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“My father’s words mean nothing,” said Hereward. “We have ceased to listen to them, almost to hear them. You must learn to do the same.”

“I know they meant nothing to him. Why, he and I are fast friends. His presence is often a help to me. Today it enabled me to break my silence. To do what was beyond myself. And it was time it was broken. There had ceased to be a case for it.”

“Whether or no that is true,” said Zillah, “I think there is a case for it now.”

“Oh, well, I am willing. I don’t want to press things home. There is too much of the fairness of the ordinary person in me for that. Something had to be ended, and it is at an end. I shall not return to it. But I don’t feel with you about your father. I like to hear his voice, sounding cheerfully about, expressing goodwill to everyone. I hear it now; and if it cannot be music in my ears, it is something that is no less welcome.”

The voice was coming across the hall, gaining volume as it drew near.

“‘Here we come gathering nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May. Here we come gathering nuts in May on a cold and frosty morning.

“‘A touch of frost in the nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May. A touch of frost in the nuts in May, on a cold and frosty morning.

“‘Ah, we managed to smooth it away, smooth it away, smooth it away. Ah, we managed to smooth it away, on a cold and frosty morning’.

“Oh, there you all are! How that jingle sounds in one’s head! The tune that is, of course. The words have no meaning.”

“Can that ever be said of words?” said Zillah to her brother.

Chapter V

“Well, the book is ended,” said Hereward. “What there can be in a word! I am in a strange solitude. I seem to move in a void. I am without any foothold, any stake in life. I have suffered it before, and it is never different. I have had and done what I wanted. But I pay the price.”

“Come, what of your home and your family?” said Sir Michael. “What is this talk of a void? You have the stake in life of other men.”

“I have lost my own. The people have left me, who have lived with me and made my world. More deeply than mere flesh and blood.”

“You mean you have finished with them? And mere flesh and blood! What are you or any of us? What of your mother and me? What of your characters themselves? They are supposed to be like real people. I thought that was the point of them. It is what is often said. Indeed I have thought—” Sir Michael broke off and glanced about him, a smile trembling on his lips.

“I don’t use my family as characters, if that is what you mean. They would serve no purpose for me.”

“Well, not as characters, not in your sense I daresay. But things here and there — little touches — I have thought—” Sir Michael leaned back and smiled again to himself.

Mere flesh and blood!” said Salomon to his father. “And Grandpa before your eyes!”

“Well, I am the man I am,” said Sir Michael, modestly. “I have my thoughts and perceptions like anyone else. Or like myself I suppose. It may come from being flesh and blood. That is, of one’s own kind.”

“I daresay a good deal comes from that,” said Merton.

“Well, I return to your world,” said Hereward. “I have lost my own. I am happy in having had it. But I would not urge another man to follow in my steps. I do not wish it for my sons. It is a hard path to tread.”

“It seems that it has its allure,” said Salomon. “I don’t feel it myself. Or perhaps feel that of any other.”

“Well, you are in a place apart. You will not have to earn your bread. Your brothers must think of the future. I shall not live and write for ever.”

“To think that I must tread a path!” said Reuben.

“And earn bread,” said Merton. “What a hard and frugal course! It is a malicious phrase.”

“Have you thought of a way of gaining it?” said Hereward. “What of your work in the years ahead?”

“Well, I know the main line, Father. I can put it in a few words. I want to be a writer. But not of your range and kind. I should not appeal to the many, and shall be content to write for the few. But by them, in this country and beyond it, I hope to be known in the end. And not only known; read.”

There was a silence.

“It ought hardly to have been in a few words,” said Salomon.

“But it is in those that good writers suggest so much,” said Joanna.

Hereward was silent, and his father gave him a glance.

“Why should I not speak the truth?” said Merton, looking at them. “It was a simple thing that I said.”

“Simple in a sense you did not mean,” said Hereward, in an even tone.

“You have had a writer’s life yourself. You should not feel it a strange one for your son.”

“You spoke of a different one from mine.”

“You feel I should follow in your steps? But we cannot choose our paths. They are chosen for us by something in ourselves. As yours was for you, and mine is for me. There can be no family custom there.”

“I find no fault with your path. I am glad you have chosen one. It is what I hoped for you. But what do you mean by the few?”

“You will know, if you think. I have heard you use the phrase. A small part of your books is read by them. It is they I should write for, and hope to reach; and feel I should in the end.”

“‘In this country and beyond it’,” said his father, as if to himself.

“Oh, you think it is too ambitious. To choose the better part, if that is what it is; and I admit I think it is. But it might be thought narrower than yours, and by some it would be. Our abilities are different, and must lead to a different end. It is not unreasonable to think it. But it is rather in the air at my age.”

“It is not only in the air. It is in your thought. And your age perplexes me. Sixteen is hardly childhood.”

“Yes, in this matter, Hereward,” said Zillah. “It is what it is.”

“I wonder what fourteen is,” said Reuben. “I will not talk of it, in case someone tells me.”

“Anything worth knowing is known by my age,” said Merton. “Sixteen may be the high mark of youth. After that there can be retrogression as well as progress.”

“Father is deprived of words,” said Salomon.

Hereward was silent, as this was the case.

“Seventy-nine is not what it is,” said Joanna. “Or it would be old age.”

“Neither is it,” said Sir Michael. “I feel as young as I ever did.”

“I do not,” said Reuben. “I must begin to realise my age. I have to know all that is worth knowing in two years.”

“Childhood does take us quickly onward,” said Zillah.

“So it does,” said Hereward, lightly. “We see where it has taken Merton. Beyond his father.”

“That is the idea that troubles you, Father? But there is nothing so unusual about it.”

“Nothing. It is its commonness that strikes me. I have seen the death of hope.”

“You have also seen its fulfilment. And met it yourself in a sense. Of course I don’t know what your original ambitions were.”

“We shall not say that of yours. And, as you have said, I am troubled by them. Both as a writer and a father. What are your hopes for the future, Reuben?”

“I have none, Father, only fears. And one of them is that I may be an usher. It is one that does take the place of hopes.”

“Why do we say ‘usher’ and not ‘schoolmaster’?” said Sir Michael. “It has a disparaging sound.”

“That is the reason,” said his grandson. “We should hardly admit a note of respect.”

“Why not?” said Hereward. “Education has its purpose and serves it. I wish I had had more.”

“You would not have it,” said his father. “You said it would crush your creative gifts.”