The Present and the Past (6 page)

‘It wouldn't know anything about that,' said his sister.

The burial took place later, as preparation was involved. Toby officiated at his own insistence, and Eliza and the other children followed the mole to the grave. William was hailed and his attendance demanded, Toby waiving the question of the class of his congregation in favour of its size.

‘So I am at your church after all, sir.'

Toby raised a finger and began to speak.

‘O dear people, we are gathered together. Dearly beloved brethren. Let us pray. Ashes and ashes. Dust and dust. This our brother. Poor little mole! Until he rise again. Prayers of the congregation. Amen.'

‘Why, you will make a proper parson, sir.'

Toby took no notice and went on his knees, signing to his audience to follow. William was behindhand in his response, and Toby frowned upon him and waited for it.

‘The Lord keep you. His face shine. Kneel down a long time before you go. Give you peace. Amen.'

The company rose with a rustle certainly reminiscent of a dispersing congregation, and another voice was heard.

‘What is all this? How did he learn this sort of thing? How and when did it happen? I desire to know.'

‘He was taken to a children's service,' said Megan, looking at her father. ‘It was the day when a village child had died. He made Eliza read the service to him afterwards. He likes that sort of thing.'

‘He always listens at prayers,' said Henry.

‘And you do not?' said Cassius.

‘I listen like other people. Toby is different.'

‘I should not have believed it. It is a most unsuitable thing. And if you call it reverent, I do not.'

‘I think I do,' said Flavia. ‘Indeed, I am sure of it. I had the sense of guilt that I have in church.'

‘He brings back Mr Fabian to me, sir,' said William, recalling to Cassius a brother in the Church who had died in estrangement from him. ‘He is the living spit and will be more so.'

Cassius was silent, and Bennet approached from the house, holding her hands under her apron and emitting song. She smiled easily on the children.

‘Miss Bennet, what do you think of this?' said Cassius. ‘A child of Toby's age conducting a funeral, and with a knowledge that had to be seen to be believed! What is your view of it? I wish to know.'

‘Did he?' said Bennet, looking at Toby in incredulity and admiration. ‘Fancy his doing a thing like that!'

‘Do you think it is as it should be?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Bennet, gathering up Toby and regarding him with a mild concern that gave place to reassurance. ‘It is quite natural. It does not mean anything.'

‘A funeral in church seems to have made a deep impression on him.'

‘Oh, no,' said Bennet, looking again at Toby and hitching him into an easier position on her arm. ‘He is not at all upset. He likes anything in the way of a ceremony. It was the same with the village play.'

‘It is Mr Fabian again, sir,' said William. ‘Preaching and playacting go together. There is a lot in common.'

Cassius again said nothing. They had gone together in the case of his brother, with whom he had quarrelled in consequence of it.

‘I suppose we are going to have tea today,' said Henry.

‘Upon my word I cannot tell you,' said his father. ‘It is time for you all to be asleep.'

‘It is a little late,' said Bennet. ‘I thought it was best to get the funeral over.'

‘Miss Bennet, your attitude to a funeral! I feel I have never known you. I am seeing you for the first time.'

‘It is a mole's funeral,' said Henry. ‘A mole is not a human being.'

‘It is the confusion between them that is my point.'

‘That is only in your own mind. It has not been in anyone else's.'

‘What is that writing?' said Cassius, indicating a piece of cardboard on the grave, and stepping near to it.

‘“My name is Mole.
I lie here buried deep.
I rest beneath this scroll
And fold my hands in everlasting sleep.”

Who wrote that?'

‘I did,' said Megan.

‘What is its purpose?'

‘It is the inscription on the grave.'

‘Well, why not put it there openly?'

‘I did. I have just done it.'

‘There seemed to be something surreptitious about it.'

‘There wasn't anything,' said Henry.

‘People can't be very open about poems,' said Guy, with a flush. ‘Anyone who is a poet knows that.'

‘And you are a poet?' said his father.

‘Not as good a one as Megan.'

‘Who helped you?' said Cassius to the latter.

‘No one. Guy printed the words.'

‘So yours was the secondary part,' said Cassius to his son. ‘It is a strange game.'

‘You seemed to think it was not a game,' said Henry.

‘And so did all of you. You were as solemn as mutes over it. No wonder Toby was in a state of confusion.'

‘He was in a state of bliss,' said Flavia, ‘the rare bliss of self-fulfilment. We will not grudge it to him. It will not come too often.'

‘Grudge it?' said her husband, drawing his brows together. ‘Who would grudge anyone anything? What a strange idea!'

‘It is a very good poem for so young a child. And Guy has printed it beautifully.'

‘It is your own child who has done the intellectual part.'

‘As it happens on this occasion. It might not on another.'

‘Then would you draw so much attention to it?'

‘It was you who did that. No one else would have done so.'

‘That is what I thought. It seemed to be somehow surreptitious.'

‘It was quite open. That is how you came to see it.'

‘“My name is Mole”,' said Cassius, turning again to the grave. ‘I might as well say “My name is Man”.'

‘The mole had no name of its own,' said Henry. ‘It couldn't be done as it would for a person.'

Cassius repeated the lines to himself.

‘Again,' said Toby, arrested by them.

Cassius repeated them, and Toby listened in enjoyment.

‘Again.'

‘No, no. I can't keep on saying them.'

‘Again,' said Toby, with ominous urgency.

Flavia repeated the lines, and the task was taken up by Bennet, as she carried Toby away. When her memory failed, Toby was able to correct her.

‘“My name is Joy”,' said Cassius, frowning to himself. ‘I seem to remember something of the kind, something by some poet.'

‘Megan was not copying anything,' said Guy. ‘She wrote the poem out of her head.'

‘Ah, ha!' said his father. ‘So it was out of someone else's, and I daresay the better for that. ‘I thought it was rather professional somehow; it struck me at once. And then it touched a chord of memory. I am not much of a hand at poetry, but I was equal to that. It came on me all in a flash.'

‘It may be an echo,' said Flavia, ‘but it was probably unconscious. And it is a small matter.'

‘Well, we may as well be clear about these things. It is as well to take advantage of what we read and remember. I recognized it in a moment. I was not in a second's doubt.'

‘Now has no one any sense of time,' said Miss Ridley, approaching
with an even tread. ‘And does no one hear a bell? And has no one any desire for tea?'

‘I heard the bell a long time ago,' said Cassius.

‘Then why did you not say so?' said his wife.

‘Well, why should I think everyone else was deaf?'

‘I wish you were my pupil, Mr Clare,' said Miss Ridley, causing Henry and Megan to exchange a glance. ‘We seem to be in a class by ourselves.'

‘So you read poetry with them, Miss Ridley,' said Cassius, certainly using a tone of fellow-feeling. ‘I daresay it is a good thing to do. I have read some poetry myself and remember it.'

‘Are you clairvoyant, Mr Clare, that you can tell what I do by looking at me?'

Cassius betrayed that he did not judge her by this method, by motioning her towards the grave.

‘Why, there is original work on foot. Now to whom do we owe this?'

‘To Megan,' said Henry.

‘Well, well, we will not say to whom we owe it,' said Cassius. ‘And I forget the name of the poet myself. It is the verse that I remember.'

‘Why, it is very nice, Megan,' said Miss Ridley. ‘It is at once true and imaginative, and the lettering is very neat. Well, I think it is a fortunate mole to have such a funeral.'

‘You know it is not,' said Henry.

‘Guy printed it,' said Megan.

‘And who imagined it?' said her father, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Well, we won't worry about that. There is no end to the mole's good fortune.'

‘Mr Clare, I should suspect you of sardonic intention, if I thought it was in character,' said Miss Ridley. ‘Now there is the bell again, and I saw Toby being carried in some time ago. He was having some verses said to him. It seems that poetry is in the air.'

‘It was Megan's poetry,' said Henry.

‘There, you see, Megan, your work is already of use. You can go to bed tonight, knowing you have produced something that exists outside yourself. That is a great thing to feel.'

‘You have prevented her going to bed with different feelings,' said Fabian, as he followed the governess.

‘Why are people's feelings so intense when they are going to bed?' said Flavia. ‘You would think they would be dying down.'

‘You might have said more to encourage Megan in her poetic efforts,' said Cassius.

‘Do you mean you set me the example? What a speech to come from you!'

‘Not at all. You were in a position to praise her; I was not. I knew where the poem came; you took it as original. And Megan might have had the advantage of it. Children are sensitive about such things.'

‘You have forestalled what you deserve, but that shows you know you deserve it.'

‘Shall we leave this thing?' said her husband, with a gesture towards the inscription. ‘Or would it be fairer to everyone to get rid of it?'

‘What do you think yourself?'

Cassius glanced at it again, and as if thinking better of taking any trouble, lifted his shoulders and turned away. He gained on the children and Miss Ridley and walked behind them.

‘Is Father happy?' said Guy.

‘He is often satisfied,' said Megan. ‘You can see him having the satisfaction.'

‘There is a great deal about grown-up people that children cannot understand,' said Miss Ridley.

‘And a great deal that they can,' said Fabian. ‘That is where the danger lies.'

‘I don't think there is much to understand about Father,' said Megan. ‘When he is unhappy himself, he wants other people to be.'

‘You cannot judge human beings as simply as that,' said Miss Ridley. ‘They are complex creatures with many conflicting qualities.'

‘Ah, your father never wants you to be unhappy, my little one,' said Cassius, quickening his pace. ‘It is true that he is sometimes unhappy and uncertain, but he never wants to hurt his children.
And it was a beautiful poem; it has made him proud of you. And if it shows you read poetry yourself, he is even prouder. But he has his own troubles. You must not expect him always to hide it. Miss Ridley is right that we have different qualities.'

‘I think there is generally one chief one,' said Megan.

‘Well, tell us the chief ones of the people you know,' said Miss Ridley, in an easy tone.

‘Yours is wanting to learn all you can, as long as you do what is right. Bennet's is kindness; I think that is the best. Mater's is fairness to everyone and a sort of cleverness in herself. Fabian's is anger because he hasn't his real mother. I don't think Guy has his yet. Toby's is wanting the best of things for himself, and I think it always will be.'

‘And what is Megan's?' said Cassius. ‘A power of insight into the human heart?'

‘There was a lot that was true in what she said,' said Henry. ‘And none of them is really a happy quality.'

‘Oh, dear, oh, dear!' said his father.

‘Yes,' said Henry, meeting his eyes. ‘That is what ought to be said. But people don't like you to say it.'

‘If they did, they would get a good deal of pleasure from you. As it is, they get something else. There is not so much difference between you and me, if what you think of me is true.'

‘You should not have heard what we said.'

‘Of course I should. It was my duty to hear it. A father has to know his children, in order to make his plans for them. I shall have to think of mine for you.'

‘You are threatening to take revenge.'

‘Revenge? On whom and for what?' said Cassius, throwing up his brows. ‘Oh, you are the object for it, are you?'

‘Now come indoors,' said Miss Ridley. ‘You are too fond of the sound of your own voices. It seems that this afternoon will never end.'

When Henry and Megan entered the nursery, their faces cleared at the sight that met them. Bennet and Eliza were seated at the table, and Toby, in his chair and reconciled to the position, was murmuring in a satisfied way to himself.

‘Ashes and ashes. Dust and dust. Poor little mole have dear
little hands! Smaller than Toby's; very small hands. Poor mole buried very deep. But very nice box and wake up again tomorrow. William come to church; yes, poor William! Bennet give Toby some first. Not Megan; Toby!'

His voice rose to a shriek and Bennet supplied him at once, an order of precedence that his brother and sister did not question.

AINGER strode across the kitchen and pulled his chair from the table.

‘Well, we have reached a parting of the ways. There is to be a crossing of our threshold.'

‘In what shape?' said the upper housemaid.

‘Ah, Kate, that is asking a question.'

‘So it is,' said Mrs Frost, the cook.