“Mamma, have we asked your permission to have the child?” said Ada.
“I don’t know,” said Joanna. “I daresay you can tell me. But a noble course of action needs no permission. Only admiration. And that I give.”
“We must see it as an ordinary course,” said Hereward. “Nothing else need be thought or said. Anyone can adopt a child. We all know cases of it.”
“The plan seems to have made itself,” said Reuben. “We can leave it to develop in its own way.”
“What do you think of it, Salomon?” said Zillah.
“Well, I feel we are moving over rather deep waters. But it is out of our hands, as Reuben said.”
“It is Hereward who will benefit the most,” said Ada. “We can foresee the success of the plan in his case.”
“Well, childhood makes a great appeal to me. I have always been alive to its charm. It is a mark of the mature, worldly man, and calls for no surprise.”
“Now there is a question, Hereward. Are my father and aunt to know the truth? We must make our decision and hold to it.”
“They know it,” said Merton. “I have told them. I asked if anyone else should know. And they said I should not face it alone. And I see they were right.”
“Dear Father and Aunt Penelope! I feel they could not be wrong. I honour them equally. I have come to do so. It is good to find my son depending on them.”
“I have found I can depend on you all, Mother.”
“You must depend on no one else,” said Hereward, gravely. “See that you do not forget.”
“My boy, may your grandfather say once how he feels for you?” said Sir Michael.
“There is no need, Grandpa. You have shown it.”
“And now must show it in another way,” said Hereward.
“Now I am going to say whom I feel for,” said Ada. “It may be unexpected, but I will say it. I often have a sudden feeling that is just my own. I feel for Hetty; for what lies before her; for having to face us with our knowledge; for feeling she must take so much, when she herself has failed. Merton is beyond pity, with the generous part. And that his mother feels for him need not be said.”
“Perhaps none of it need have been,” said Hereward, gently. “For the reason that his mother felt for him.”
“Now here is our recurring difference. I do not believe in hiding what we feel. It means that no one knows we feel it. I will say it again. I feel for Hetty. A sense of guilt is no help with its consequences. And we all do wrong.”
“And only the ordinary kind that does not add to us,” said Joanna. “It hardly earns us any feeling. It is really expected of us. We might almost as well do right.”
“Ah, the poor girl, we all pity her,” said Sir Michael. “I quite dread meeting her in a way. I shall be ill at ease, as if I had done something myself.”
“Well, perhaps you have, by not doing anything,” said Reuben.
“There should be no trouble,” said Zillah. “The moment will come and go. She will know what is being done for her, and will do her best.”
Chapter VIII
Hetty could do no more than this. She entered in her ordinary way, looked once into everyone’s face, and although more silent than usual, betrayed nothing. She seemed to control what she felt by holding herself from knowing that she felt it. She was, as always, appreciative of everyone, and by listening with especial attention saved herself from the need to speak.
The need fell on other people.
“Well, we are all together,” said Sir Michael. “Just as we shall be in the end. It brings the future near to us. And it is not so far away.”
“Grandpa knew he would be ill at ease,” said Reuben. “He should have been prepared. Let someone talk about the weather.”
“The gales never cease,” said Merton. “They are doing harm to the trees. I hear more than one is down.”
“The elements are against us,” said his father. “Just when we want them in our favour. I mean, we all know people with journeys before them. I can think of several.”
“He can think of one,” said Reuben. “But he need not say so.”
“An elm came down near a cottage,” said Salomon, “and startled the cottager’s wife.”
“Yes, poor woman, she is expecting a child,” said Sir Michael. “It is not the time for shocks. We must hope for better things ourselves. I mean I do for any friends of mine.”
“It is said to be difficult to give our real meaning,” said Joanna to her grandsons. “But I don’t think it can be.”
“The weather has failed us,” said Salomon “We are supposed always to talk about it. And it does seem a suggestive subject. But I never will again.”
“Never will do what?” said Ada.
“Talk of the weather, Mother. It is unworthy of me.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Sir Michael. “It can be a help when other subjects are forbidden — fail us in some way. It is awkward when there is a hush, and you could hear a pin drop, and everyone waits for someone else to speak, and no one does.”
“What harm is there in hearing a pin drop?” said Joanna. “And there is little danger of it. When a pin is needed, no one ever has one.”
“I have seen Hetty’s house, Merton,” said Hereward. “And I am as pleased with it as you can be. But the men can’t begin to work on it yet. So much harm has been done by the gales.”
“Well, there is no hurry now,” said Sir Michael. “That is, they will do it in their time.”
“We can do nothing,” said Reuben. “We must just bear it.”
“Just bear what?” said Ada. “Speak so that we can hear.”
“We have countenanced the habit of whispering,” said Hereward. “And now can hardly complain of it.”
“There is no reason for it,” said Sir Michael. “We should never seem to be covering anything up. It might give a wrong impression.”
“It is more likely to give a right one,” said Hereward, smiling at his sons. “The same as not covering it up.”
“Father surprises me,” said Reuben. “He is simply trying to help. He almost reminds me of myself. Can it be the simplicity of greatness?”
“I could almost think so,” said Merton. “I have nothing but the truth to suffer. Many people despise the unfortunate, and hardly hide it. He does emerge as a man by himself.”
“I wish you would include your mother in your talk,” said Ada. “Who is man by himself?”
“Father,” said Salomon. “We were speaking in his praise.”
“What were you saying about him? Hereward, come and hear your sons’ description of you.”
“I spoke in praise,” said Reuben.
“So did I,” said Merton.
“I would have,” said Salomon. “But the other two forestalled me.”
“It is enough, my sons,” said Hereward, in a moved tone. “Few fathers hear as much. I am content.”
“Well, that is true,” said Sir Michael. “Some would be wiser not to hear at all. When I think of the things I said about my father! But he did not hear them. So it was another matter.”
“Your sons did not mean you to know what they said, Hereward,” said Ada, moving forward. “It was the outcome of their real feeling. Dear boys, how fortunate we are!”
“And they are!” said Sir Michael. “There is the other side.”
“Well, I have not kept apart from them,” said Hereward. “I have tried to see things through their eyes. It has helped them to see them through mine. It has given us a shared vision.”
The evening came to its end. Its minutes had been separate and slow. The hour felt later than it was, and put the scene into the past. Hetty left the house with Merton as simply as she had entered it. Alfred and Penelope entered as they left it. And the future took its meaning and its shape.