The Mighty and Their Fall (12 page)

“I doubt it. I noticed it was not revealed. I daresay it will never be.”

“Well, earning is always fair. We pay for what we need. The difference is simply that people need different things. If anyone has not earned, it is because he has given nothing. You yourself look after the land and earn in your own way.”

“We should not always fancy a reference to ourselves,” said Hugo. “But suppose there is one?”

“What of the two elder children?” said Selina, as the voices of these were heard. “What have you given and earned there?—Come in, both of you. There is a great word to be said. Your Uncle Ransom has returned. He may be here at any time. Come in, Teresa, and wait for him with us. This is a moment for us all. My Ransom, my especial son, the one who has my name! We will welcome him together. It is not a thing for me alone. I shall know him when I see him. We shall know each other. He will not be different to me. I shall not to him.”

Selina's voice broke and she groped for her handkerchief, unable to put her hand on it. Lavinia took one from the pocket of her coat, bringing something with it, that fell to the ground. She moved quickly to retrieve it, but her father forestalled her, and was handing it to her when it caught his glance. He stood with his eyes on it, looked at his daughter and back at it, and at length spoke.

“What is this, Lavinia?”

“That? Oh, I don't know. What is it?”

“It is an envelope addressed to me by Teresa. The
postmark has the date of the letter that was found in your grandmother's desk. How do you explain it?”

“Has it? What of it? I must have picked it up in her room. It was accounted for, wasn't it?”

Ninian drew from the envelope a small paper-knife belonging to Lavinia, and looked her in the eyes.

“Tell me about it, my daughter.”

“What is there to tell? I must have seen the envelope, and put it in my pocket without thinking. And I suppose the knife was there. I often carry it about with me. Why should I have thought of it? If there was anything wrong about it, I should have destroyed the envelope. It means nothing.”

“It means what it does. I wish you had destroyed it. Or perhaps I should not wish it. It is right that the truth should emerge. Tell me the whole.”

“You tell it to me. You know more of it than I do. The matter means nothing to me. It is to you; it seems to mean something. Do you know about it?”

“Lavinia, this is no good. The truth is thrust on us. We are helpless before it. Tell it to us yourself.”

“You have told it, my son,” said Selina. “We do not need it again.”

“He is implying something,” said Lavinia, turning between them as if bewildered. “I can only guess what it is. The letter was in your desk, Grandma. And the envelope must have fallen on the floor. And I suppose I picked it up. It is what anyone would do. Such things do not leave a memory.”

“Why did you put the letter in the desk, my child? I have never quite understood. Why did you not destroy it?”

“Do we destroy other people's letters? I thought they were sacrosanct. If I came on this one, and put it in the desk for you to read, it was a natural thing to do. And an easy thing to forget. I should not have known what was in it. We do not read people's letters either.”

“The paper-knife tells its tale,” said Ninian. “There is no need to make another.”

“You thought I was going to die?” said Selina, her eyes still on her grand-daughter.

“We were all afraid of it, Grandma. But that does not bear on the matter.”

“Then the letter would have been found after my death, and the guilt assigned to me? And to my conscious self that time.”

“I don't know anything about the letter. Except that Father read it to us.”

“A service you did not need,” said Ninian. “Have you known all the time, Mother?”

“I could not know. I have thought it. I knew it was not any self of mine. And who could it have been? Who had an end to serve? Who—it is best to say it at once—sorted the letters when they came? Who was distraught and not in command of herself?”

“Then you were shielding Lavinia?”

“Well, I had no proof. And an unconscious self is a useful shield. There is no question of blame.”

“What have you to say, my daughter?”

“Nothing,” said Lavinia, in a sudden, hard tone, as if casting off a guise. “I thought it a service to you to hide the letter, a service to us all. Yes, and the greatest to myself. It would have saved us from wrong and wretchedness, as I saw the matter then.”

“Why did you not destroy it, as your grandmother said?”

“It might have transpired that Teresa had sent it,” said Lavinia, in an almost exasperated tone, as if this should be clear.

“But should we have suspected you? You of all people? You know we should not.”

“There would have been discussion and question. And the letters went through my hands, as Grandma has also said.”

“You thought we should find the letter in the end?”

“You would have gone through Grandma's papers,” said Lavinia, with an open sigh.

“That is most of it,” said Selina. “And the rest I know. It was too much to destroy the letter. The wrong of it would have been too great. Poor child!”

“We must try to see her in that way,” said Ninian. “It is not as she has seen herself.”

“And not as you have seen her,” said Teresa. “That must be said. It may be at the root of everything.”

“The guilt is not mine. I had my own right to happiness. If I was making too large a part of hers, it was time I ceased. It was time indeed. Perhaps it was too late. Perhaps I am partly to blame. It would help me to feel I was.”

“So I have been the cause of it all.”

“Not you yourself,” said Lavinia. “Anyone in your place.”

“You took a great risk. Few of us would have dared to take it. So much depends on our courage.”

“I am grieved to the heart,” said Ninian.

A low voice came from the door, where Miss Starkie stood with the children.

“Would you like to come upstairs, Lavinia?”

“No, thank you. Nothing would be gained.”

“You share my grief, Miss Starkie,” said Ninian. “It is especially yours and mine.”

“I can hardly believe it, Mr. Middleton. I feel it cannot be true.”

“We all felt in that way. It was forced upon us. Lavinia herself has said it now.”

“I don't understand about it,” said Leah, in an undertone.

“I do,” said Hengist, half-smiling. “I will tell you upstairs.”

“You will not,” said Miss Starkie, in an unfamiliar tone. “You will neither of you utter a word of it, now or ever. It is a thing you will not dare to do.”

“I haven't said a word,” said Agnes. “I knew it was that kind of thing.”

“We are not always with her,” said Hengist, glancing at Miss Starkie.

“I trust you,” said the latter, looking at him. “You must be worthy of trust.”

“Are you worthy?” said Leah in a whisper.

“No. And it is no good to try to be, when you are not.”

“Not even Lavinia seems to be,” said Leah, her tone awed.

“I must speak at last,” said Hugo to Egbert. “Have we to believe it?”

“Yes. The idea had occurred to me. But I thought it could not be.”

“It can't. Not as it seems. It was fate, her father, anything. She is a pawn in the game.”

“Lavinia could not be a pawn. She laid her plan. She was serving the common cause.”

“Her own first of all. That was rare and resolute in her. It is so unusual to serve ourselves. All the talk is of serving others. It draws me closer to her. Teresa saw something of the truth. Would you have dared to do it?”

“No, or perhaps I might have. As I say, the thought had struck me. So I must have felt it possible. Is it a protection to have no courage?”

“Should you not say a word to the person who showed it?”

“Yes, I have planned the word. It is what I have been doing. I hope it will not fail.”

Egbert moved to his sister.

“Lavinia, I have seen you as the heroine of a drama. And you have emerged as the opposite. But it is the latter who carries our sympathy. Think of the examples in books, the very best ones.”

“Well, is this a case in life?” said Lavinia, holding her eyes from him, and unconscious of her clenched hands. “I hardly think it will be. But it is a clever word.”

“It is an honest one. It comes from my heart. And I could not have faced the danger. I should simply have been afraid. What a waste it has been!”

“I forgot that one thing we are known to forget. Or are found to have forgotten, when it has betrayed us. In my case the envelope with the paper-knife. Perhaps it shows I am not hardened.”

“You have needed to be. Dire things have come upon you.”

“I have simply not realised them. I don't realise what is on me now. You are remembering things I said. I can see they are coming back to you. I shall never be trusted again. I shall live under a cloud. But perhaps no one is trusted much. Or I can try to think so.”

“Grandma emerges as a great figure. I feel I have not known her.”

“And have not known me. I suppose she has known us all. I half-fancied she suspected. Or I think now that I did. But I somehow felt I was safe with her. I almost felt I had her sympathy. Unless I imagine that too.”

“I like the wisdom after the event,” said Hugo. “It tends to be real wisdom. The other has so often to be disowned.”

“How I envy you both!” said Lavinia. “For your ease both now and for the future.”

“If I inspired envy, it would be for a negative reason.”

“I am thinking of Father,” said Egbert. “And so are both of you. I wonder what he really feels.”

“He has not disguised it,” said Lavinia. “You can be in no doubt.”

“It was a moment of shock. He can hardly be judged by it.”

“Well, things are comparative. I had not thought of the moments for him. It was an unusual one for you all.”

“What was it for Miss Starkie?” said Hugo. “Somehow we are not sure.”

“That is still before me. Grandma was easy; Father was
obvious; you are yourselves. And all of you are over. I don't know what she will be.”

“And I am myself,” said Teresa's voice. “I see no reason to be different. You minded my coming as much as this?”

“I could not face the loss of my father. It seemed to break up my world. You remember I did not know you. You will not want to know me, now that you do.”

“As much as ever. Even more than I did. We all have it in us to do those things. There have been times when I might have done them, if I had dared. But you had no fear?”

“I had a greater one. And it was also as Grandma said. It need not be said again. She knows the confusion in us. She knows too much ever to be really surprised. Well, you must all be learning.”

“I should always be surprised,” said Hugo. “I am so surprised by this, that I don't believe in it. It has no truth. It was the result of the stress of things. You were forced out of yourself.”

“Or into myself. I meant the wrong to be hidden. And in that case we might all become ourselves. I try to think Teresa is right.”

“Would you say it to Father, Teresa?” said Egbert. “Think of him and think of Lavinia.”

“Not of us both together,” said his sister. “There is no reason to give rein to thought. And now he and I will be apart. Well, you may say I have brought it all on myself.”

“We should not dream of it,” said Hugo. “And it would not be true. You did all you could to escape it.”

“With little success. This will follow me through my life.”

“It must, my daughter,” said Ninian's voice. “And in a way it should be a protection to you. May it be.”

“She does not need one,” said Teresa. “It was her feeling for you that caused it. It will hardly cause it again. But it should not be forgotten. Anyhow by you.”

“It is not forgotten by me. It has been my support.
My sense of it has enabled me to shoulder some of the blame. And so to lessen hers.”

“I wonder you have not more value for such a feeling. None of your other children has it.”

“Is this the moment for me to value it?” said Ninian, speaking sadly. “Or for you to wish me to? What might it have done for us?”

“All feeling leads to blindness on other scores. She forgot your claims as you forgot hers. You forget them now.”

“Is it the time to remember them?” said Ninian, in the same tone. “We see what her sense of them led to.”

“Or what forgetting them did.”

“Come to me, Lavinia,” said her grandmother. “We are people apart. We may be of help to each other.”

“There is none for me, Grandma. I feel I am hardly alive. I am afraid to hear or feel. I hardly know if I do. Or if I ever shall again. I suppose I shall not dare to.”

“This first onset will pass. And each one will be less. And in the end they will cease.”

“What do you feel yourself? About the sacrifice I made of you? Tell me. I shall hardly hear. I shall feel nothing.”

“The main wrong led to lesser ones. Such a thing goes beyond itself. When we break our bonds, we release the whole of us. And only part should be free, the part we present as the whole.”

“If that is wisdom, it is wasted. I can't listen to words. I must go away from here. I can't stay in my home. And I have no money, I have never thought of it or needed it. I can't be seen as I shall be now. It has been so different. What am I to do?”

“What people do, who have been found out. Wait for the trouble to subside. Suffer it when it arises. Fight it, if it is too much. There is nothing else for you. And the worst is behind. You have little more to dread.”

“Father will never be behind. And there is Miss Starkie before me.”