A God and His Gifts (18 page)

There was a pause.

“Viola should know,” said Salomon, in an empty tone. “Anything else has danger. We see the danger that it holds. And she must see the difference in me. Her own feeling may not have gone far. She welcomed your presence in the path. Well, it is clear for you now.”

“Do not be bitter, my son. I have been as helpless as you have. And my way is not clear, if this is to be known. It is not the word.”

Salomon spoke in a more natural way.

“It should be known, Father. Viola has her claims. The knowledge may affect her future. She is my grandparents' true grand-daughter.”

“My son, she is the child of your father and your mother's sister. She is your half-sister and more. Things areas they are.”

“My mother must know. She will see the change in my feeling. And, Father, it has not changed. You say I deserve your sympathy. You are right that I do.”

“Then let it all be known,” said Hereward, throwing up his hands again. “Let them all start and stare and cast their stones. Let them do their part. It is what I am used to, what I have had. It is not what I have given, not what I will give. I will go on working and giving and suffering what I must. For I have suffered, Salomon. I am an unsatisfied man. I live with a want at my heart. You know now what that means.”

“I am learning it, Father. And I have no wish to be revenged. You have done me no conscious wrong. But these secrets should not be. They lie beneath our life to escape and shatter it. They must be revealed and ended.”

“Then end this one. Do as you will. Expose it in this house and the other. Let two families be shocked and saddened. It is your moment. They are all here. It is the usual treble gathering. Go and do your worst. Or your best, my boy. Go and do the only thing. We see it should be done.”

“Not before Viola, Father. She must hear when she is alone. I will do it when I can.”

“She is not with them,” said Hereward, looking aside. “She is in my room. I was going to her there. She was to wait for me.”

“Then I can go and do it now. It is the moment, as you say. You will break it to her yourself. In your room, where she is waiting for you. I said your path was clear.”

Salomon almost ran from the room, paused on the threshold of the other, and stood with his hand raised.

“Hear me, all of you. I have a word to say. That is, there is a word to be said. You have heard others. This may or may not be the last. It is Viola who is involved this time. She should not have come amongst us. Do you guess what it is? Can you think what it might be? If so, I need not use the words.”

“My son, what is it?” said Ada. “Surely there can be nothing more. Surely there has been enough.”

“I think I can guess,” said Alfred, coming forward. “This time I have felt I knew. At the early one I had no thought of it. Am I to say it, Ada? It is for you to judge.”

“Say it, Father. Say anything that is true. Nothing is too much for me now. Too many things have been too much. It is silence that I cannot bear. It has covered too much. Let it not cover any more. It is the thing I cannot face.”

“Then here is the truth. The last to come on us. This time I see it as the last. Viola is not the stranger we have thought. She is what she might naturally be. It is simply what might have been.”

“I see, Father. You need not say it. We all know what it is. She is the child of Hereward and Emmeline, of my husband and my sister. We will say no more.”

“My daughter, you have had much to face. But this is no new thing. Its place is in the past.”

“My poor son!” said Ada, turning to Salomon. “This is not in the past for you. It is your trouble more than
mine. For me the truth has been there, in a way a part of my life.”

“Yes, it is so, Ada,” said Emmeline. “There is nothing new. It is all so long ago. It has come to mean nothing. I felt it was best to hide the truth. Best for you and me and the child. I was going away, and it was easy to hide it. I thought I should never come back. And then it all seemed to be over, to be sunk in the past. And so it is. It is as you said. I did not think of this. How could anyone have thought of it?”

“There was a risk,” said Alfred. “There is danger in hidden things. We see they have their life, that they do not die. There may be many of them. We do not know. We will not add to them. It is well that this has come to light. I have nothing to say of it. It is late to judge. It must join the knowledge behind our lives.”

“Ada, I can go, if you wish,” said Emmeline. “Tell me the truth. Do you want me to go or stay?”

“To stay. I need my sister. Nothing new has happened. No change has come. I simply have greater need. And Father wants his daughter—his grand-daughter—all that it is. I can accept it. If I had not learned to accept, I should be a person who could learn nothing.”

“What a family we are!” said Reuben to his brothers. “I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed of belonging to it.”

“I see no cause for pride,” said Merton.

“I do,” said Trissie, in a whisper. “They would make anyone proud. And I am almost their relation.”

“I say nothing, Joanna,” said Sir Michael. “Once more I wish you had not known. Once more I would have spared you.”

“I say nothing too. I should like to say something in my own vein. Even at this moment I should like it. And I cannot think of anything. And I see I don't deserve to. Alfred was more fortunate. But then I daresay he did.”

“Did you ever suspect this was the truth?”

“No, but I sometimes felt it ought to be. It fitted in like a book. And truth is stranger than fiction. So it ought to be as good.”

“You all say that nothing has happened,” said Zillah. “And you go on talking as if something had.”

“You do not, Aunt Penelope,” said Ada. “And I should like to have a word.”

“Then you shall. I will say one. The word that had come into my mind. That I find you brave and kind and wise.”

“Oh, Aunt Penelope, that is a help. It is just the word I need. It gives me strength to go on.”

Sir Michael moved to Ada and put a hand on her shoulder. She started and broke into tears, and at that moment the door opened and Hereward stood with his eyes on her.

“So I have come at the peak of the occasion. I hoped it would be over. I thought I had given it time.”

“It is over, Hereward,” said Ada, raising her eyes. “And other things are over too. I shall say nothing. There is nothing for me to say.”

“There is nothing for me either. The words would have no place. They are out of their time.”

“Is this all it is to be?” said Joanna to her husband. “It somehow does not seem enough. I suppose I can't want it to be any more. It must be that human motives are mixed.”

“So you have had a burden I did not know of, Hereward,” said Ada. “As well as all those I know.”

“My wife, it is a good word. It was a good thought. I do not meet so many. And there is a word I will say to you. And it has nothing to do with my daughter. I am glad you have given me my sons.”

“So this has drawn Ada and Hereward together,” said Joanna to Sir Michael. “It is always an unfortunate thing that does that. And it was unfortunate things that put them apart. I wonder if a fortunate thing could do anything. I have never heard of it.”

“Joanna, I find it too much. Do not try to help me. Do not say we have another grandchild. I am degraded by these covert relationships. I am only sure of one thing. I wish my son had been different.”

“In one way, Father,” said Zillah. “Surely in no other. A man must be taken as a whole.”

“Oh, this whole! It is a bale and a ban. Why must we take the whole of anything, when it is both good and bad? I can't help it, Joanna. I can only be myself.”

“I don't want you to be anyone else. The standard is too uncertain. I must be able to respect my husband.”

“I wish poor Ada could respect hers. I wish I could respect my son.”

“I know you cannot, Father,” said Hereward. “But you can take what I give. And I can respect you. Let that be the exchange between us. And this trouble is in the past.”

“And when things are there, they do not count,” said Joanna. “‘It is a long time ago' people say. So nothing is really wrong. It only has to wait long enough. It is a good thing this has done so.”

“Mamma, you are what you are,” said Ada. “I would not and could not say more.”

“And I am what I am,” said Sir Michael. “And I do not hear such words. But I can't help feeling there is right on my side.”

“Of course there is,” said Joanna. “There has to be right somewhere. Or there would not be such a thing. And there is not any anywhere else.”

“Joanna, have we cared for Ada enough?” said Sir Michael, lowering his tone.

“We have not. She would never be cared for enough. Just as I am always cared for too much. Don't tell anyone I am proud of it.”

“Well, you have never tried to achieve it.”

“But I have. I have tried very hard. And I can feel I have my reward.”

“Should we have a celebration to-night?” said Hereward, in an ironic tone. “There is nothing more to come to light. Is it an occasion to be observed?”

“Let us forget it and go on in our usual way,” said Sir Michael, with something in his voice that did not exalt any other.

“Then we should send for Henry,” said Salomon. “We have seen nothing of him since yesterday. That is not our usual way.”

Henry appeared in response to the summons, and stood inside the room without evincing any sign of interest. Nurse had an air of uneasiness and remained at hand.

“He is not quite himself to-day, ma'am. He may be a little fractious. He had better not stay too long.”

“Stay a long time,” said Henry, in a tone that supported her misgiving.

“Come and talk to Father,” said Hereward.

“No, not talk.”

“Tell us what you have done to-day.”

“No, not tell.”

“Is it a secret?”

“No, not a secret. Secret is good.”

“What has made you tired this evening?”

“Not tired. Not go upstairs. Not go to bed any more.”

“But you would be tired then.”

“Yes, he would, poor little boy,” said Henry, wearily.

“Think of something you would like to do.”

“Ring-a-ring-a-roses!” said Henry, a light breaking over his face.

The ensuing scene was a contrast to those that had preceded it. Galleon, alive to all of them, smiled to himself at the difference, while keeping in the background to avoid being involved.

“Well, I am the person to be tired,” said Sir Michael, as he rose from the ground. “This is more for Henry's age than mine. I am three-quarters of a century too old for it.”

“Grandpa very slow,” said Henry looking at him.

“Yes, his bones are old and stiff. He can hear them creak.”

Henry looked at him and broke into a wail.

“Poor Grandpa! His bones creak and he hear them. Hurt him very much.”

“No, they are not hurting him now,” said Nurse.

“Yes, he hear them. Henry hear them too. Oh, poor Grandpa!”

“No, you know you did not hear them.”

“Not say he didn't hear,” said Henry, angrily, as he was led from the room.

“Rosa, I am glad to be with you,” said Hereward. “How long is it since we met?”

“I have lost count, as you have. Why are you with me now?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“No, but there is one. What has happened?”

“The one thing there was left to happen. My last secret has escaped. I must talk of it to someone. There has to be silence at home.”

“You are fortunate. There might be something else. Does Salomon want to marry Viola?”

“Rosa, you think of it at once. How did you guess?”

“Well, he is the one who is free. And she is what we know. It seems a situation for your family.”

“I should not have kept the secret. I am learning the value of truth.”

“It might not have seemed to have so much value at the time.”

“If I had married you, Rosa, these things would not have happened.”

“Other things would. They did happen. Our relation was one of them.”

“My poor boy! My selfless, dependable son! The girl is less on my mind. I almost feel I came first with her.”

“Hereward, how far did you go?”

“As far as I should, and no further. Who should have a greater care for her? And I can guard against women's feelings for me.”

“You might have put the power to better use. But you have used other powers, Hereward. You have served many.”

“My heart goes out in sympathy and pity,” said Hereward, moving about the room. “My strongest instinct is to ease the human way. I see it as a long, hard journey. I take no credit for it. It is my way of fulfilling myself. I ask no gratitude. And perhaps I hardly have it. It is felt it means no sacrifice. And it has meant none. I am not made up of failings. And those I have, come from my strength.”

“What a satisfactory reason for them! Mine come from something else.”

“You could have held me, Rosa. Something in you would have done it, something in yourself.”

“It would have worn thin. You would have come to the end of it.”

“But I have not done so. It is always there for me.”

“It is there when you are with me. That is not always. It is very seldom.”

“From the first I saw the whole of my wife. I do not mean there is little to see. She is larger-hearted than many. And there is other largeness in her. But she is herself and nothing more.”

“You say you saw the whole of her. How much did you see? How much did she see of you? She may have realised her largeness of heart and felt you would both need it. And it seems you have done so.”