“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.
Chapter VI
“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.
“Whom is yours from, Hermia?” said Eliza, speaking as one who had a right to ask. “You seem quite lost in it.”
“So perhaps she can’t emerge from it,” said Roberta.
“She must know whom it is from. She can read the signature.”
“That seems the end of our duty to a letter,” said Angus.
“It is not of her duty to me. Any letters that come to this house are in a sense mine. I have a right to know who is writing, if not what is written. I really have a right to know the whole. Whom is the letter from, Hermia?”
“Just from a friend, as Madeline’s is,” said Sir Robert, in a light tone. “That is true of most letters.”
“Hardly of this,” said his daughter, with her eyes still on it. “It is from Hamilton Grimstone.”
“Hamilton Grimstone? Mrs. Grimstone’s son?” said Eliza. “Why, you don’t know him. You can hardly have met. Why does he write to you?”
“He gives his reason.”
“Well, what is it? It can’t be anything. He is almost a stranger to you.”
“He comes with his mother to things at the school. Her grand-child, his niece, is a pupil there. We have talked once or twice, but not in a way to lead to anything.”
“To lead to what? Don’t make it such a mystery. It can be nothing that matters. Anyhow it is not a secret.”
“It might be; perhaps it should be. Some people would make it one, I daresay most people. I shall not. It is a proposal.”
“Of marriage? Oh, it can’t be. You are making a mistake. You are reading it wrongly. It is out of the question. Let me see the words.”
“No, it should perhaps be more of a secret than that. But it is as I said. There can be no doubt.”
“Well, if it is, it is a sudden thing. You must have made a conquest. It does happen suddenly sometimes.”
Eliza looked at her step-daughter with new eyes. “You did make use of your time, and so did he. Well, it was wise of you both, if you kne
w your minds. Let me see the letter.”
“No, it is surely only for Hermia’s eyes,” said Sir Robert.
But Hermia put it into Eliza’s hands as if she had no personal concern with it, and Eliza read it in a low tone, as though judging of the words. Hermia moved to check her, but desisted and heard with the rest.
‘My dear Miss Heriot,
You will be surprised by my writing to you, and even more surprised by what I write. I should be held to know you very little. But I seem to myself to know you well. And I am venturing to ask you if you will be my wife.
I can offer material ease, a suitable settlement, and all my feeling.
If you do not accept my offer I will ask simply and openly that my mother shall not know of it.
Yours in devotion, if hardly in hope,
Hamilton Grimstone.’
“Well, so it is the truth. What do you feel about it? I think I like the way he writes. It is a good letter, simple and open and to the point. What do you find your feeling is? I daresay you want time to think.”
“No, I know what it is. It is what it would be, a want of it. I am surprised, and I suppose I am grateful, but nothing more. I hardly know him. I don’t even like him much. He has shown an interest in me, but I have felt nothing on my side.”
“Well, don’t decide in haste. Your feelings may respond to his. That is a thing that can happen. This is not a chance that comes every day. You may not have so many. As far as I know you have had very few. You have not been happy of late. You were dissatisfied at home, and the school scheme is hardly a success. It does not leave you with much. And this offers you your own life at a time when you need it, and know your need. You should think and think again. Your tastes may be simple, but you are dependent and used to ease. And we don’t know what the future may bring.”
“We know enough,” said Sir Robert. “There is nothing that necessitates her accepting a man against her will. I have provided for my daughters. Her feelings are the only question. She must judge for herself.”
“I have judged, Father, or I have not had to. I could not have a moment’s doubt. My surprise at the offer adds to the certainty. I will answer the letter and forget the whole thing as he will wish it forgotten.”
“It is a light way to deal with a matter of this moment,” said Eliza. “It is a step you can’t retrace. You may realise what you are losing, when it is too late. Do not make light of my words. I am not saying them lightly. It is the advice I would give to my own daughter.”
“I daresay it is, and it may be sound on the surface. But it has no depth or meaning. Nothing that would count is there.”
“How do you feel about it, Madeline?”
“As Hermia does, Mater. There can be no question.”
“There can be none,” said Sir Robert. “The matter can fall into the past.”
“Well, we will leave you to discuss it by yourselves,” said Eliza, going to the door. “I don’t know what your conclusion will be. We can hear it later.”
“She does not know,” said Hermia, “though we may think she has been told. She is so used to imposing her view that she can believe in nothing else. And there is the chance of my being disposed of. I see it is becoming a problem.”
“Oh, that could only be a secondary thought,” said Madeline.
“It may have been, but it was there.”
“I look up to you, Hermia,” said Roberta. “It is hard to believe in your history. You have escaped from home, a mighty effort, imposed a levy on the family a mightier, met a reverse with quiet courage, won a good man’s love and risen to the height of refusing it. Suppose we all lived as fully?”
“And you have not come to the end,” said Angus. “You still have to deal with the letter. May I see the answer? Or is it not for any eyes but yours?”
“It had better be only for mine. It can hardly show me to advantage. Refusing something is not a becoming task. It does not put me in the better place.”
“I should hardly have thought he had a claim to it.”
“Well, perhaps in a sense,” said Madeline. “He was anyhow thinking of someone else, and that does not do nothing for it. Though it is hard to see how a deep feeling could arise in so short a time.”
“It could for Hermia. We must see it did,” said Roberta. “She roused love at first sight, really a rare achievement.”
“Especially in a woman of my type,” said Hermia, with a smile. “I could see that Mater thought so. She seemed to be viewing me in a new light.”
“We must all do that in a way,” said Madeline. “It does suggest there is something about you that we missed in our family life. Though that may hardly be the sphere for it.”
“For what arouses feeling at first sight?” said Roberta. “No, it is not the sphere. Its opportunities are different.”
“We must forget the whole thing,” said Hermia. “No one but ourselves is to know about it.”
“It is not anything to be ashamed of,” said Madeline. “Though perhaps hardly a cause for pride. And I think simple openness is best in everything.”
“I am sure it is not,” said Roberta. “So many things are better hidden. What of some of our little actions and most of our thoughts? Is simple openness really the treatment for them?”
“Not for the noble ones,” said Angus. “We remember when they met it, and the embarrassment it caused.”
“I suppose we should not have felt embarrassment,” said Madeline.
“Should we ever feel it?” said Roberta. “The instances of it are seldom morally justified.”
“Well, is the conclave ended?” said Eliza. “Have you come to your decision? Are you prepared for a change in our family life? We ought to be ready for one. The time is ripe.”
“No, no, my dear,” said Sir Robert, looking at the faces.
“You know the decision,” said Hermia. “And it was only I who had to make it.”
“But you made it in haste. You were to reconsider it. Is the result still in the balance?”
“It is what you know. The matter is as if it had not been. It could only have one fate.”
“Well, then, there it is, Hermia,” said Eliza, in another tone. “You will live your life as you have lived it, in doubt and discontent, always seeking for something beyond your range. And this that falls into your hands, and would give you so much, you cast from you as if it were nothing, as if you had something in its stead. And what have you but a chance that a school may succeed, and a poor chance of that?”
“And a poor thing in itself. I see it as a poor thing. It meant a chance of other things, and may still mean a chance of them. Though, as you say, a poor one. I see it as it is.”
Eliza turned and went into the hall and sank into a chair to weep. Her husband followed and she spoke to him through her tears.
“We shall never be free of them, never have our home to ourselves. Always have them here with their judging looks and their set and self-satisfied thoughts. When we were married I did not think of their never leaving us. I thought that in time our home would be our own, that Roberta would be your daughter and would not have the third place. And she will always have it. Things will always be the same.”
“It is not her place with me. You know it, and so does she. And I think so do they.”
“I am not so sure. They feel they have the prior claim. They say it is their birthright, theirs as a matter of course. Their presence is a part of everything. And I did think one of them might be gone.”
“She is doing her best. Your hope is really hers. If she fails it is not her fault. I wish a change could be made, but you know how matters stand. Money is scarce and will remain so.”
“Has she made it any more plentiful? My children ask for little and have less. And this chance she thrusts aside, as if it was one of many. And she may never have another. Why should she have had this?”
“Why indeed? There is no reason. She could not care for the man. The offer was a strange one, and acceptance of it
would be stranger. We must put it from our thoughts. You know it has not really been in them. And we should go from the hall, my dear. We shall be overheard.”
“And the snatches that have reached us are enough,” said Hermia. “If we retain any self-respect, we must have had our share. But I daresay we had. It is not an uncommon attribute.”
“It is not,” said Roberta. “Why are we supposed to have it? It is wasted advice when it is always there.”
“Suppose we met someone without it!” said Angus. “It is a good thing to know that we can’t. Unless the self-respect goes further and becomes self-esteem, as can sometimes happen.”
“I think self-respect is always self-esteem,” said Roberta. “I don’t know why it is called anything else.”
“Should we not try to forget what we have heard?” said Madeline. “We must remember that we overheard it.”
“So we should hardly forget it,” said Hermia. “But it told us nothing we did not know. Nothing, that is, about Mater. It yielded a little information about ourselves.”
“I think it told me something I did not know,” said Madeline, in a quiet tone. “That Mater has found us a greater trial in her life than we knew.”
“It does not mean that we have found her any less of one. The relation offered little on either side.”
“I suppose we should remember she had to bring us up.”
“We should hardly forget being brought up by her. I don’t need any reminder.”
“I think she has honestly tried to do her duty by us.”
“Under Father’s eye. What else could she do? And has she met with any great success? You said we should forget what we heard. You seem to have done so.”
“We should be grateful to her for making Father so happy.”
“He can be grateful himself for that. It has done less than nothing for us. His infatuation with her has sent an emptiness through our lives.”
“I know what you mean. But he has hardly been conscious of it. And ought we to talk like this before Angus and Roberta?”
“Why not? We have always done so. They expect and understand it. And we have not said anything that does not go without saying.”
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