are. And being in debt is hardly
one of them. Of course I am not talking of your troubles.”

“I shall have to remain in it. I cannot ask Father about such things, when he is on the brink of eternity.”

“Put the bills on Mater's table. I daresay she will pay them. She likes to be trusted.”

“I am glad to cause her pleasure. I will give her my full trust.”

“Do you really think that Father will live to eternity?”

“Of course I do not. I should be as ashamed of it, as you would. I meant an eternity of nothingness, which was a good thing to mean. It almost seems you might mean something else. I admire Father for quietly facing extinction. I see nothing in facing eternity, when we should all like to so much.”

“What does Father think himself?” said Simon.

“He thinks what we do, and knows we think it. It makes it hard to know how to behave with him.”

“He said we were to forget it. I suppose he meant what he said.”

“Simon, how can you suppose that?”

“If he heard us talking, what would he think?”

“That we were covering our feelings. Or I hope he would. And in my case there would be truth in it. In yours there is the knowledge that there will be a person less in your path.”

“I do not really consider that. If I did, I should not talk of it. And it will not be so much of a change for me. I have seen Uncle's life as a better one than
Father's. And a feeling is not less strong, that another can exist with it.”

“I think the strife between them weakens it, when it is not strong enough to kill the other.”

“You need not be so sure you are nobler than I am.”

“I am sure,” said Walter.

“You are giving Father more worry.”

“Well, the black sheep does turn out to have the deepest heart.”

“Now Deakin wants you out of the way,” said Julia, returning to the hall. “He has to attend to his work. And, Simon, you should do the same. The day will be gone before you have begun.”

“I thought I felt it going,” said Walter. “There was less of the bleakness of having the whole morning before me.”

“It can be a trying position, Deakin, to be the one woman in a family.”

“I have thought it at times, ma'am. There is the lack of interchange. Not that there is ever that, except in a measure.”

“I suppose your problem is the opposite, in your life in a group of women.”

“Well, ma'am, life! I move and breathe among them.”

“We have found you a good friend. This anxiety about Mr. Hamish is yours as well as ours.”

“Yes, ma'am, it adds a touch of darkness to the greyness of life. And may perhaps help us to see it as no more than grey.”

“You feel things are as gloomy as that?”

“There seems no reason for denying it, ma'am.”

“I hope you are happy with us?”

“Yes, ma'am, as the word is used.”

“I have had a good deal of joy in my life.”

“It is looking back, ma'am. Distance lends what is needed. Though I would hardly employ the usual term.”

“Have you no happy memories?”

“Well, they are uniform, ma'am.”

“Perhaps your life has been more monotonous than mine.”

“Well, ma'am, neither has left its groove.”

“You have the satisfaction of feeling useful years behind you.”

“And also before me, ma'am. And there are other epithets.”

“I do not think lives lived solely for ourselves are any happier.”

“Well, ma'am, few have the experience.”

“The friendship between Sir Edwin and Mr. Hamish has done much for them.”

“Yes, ma'am, it has come to their help.”

“I hope my sons' friendship will serve them as well.”

“Yes, ma'am. It is all before them.”

“The stress of life?”

“Well, ma'am, its negation.”

“Perhaps you should have married, Deakin.”

“No, ma'am. There is no end but one.”

“You know I do not see it as the end.”

“No, you are prepared to go on, ma'am.”

“Do you not feel it is a happier belief?”

“That hardly bears on it, ma'am. Choice does not play much part.”

“So you do not look beyond your death?”

“I have imagined feeling it was all over at last, ma'am. It would seem a sort of compensation. But that is not a thing to expect.”

“There is no reason for being as late as this,” said Fanny Graham to her sister.

“We do not know yet. There may be many.”

“Well, there may be one.”

“Then we will wait to judge.”

“My judgement is ready. I don't feel it will be wasted.”

“Why judge at all?” said Rhoda. “It is not one of our duties to each other.”

“It seems it must be. Unless it is a duty to ourselves.”

“We ourselves may sometimes be wrong.”

“Well, then we are said to be.”

“We can find other people as little wrong as possible.”

“I find them as wrong as they are.”

“It may be difficult to judge of that.”

“Can it be? Everyone finds it so easy.”

“There is no need to voice our judgements.”

“Silent ones are said to do more. And if we are never to blame anyone, what of the people who deserve praise?”

“It is true they do not have it very often.”

“Well, I think they deserve blame more.”

“Do you feel that of yourself?”

“Well, I am better than most people. Are not you?”

“Now let me think about that,” said Rhoda, leaning back. “You mean in my own opinion?”

“You would not be better in other people's. Or they could not be.”

“There are people who can take generous views.”

“Because it proves they are better. You yourself feel it does.”

“Well, there might be a worse ambition. And it may make them so.”

“It seems an arrogant one.”

“Well, is there any ambition quite free from pride?”

“Now let me think about that,” said Fanny, quoting her sister. “Perhaps some ambitions in themselves. None when they are realised.”

“That seems to be deep.”

“Yes, I thought it did. I tried to make it so.”

“Mine has been to manage a house and bring up an orphan sister. There is no pride there.”

“I think there seems to be,” said Fanny.

“Well, you said there was in all fulfilled ambition.”

“And I think I seem to be right.”

“You know it is my thirty-eighth birthday today?”

“Yes, or I should not have made you a gift.”

“Do you see I am going grey at the temples? Oh, people do not notice such things.”

“It is a kind they do notice. It reminds them that they are not going grey themselves. And if they are, they notice it more. They are waiting for it.”

“Fanny, you do not mean half you say.”

“Yes, often almost the whole.”

“Grey hair is supposed to give people personality.”

“It does, the appearance of it. And that is what you mean.”

“Ah, there is the reason of the lateness,” said Rhoda, going to the window. “Hamish seems hardly to have the strength to move. And Sir Edwin does not take his eyes off him. Ah, there is trouble there. How right we were not to judge!”

“And how generous you are! But it cannot be much comfort. It is true that things are wrong.”

The sisters watched at the window, two upright, young women of ordinary height and build, with fair, straight faces, widely spaced eyes, and a likeness between them that seemed to emphasise the difference. Their clothes and hands and general suggestion told of a country life passed within the bounds of ease. Rhoda's dress was contrived with some cleverness, Fanny's better cut and simpler, and in no need of contrivance.

“Do you call Hamish Challoner ‘Hamish' to his face?” she said.

“No, only in my mind. But it is in our minds that we live much of our life.”

“I seem to live most of mine in this room. Not that that need make much difference. I wonder why the Challoner men come to see us.”

“As the Challoner woman does not?” said Rhoda, smiling. “Why should she, if she does not wish? I have a feeling that Sir Edwin likes my friendship. I do not know why.”

“I do. He ought to like it. It makes him feel he is wise, and so that you are.”

“Well, I have my gleams of light. And if they can illumine the path of another, so much the better.”

“I wonder how it feels to be soon to die. Would you be curious about the things you were not to know or see?”

“No, curiosity would not be my feeling. No, not just that.”

“You would feel deeper things?”

“Yes, deeper, wider, different,” said Rhoda, looking before her.

“No wonder Sir Edwin thinks you are wise. He has no excuse for not doing so. If we pass over what is before our eyes, what is the good of its being there?”