A Heritage and its History (17 page)

“They came from my heart. You may look to the time you will not accept. I shall unsay nothing.”

“You will unsay what you will. I will wait for you to do so. I will welcome you with the retraction on your lips. It is what I look for, hope for, believe will be. I only ask you to remember it.”

Hamish turned to Naomi.

“It is over for us, Naomi. There is nothing left. We may not even ask to be alone. What we have is not of any help, and can never be. It is the thing that takes away our life. But there will always be our feeling under those that may be shown. When we are young and old, it will be in us, always there. We must try to feel it is not nothing, and ask no more.”

“A thing is not nothing, when it is all there is. It is like those that help prisoners to keep their reason. We shall feel what people do not know, what those who do know will forget. We shall have something of what we were to have, the shadow of it, kept underneath. And we shall always have it.”

Hamish turned and left the room. Simon a moment later did the same, signing to his wife to follow. And Walter and his niece and nephews were alone.

“So you wish you were Shakespeare, Uncle,” said Graham at once. “We must all wish we were something
else. We are no longer what we were. We see Father cast from his height, and resent his overthrow as much as his occupation of it. Our life has no meaning, in so far as he dominated it. And as that was fully, we look back on nothing.”

“What a mountain of consequence to follow from what was not much more!” said Ralph. “And the disproportion does no good.”

“Naomi is above us all,” said Graham, saying what had to be said. “She knows the depths, and that sets people high. We look up from our lower place.”

“We do. We shall always know how low it is. She has taught us what Father has not.”

“Father had to show great courage,” said Graham. “It was terrible to see him showing it. We had only seen him making a demand on it before. I minded it much more, than if I had never cringed before him.”

“I minded it less,” said Ralph.

“I minded the waste of my years of silence,” said Walter. “I had kept the secret, and felt how safe it was with me. And it had been in danger. I was no real protector of it.”

“Imagine the moment when the truth was broken to Uncle Edwin!” said Ralph. “If you dare to think of it.”

“We hardly seemed to know of one. The child was accepted as his. He himself accepted it. Nothing was said at the time. I do not know what passed between him and your father.”

“It is a sinister sign,” said Naomi, speaking for the first time. “That even you do not know.”

“I am not ashamed of it. Human lips could not frame the words. And clearly your father's could not.”

“Will Hamish really give up the place to Father?” said Ralph. “What a waste of our clouded youth!”

“It may not be in your case,” said Naomi. “Graham is the eldest son. You may continue on the old line.”

“We have never asked you to explain your feeling for Father, Uncle.”

“No, you have not. And I do not feel you should have.”

“How did you feel, when you heard what was to happen, that there was to be a child? It is a time I cannot imagine.”

“I am not going to help you. You see, I do not have to imagine it.”

“You dare not recall it,” said Graham. “And there is no need. It is graven on your heart.”

“So Hamish is our half-brother,” said Ralph. “We have been absorbed in his being Naomi's. He did not say what he felt about gaining two brothers.”

“Did you expect him to say that after all some good had come out of it?” said Naomi.

“I wonder what he feels about his mother's part in the matter.”

“It is a thing I dared not say,” said Graham.

“I have not dared to think of it,” said Walter. “And I will not now.”

“I find I must,” said Ralph. “My thoughts return to it. It is the strangest point in the story.”

“I cannot think how you can deal in such thoughts and words,” said Naomi.

“There is a vein of something in him, that is not in us,” said Graham.

“I am only more open,” said his brother.

“A dubious quality,” said Naomi. “When people are being that, it is best to lower your opinion of them at once. Before they have time to lower it of other people or of you. And to do it enough to be indifferent to what they say.”

“To continue to be so,” said Ralph, “I should like to hear what is passing between our parents.”

“You have lowered our opinion of you,” said Graham.

“I wonder how our great-uncle feels about it all. About having no son, when he has been seen as having one. And about the disclosure concerning his wife.”

“What everyone would feel,” said Graham. “Simple and deep unease. It is Father who has the extreme part. He has always been seen as a law to himself. Well, we must accept that it is what he was.”

“What does Hamish feel about being Father's son? A thing I thought no one could suffer but ourselves.”

“As you are versed in the matter,” said Naomi, “you do not need instruction on it.”

“I have been one all my life. But what is it to become one suddenly? Well, he has escaped twenty-four years of it.”

“He has escaped being Uncle Edwin's son as well. He has missed it all.”

“It seems that our life must be different, now that we know the truth. And now that Father may soon inherit everything.”

“Your life will be the same,” said Simon's voice. “Yes, I heard what you said. It was my duty to do so. You will not build on what may not happen, on what I hope will never be. We do not accept a word uttered in an hour of shock. It is with me as if I had not heard. It must be so with you.”

“Hamish meant it, Father,” said Naomi. “You can take his word as it was said. He has never valued his place for himself. He was only glad to give so much to me. It is best to see the future as it is. You can look forward and see yourself the head of the house and the family.”

“And my Naomi the daughter of them both,” said Simon, putting his arm about her. “We will make up a fairy tale together. We will be the king and the princess in it. But we will remember that is what it is.”

“It is more than that,” said Graham, as his father and sister moved aside. “It would be Father's dream realised, the hope of his youth restored. It would raise him to his level, make him the man he should have been. We ought to want to see it. But we hardly know if we do.”

“We pity the results of his lapse,” said Ralph. “But should he be actually compensated for them?”

“He has not been,” said Walter. “He has lived the years you have seen. Whatever his future may be, they will lie behind. One view might be that he has suffered enough.”

“I can't help half-liking him to suffer. He has always half-liked me to; I believe even quite liked it.”

“He was anxious about our uncertain future,” said Graham, “and felt he should prepare us for it.”

“It is too soon for you to be mellowed by prosperity. We are still to look to our settled fate.”

“And you still harp on it,” said Simon, returning to the group. “I need have no fears about your ideas of the future. The old ones seem to be enough. My lesson has gone deep. I can congratulate myself on it.”

“But not on everything else,” muttered his son.

Simon came to dinner in an absent manner, conscious of his altered character in the eyes of his family. He saw his words in the light of their knowledge, and hesitating to speak in his usual manner, spoke little.

“What a long day this has seemed!” said his mother, meaning to break a silence.

“It has brought us a different father,” murmured Ralph. “And we can see he knows it.”

“It has brought me another son,” said Simon, turning to him. “I think you are more exposed than I am. You have not dared to show your real self before. I wonder you do so now. I am not the only person present. Your mother and sister see you as you are.”

“Then you and I are on equal ground, sir.”

“We are all exposed,” said Walter. “The day has been a test. And if we have all withstood it but one, it is a good average.”

“I have seen it and thought so,” said Simon. “It has been a help to me. Only one of us, as you say, has failed.”

“Will Hamish really transfer the place to you,
Simon, after his father's—your uncle's death?” said Julia.

“He will,” said Naomi. “I know his mind. He will not live in that house without me. He has seen it from a boy as his home and mine.”

“From a boy!” said Simon. “What harm has been done!”

“So Father's confession may have restored him to it,” said Ralph. “It would be an ironic fate.”

“After twenty-four years,” said Walter. “It is what it would be.”

“It is Naomi who has lost it. She must see things in her own light.”

“Which of us needs to be told that?” said Simon. “She or I?”

“Or her mother?” said Fanny.

“In your place I should wish I had not told the truth, sir,” said Ralph.

“I wish I had had any choice but to tell it.”

“I should wish it for Naomi's sake.”

“It was for her sake that I told it, as you know. Why do you think you have this score to pay off? I have done my duty to you.”

“As you saw it,” said his son.

“Duty is seldom liked either by the doer or the object,” said Fanny. “And why should it be? It is not often of advantage to either.”

“So we are to forget Hamish's promise, sir?” said Graham. “I am to take the post at Oxford, anyhow for the time?”

“Yes, and probably for always. We must put the
idea from our minds. It is likely it will be forgotten, and I hope it from my heart. If Hamish should hold to it, I should be in his hands. I should succeed to my uncle's place, and you in your turn to mine. You would relinquish other claims, and do your duty here, as you had seen it done. Ralph might say it was not all you had seen. So I have said it for him. It is not hard to supply his words.”

“And this is putting it out of your minds!” said Ralph.

“We shall think you are envious of Graham, if you continue in this vein.”

“How could I be, when the matter is to be forgotten? You are the person who remembers it.”

“There has never been any feeling like that between the brothers,” said Julia.

“There has never been this between them before.”

“What would Naomi choose, as thuigs are now?” said Ralph.

“I have no choice,” said his sister. “It makes no difference.”

“It would make a little, my dear,” said Simon. “I would see that it did.”

“If the prospect is not a likely one, Hamish is the person who knows it,” said Ralph.

“He would not wish that said,” said Simon. “He was to be taken as knowing his mind. His boyhood is over.”

“It is true that it is,” said Naomi.

“His wish will be respected,” muttered Ralph. “Father said he could supply my words. I can do the same for him.”

“Who is that at the door?” said Fanny. “Oh, it is the children.”

“Shut the door, Claud,” said Simon.

“No, it is Emma's turn.”

“Shut it for her, as you should.”

“She doesn't want it shut. She leaves doors open. I am shutting it for you.”

“We ought to be in bed,” said Emma, looking at her grandmother. “But it is a holiday tomorrow, and the Dolt—Miss Dolton doesn't mind if we are late.”

“Who is the Dolt?” said Julia, gravely.

“We don't mean she is really a dolt,” said Claud. “It is a shortening of her name.”

“An abbreviation,” said Emma.

“Do you mean it is a pet name?” said Graham.

The children looked at each other, and almost smiled.

“Is it true that we are going to be rich?” said Claud.

“No, it is not,” said Simon. “Who told you such a thing?”

“Nurse said something had come through. She didn't know any more.”

“It is true that we are poor now,” said Emma. “The nursery teapot is cracked.”

“Well, perhaps you can have another,” said Fanny.

“Oh, it will hold for some time. And it is homely to have it cracked. It is like a book.”

“It will make a memory,” said Claud.

“It is true that teapots in books are out of repair,” said Graham. “I had not thought of it.”

“It is the crack that has a meaning,” said Emma. “Anyone might have a teapot.”

“And have an accident with it,” said Ralph.

“That is when the meaning comes. Everyone doesn't have a new one.”

“Well, nothing has happened,” said Simon. “There is to be no change.”

“Well, we are used to it,” said Emma. “And poverty is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I am not ashamed,” said Claud. “But perhaps we could have a new book between us.”

“One about children,” said Emma. “But not meant only for children to read.”

“Emma will read it to me. It is a chance that she is more forward. It is no credit to her.”

“And none to you either, I suppose?”

Claud fell into mirth.

“Well, you can go to the village with Miss Dolton and choose a book.”

“What do you say?” said Julia.

“Thank you, Father,” said Emma, turning to the door, and continuing to her brother. “It doesn't seem we are quite so poor. I think something is different. Nurse can feel things, when she doesn't know. I suppose people who don't know much, would have to.”

“Hamish must come, if he is to be in time,” said Sir Edwin, as he sat in his library. “I begin to count my days. I shall soon count the hours. I have had many, and except for one time, have not wished them fewer. And I have had the young Hamish, and come to feel him near me. I must see him and say my word before I go. I have not to gather my sheaves. I have none to gather. I have done little, as there was little for me to do. I leave no one the worse for my living, and have not looked for more. I have not seen myself outside my place.”