The Last and the First

by Ivy Compton-Burnett

  “What will make a difference?” said Jocasta’s voice. “I find I cannot be alone. I must be with you who do not want me, and whom I should not have to want. I can’t have nothing and no one. I take what is left. That is what my life will be. What will make a difference, Amy?”

  “Oh, Uncle’s leaving you his money instead of taking yours, Grannie.”

  “Oh, that is what it is. That is your thought, when he is dead, and my world is dark. Your world is not dark I see, it has a fresh light. When I said I was alone, my word was true. Yes, your uncle leaves what he had. And you will have it in the end. He wanted nothing. It will be for you who want so much, for you who have no right to it. I see it in your faces, the eagerness and the desire. I see it in your eyes.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Erica. “It is not there for you to see. It is to you that Uncle leaves what he had. It will belong to you, not to us. We could look in your eyes for the things you imagine in ours. We might say you have told us what they are.”

  “The money will be mine. But it will not be spent on me. When do I spend money on myself? It will be used for your good or to help your future. And you know it. And the knowledge set your thoughts and feelings working on it. I should like to meet other things in you, but I take you as you are. You have to take me as I am. And I know I am less than I was.”

  “Can it be true?” murmured Osbert. “Could she ever have been more than this?”

  “What was it, Amy? What did you say, Osbert? Something your sister can’t repeat. And at this time in our lives! You don’t seem to know what time it is. And it would not be fit for me to tell you. I had no thought of the money myself. It is a strange subject for the moment.”

  “No, it is a natural one,” said Erica. “Death must bring money adjustment. It comes, laden with changes, and that is one of them.”

  Jocasta threw searching eyes over her grand-children’s faces.

  “There is something I will ask you all. And you will give me true answers. I will begin with you, Osbert. How much do you feel your uncle’s death?”

  “About as much as he would have felt mine, Grannie. You know what his feeling would have been.”

  “And you, Erica. How much do you feel it?”

  “Perhaps less than he would have felt mine. But that may not be against me. I see it is sad that he is dead.”

  “And you, Amy. Look at me and tell me the truth.”

  Amy looked at the ground and told herself the truth, that her uncle would never be seen at school again.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Grannie; I am not sure. I think I feel as Erica does. It is sad that he is dead.”

  “It is sad that he is dead,” said Jocasta, almost in mimicry. “It is sad that they are both dead, my sons who seemed so apart from each other, and were both so near to me. They had different qualities, perhaps the opposite ones, but their mother understood them and valued them for what they were.”

  “And knew what they were not,” murmured Osbert. “She saw their feet were of clay. And sometimes perceived it in other parts of them.”

  “What did you say, Osbert? What was it, Amy? Answer me at once when I speak.”

  “Oh—that you saw their feet were of clay, Grannie; and saw it—perceived it in other parts of them.”

  “So, Osbert, that is what it was. That is how you talk to your sisters of men who were wiser than you, and are not able to answer. So I saw their feet were of clay? Do you ever turn your eyes on yourself?”

  “No, I never do, Grannie. I am made entirely of clay. I ought not to have been made at all. I might see myself as others see me.”

  “Well, cease to mutter to yourself. Hear yourself as others hear you. If you are ashamed of what you have to say, ask yourself why you say it. Look into your own heart and recognise what you see. There is something different about you all to-day. And it is not a day for betraying the hidden side of yourselves.”

  “Which days are the ones for that?” said Erica. “I have never known them.”

  “They say that sorrow is ennobling,” said Osbert. “So I suppose Grannie is ennobled. That is why her standard is so high.”

  “Well, it is my own, and different from yours, perhaps different from everyone’s. It is one of the things I have to accept. I must face them and go forward. To fail would be to fail myself. Well, Hollander, you have a sad old woman for a mistress.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Hollander, in sympathetic agreement. “When my uncle died my grandmother was never to lift her head again.”

  “Well, I must try to do a little better than that.”

  “If you are able to, ma’am. In the other case no hope was entertained,” said Hollander with a faint sound of shock in his tone.

  “I must think of my grand-children as well as of myself.”

  “Well, youth has its eyes on the future, ma’am. My grandmother observed it in her dry vein.”

  “And you don’t connect me with the future?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Hollander, smiling at the idea.

  “I may have a little of it.”

  “Yes, ma’am, with every hour of it an hour too much.”

  “We should give ourselves to life as long as we have it.”

  “Yes, ma’am, with thoughts on something very different.”

  “Perhaps we should not dwell on our own state.”

  “There would be reminders, ma’am, that would not escape you.”

  “You think I can turn a clear eye on myself?”

  “Yes, ma’am, when that is the direction. Otherwise I think few of us elude it.”

  “Perhaps I see and feel too much for my time of life.”

  “Well, ma’am, it is a case of now or never. When you can attend to it, ma’am, a registered packet has come for you. I hope I did right in signing the receipt. The postman was pressed for time.”

  “It is from the lawyers. Some sort of document,” said Osbert. “What are you engaged in, Grannie?”

  “In nothing. It is a copy of your uncle’s will. They wrote that they were sending it. There won’t be anything to say about it. I know very much what it must be.”

  “It will only affect yourself,” said Erica. “But there may be some minor legacies that will have a human interest.”

  “It will be short and clear,” said Jocasta, as she broke the seal. “There can be no question about it. ‘This is the last will and testament of me, Hamilton Grimstone, bachelor, of Egdon House, Egdon, Somerset.’ Then some legal formalities and what you call minor legacies to servants and other dependants. And now the gist of the will. ‘I give and bequeath to my mother, Jocasta Grimstone, widow, all of which I die possessed in the aforesaid house which she owns and at present occupies. And all else of which I die possessed, namely my investments, securities and moneys at the bank, I give and bequeath absolutely to Hermia Heriot, spinster, of Egdon Hall, Egdon, Somerset, whom I wished to make my wife—’ Hermia Heriot! The Heriots’ eldest daughter! The mistress of the school! What does it mean? It can’t mean what it says. It can’t be meant as it stands.”

  There was a pause. Hollander vanished from the room as if feeling his presence an intrusion, allowing his demeanour to change at the door to one of eager purpose.

  “It does mean what it says,” said Osbert. “All wills are meant as they stand. And this one stands like this. There is something we have not known. Did Uncle see much of Miss Heriot?”

  “He saw her at the school when he went there with Amy and me. He showed an interest in her both before and after they met. Both before and after; that tells its tale; the feeling was half imaginary. It can’t have meant anything. He would not have kept it from his mother. What are we to do about it? It is clear that something should be done.”

  “It seems she must have refused him,” said Erica. “Of course she knew him very little. She may not want to take the money. It seems possible that she will not.”

  “Most people want to take money,” said Osbert. “It gives them so much else that they want. T
his is an unusual case, but it follows the usual line. There is no other for it to follow.”

  “It is too unusual to be accepted,” said his grandmother. “He must have made the will in a mood of emotion, and then omitted to alter it. It is a trouble to change a will. My poor boy, he went through that alone. But it could not have gone deep.”

  “He may have wished it did,” said Erica. “Perhaps he wanted an outlet for feelings he liked to imagine. And he could not know that he was going to die, and that the will would take effect.”

  “That is another way of saying it means nothing. That is, in itself. Of course it has its legal meaning.”

  “It has,” said Osbert. “And it is the whole of its actual meaning. The money belongs to Hermia Heriot, as his other possessions belong to you. That is how he has apportioned his effects. Is the money very much? Have you any idea of the amount?”

  “No definite idea. He inherited a fortune and added to it. He was reticent about the figures, but they were on an unusual scale. If Miss Heriot had known it, and known him better, we can’t say what the result would have been.”

  “But she would not have accepted him,” said Amy, unthinkingly, or rather saying what she thought.

  “We shall never know what she would have done if she had seen more of him.”

  Amy was silent on the probable result of this.

  “We know nothing,” said Erica, “except how he felt to her or wished to feel.”

  “It is true, poor boy! Oh, Hollander, you are there. You come and go without a sound.”

  Hollander just smiled and inclined his head, and resumed the occupation he had left.

  “How much have you heard of this matter? I suppose you know the whole?”

  “It is chiefly snatches that reach me, ma’am,” said Hollander, not denying that he was receptive to these.

  “We don’t want it gossiped about behind the scenes.”

  Hollander’s smile deepened. “No ma’am. If gossip is in question, I am hardly the person to be cited.”

  “Remember not to mention it. Or have you already done so?”

  “No, ma’am, unless an incidental word may have passed my lips,” said Hollander, in a tone so incidental that it was hardly articulate.

  “It will be all round the neighbourhood. But nothing could prevent it. There are things that can’t remain a secret.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It will not be the word to be applied.”

  “We need not be conscious about it. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “No, indeed, ma’am, that feeling is not on your side. The slur of being supplanted should rest on the person who causes it.”

  “We have no grievance. People can do as they will with their own.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it seems to be the case. But the word is hardly a misnomer.”

  “Shall we be much poorer?” said Osbert. “Did Uncle contribute much to the household?”

  Hollander continued his movements, but his eyes were still.

  “We will talk about all of it presently,” said Jocasta, using a weary tone.

  Hollander turned as if at dismissal, left the room and closed the door.

  “Hollander has had a treat,” said Osbert. “A thing that can’t be said of anyone else.”

  “It does seem that Miss Heriot may waive her claim,” said Jocasta. “I feel I should in her place.”

  “Why must we have places of our own?” said Erica. “We should do so well in other people’s, so much better than they do themselves.”

  “There is no reason in her inheriting anything. She can regard nothing as hers.”

  “People do regard what they inherit as theirs. That is the meaning of inheritance.”

  “As she did not accept your uncle, she has no moral claim.”

  “Perhaps she knew she would have it anyhow,” said Amy, “and so didn’t have to accept him.”

  “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.

  Chapter IX

  “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.”