“Well, I am relieved,” said Reuben. “Merton is not here to know. I have seen the depths, and should hardly have known they were deep. I feel I should be grateful.”
“We must feel there is someone else who might be that,” said Penelope.
“Poor little Hetty?” said Sir Michael. “Well, I have no doubt that she is. She had her own way of showing it. She faced us bravely. I felt an admiration for her. I don’t deny it.”
“There might have been other feelings. It seems there is something in her that prevents them.”
“There is. I felt it. I was alive to it from the first. I felt my heart turn over, when I saw her walk up to the cannon’s mouth. I asked myself if I should have been equal to it. And I told myself I should not. I make no secret of it.”
“I make most of what I tell myself, a secret,” said Reuben.
“Many of us do,” said Penelope. “We don’t show too much of what is in us. There is an example of it in Hetty’s case.”
“Ah, your strong moral sense is in our way, Aunt Penelope,” said Ada. “But your natural generosity will assert itself. We do not fear.”
“When we talk of self-exposure, we do mean something derogatory,” said Salomon. “It does not occur to us that it could be to anyone’s credit. And as it is usually unconscious, I suppose it would not.”
“How much of himself does Grandpa expose?” said Reuben.
“More than most people,” said Salomon. “I think almost the whole.”
“And Father?”
“I don’t think much.”
“Aunt Penelope?”
“More than she means to. But nothing to consider.”
“Mother?”
“A great deal. She has less to be ashamed of.”
“Grandma?”
“No one could say. Grandpa Merton what he must. Aunt Zillah almost nothing. The three of us as much as we dare. Galleon most of himself, as he sees no fault to be found in it.”
“Some people suppress their better selves,” said Sir Michael. “It is a known thing.”
“Then they must make it known,” said Salomon.
“You would think they would feel pride in their own goodness.”
“They do,” said Joanna. “So much pride that they cannot face it. And feel no one else will be able to.”
“Could real goodness cause too much pride?” said Salomon. “An instance of it amazes me, or would, if I could think of one.”
“Father’s adoption of Hetty’s child?” said Reuben, in a lower tone. “Wise or not, does it serve you?”
“Well, it does enlarge him for me.”
“Is there any idea what the child’s name is to be?”
“Zillah!” said Hereward. “A name that carries so much for me. My mother and wife would understand.”
“Is the child to be a girl?” said Reuben.
“Yes,” said his father, smiling. “I have three sons.”
“And if it is a boy?”
“Hereward,” said Ada. “So as to be a real son. We could call it something else.”
“Is there anything to know about a child?” said Penelope.
“Oh, Aunt Penelope, a moment. Thereby hangs a tale. But this question of the name is a part of the same matter. I should have thought my own had the strongest claim, and should be inclined to assert it. But I know what it is to be called by it. So we will postpone the answer.”
“Don’t you like your name?” said Alfred.
“Father, how could anyone like it?”
“It was my mother’s name,” said her father, disposing of any objection to it.
“And does that make it the best name for anyone else?”
“It gives it a reason and a background. If you like, an excuse.”
“Well, I am glad it has the last. It needs it.”
“It does not need one to me.”
“Well, tell Father and Aunt Penelope our plan, Hereward. Let them know the pleasant side of the matter as well as the other. ‘It is an ill wind—’ as we feel. I wonder what they will say to it.”
“I think it can wait for the moment. It will emerge in its time.”
“Let the time be now. There is no virtue in mere delay. I want them to know it. I feel a wish to share it with everyone.”
“It is rather too much your own affair for that. But do as you will. It is because of you that the plan is made. Tell them yourself. Your own words will be best.”
“Well, you know the dark side of the story, Father. Now hear the one that helps us to accept it. It is the moment to speak of it, as Merton is not here. It is clear that Hetty’s child must be adopted. That conclusion came about of itself. Indeed it was foregone. Well, who do you think the parents are to be? You will hardly guess.”
“Then do not expect us to,” said Alfred. “It would lead to nothing.”
“Well, I will give you your chance, Father.”
“No, it is out of my sphere. I deal in certainties. It is not you and Hereward, of course?”
“Now why of course? And why should it not be? Of course it is. It will fill a gap in our lives. We have wished for a child in the house. It is so long since we had one.”
“The last might be said of many of us. Of most of us after a time.”
“I hardly knew my own heart,” said Hereward, “and had to be informed of it. But I want what Ada wants. And I am a child-lover, as you know. It may work out well.”
“You could have adopted a child at any time. This trouble can hardly have caused the wish.”
“It has made us realise it,” said Ada. “And it was not a new one. We had spoken of it. The plan will serve both our son and ourselves. What is there against it?”
“Nothing in itself. But surely there are other things. It brings the matter too near for something that is to be concealed.”
“Oh, we shall forget what lies behind it. We shall impose that condition on ourselves. We shall just adopt a child in the ordinary way. We might have done so at any time, as you said.”
“As I have also said, it keeps it too close to everyone. Too close to you too, too close to your son and his wife.”
“Oh, they know we are doing it for their sakes. They will think out their course and follow it. There is no danger there.”
“Why is it for Merton’s sake? How does it serve him?”
“By serving Hetty. By ensuring her peace of mind. His one wish is to be of help to her. And so of help to himself.”
“You may soon be having your own grandchildren.”
“But not a child in our own home. The grandchildren would be apart from us. We should be without a child ourselves.”
“Well, it is true,” said Hereward.
“You may come to feel a bias towards your own descendants. Will it be easy to keep a balance?”
“Yes, quite easy. Or quite possible. We shall make our resolves and hold to them. Indeed they are made. Now have I to refute any more objections? If so, let me hear them. I am ready.”
“Ada has made up her mind,” said Hereward. “And she is true to herself, and so cannot be false to any man. We need not doubt her. I have learned that I never need.”
There was a pause.
“We are not to know who the father is?” said Alfred, relinquishing his stand.
“Not now or ever. Merton is never to know. It is the final decision, and may be the best.”
“The father is responsible for the child’s support.”
“Oh, well, well,” said Herward, moving his hand. “That is as it may be. It is by the way. I am glad to give Ada what she needed. I had not realised her feeling. But for this I might never have done so. It has come about as she said.”
“So you will never know the child’s heredity?”
“We know enough. There is no need to know more.”
“What do you know? You must forgive my pursuit of the truth. I am Ada’s father and must question what lies before her.”