“But hasn’t it a name of its own?”
“Horse,” said Henry, after a pause.
“Isn’t its real name Dobbin?”
“Yes,” said Henry, smiling again.
“And what does Dobbin call you?”
“Sir” said Henry, laconically.
“Does anyone call you that?”
“Yes, the coachman and his boy.”
“What do you call him?”
“Davis. Or Davis dear.”
“Why don’t you call him sir?”
“Not a coachman,” said Henry. “But the boy does.”
“Would you like to be his boy?”
“Yes,” said Henry, rather unexpectedly.
“And would you call him sir?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And what would you do?”
“Hold the reins and have a whip.”
“You have them both,” said Hereward, who had provided them in miniature.
“Very small,” said Henry, incidentally.
“Mr. and Mrs. Merton Egerton,” said Galleon at the door.
Henry alone of the company gave no sign.
“Here are brother Merton and sister Hetty come to see you,” said Ada.
Henry did not disagree.
“And will you come soon to see us?” said Hetty, stooping towards him.
“No, not soon.”
“But you want to see little Maud?”
“See you,” said Henry, as if this duty should suffice.
“Maud talks as much as you do,” said Merton. “And she says words of her own.”
“Baby,” said Henry, seeing this as a mark of the state.
“We must ask her to come to tea with you,” said Joanna.
Henry turned and climbed on Joanna’s knee, got down and returned with the horse, and settled himself with a portion in each hand.
“They both change with every day like flowers,” said Hetty, looking at him.
“Maud is at the age when it is almost with the hours,” said Joanna.
Henry turned and put his hand over her mouth.
“Not talk about Maud,” he said.
“Oh, but why not?” said Ada. “We talk about you.”
“Yes, talk about Henry.”
“We talk and think about you both.”
“Yes, think,” said Henry, as if this did not matter.
“Maud is a dear little girl. She does everything her nurse tells her.”
Henry looked up at Joanna with a light in his eyes.
“Naughty Maud,” he said.
“Now you are making a joke,” said Ada.
“Yes,” said Henry, giggling in recognition of it.
“Well, who is this coming in?”
“Great-aunt Penelope,” said Henry, glancing at the door. “And poor Grandpa Merton.”
“Why is he poor?” said Joanna.
“Spectacles. Poor eyes! Oh, poor Grandpa Merton!”
“Would you like to wear the spectacles?”
“Yes,” said Henry, doubtfully.
“Go and ask if you may try them on.”
Henry did so, and walked about, wearing the glasses and laughing rather unnaturally. Then he suddenly threw them off and returned to Joanna.
“Oh, you might have broken them. What would Grandpa Merton have done then?”
“Not wear them,” said Henry, stamping his foot. “Never wear them any more.”
“They did not suit his sight,” said Alfred. “The result of the lifetimes between us. He thinks they affect me as they do him. I had better have them back.”
“No,” said Henry, trying to intercept them. “Not wear them ever again.”
“Grandpa Merton sees nicely with them,” said Joanna.
“Oh, yes,” said Henry, standing with tears in his eyes.
“They make everything good for him.”
“Yes,” said Henry, finding her tone dependable and sighing with relief.
“He sees what you do,” said Salomon. “And is just as happy as you are.”
“Ring-a-ring-a-roses!” said Henry, struck by the idea of happiness.
The younger people accepted the prospect, and the rite began.
“Again,” said Henry, as they rose from the ground.
It was repeated.
“Again,” said Henry.
The door was opportunely opened and Nurse appeared.
“May Master Henry come now, ma’am?”
“Not Master,” said Henry, with a wail.
“Come then, Nurse’s little boy.”
Henry put his hand in hers and turned to the door.
“Won’t you say good-night to me?” said Hetty, whose eyes had followed him.
“Good-night, sister Hetty,” said Henry, in a tone of quotation.
“And you will say good-night to Father,” said Salomon, seeing the direction of another pair of eyes.
Henry suffered the observance, and Hereward lifted him and held him close. He disengaged himself to the point of comfort, and remained passive, awaiting release.
“The first shall be last, and the last first,” said Salomon, looking at them. “Of all Father’s infants I have been the least to him.”
“The last, the child of my old age,” said Hereward, almost to himself. “No other has been so much blood of my blood, so deeply derived from me. We go forward, a part of each other. We join the future and the past.”
Hetty’s eyes changed, and in a moment went to Merton, who had moved away. Reuben glanced at her and looked aside. Hereward continued in another tone.
“Henry’s way of echoing and copying everyone gives him his own place to me. He seems to represent you all.”
“I have noticed that about him,” said Ada. “He gets little touches from each of them. He is young to observe so much.”
“He is not always beyond his age,” said Merton, brushing down his clothes.
“Nuts in May!” said Henry, seeing the movement and accepting its suggestion.
“No, no, you have had enough. You know how it will end,” said Nurse, referring to the outbreak of violence by which the young signify exhaustion. “You must come upstairs.”
“Horse,” said Henry, in an acquiescent tone.
The parts were put into his hands, and he was led away.
“Now we can talk to Hetty and Merton,” said Ada. “They will feel it hardly worth while to visit us.”
“When a child is about, no one else’s existence is recognised,” said Merton. “I sometimes feel with Henry that Maud’s might be ignored.”
“You are looking tired, my son. Are you working too hard?”
“All day and part of the night,” said Hetty. “He has never had such a spell.”
“I have had a grim moment,” said Merton. “I will say a word of myself. I never know why it is a sign of baseness. I collected and revised what I had written, to prepare it to see the light. And suddenly and finally consigned it to outer darkness. I face the world with an empty sheet, and feel it will be long before it is filled. It may be a forward step, but it feels like a backward one.”
“Which it is not, my son,” said Hereward. “It is a man’s step forward. It takes a man’s strength. I would have taken it myself, if there had been need. It makes a bond with your father.”
“And I have my own good fortune. In a way I am doubly blessed. I appear to work for my wife, and I work to fulfil myself.”
“I could envy you,” said Reuben. “I find that independence as a state is over-praised.”
“I do not agree,” said Ada. “I should be proud of anyone belonging to me, who achieved it.”
“Then you are proud of Father and me. I hope equally.”
“Well, in proportion to yourselves, my son. And I am proud of the qualities that lead to it. It needs self-denial and courage.”
“I said it was over-praised. But it is more so than I thought.”
“Most people pretend to admire such qualities,” said Merton. “What they really admire is the power to avoid them.”
“They don’t even pretend to in my case,” said Hereward. “They are disturbed when they hear I put effort into my work. They want to feel it is spontaneous.”