“Well, I think that is nice of them,” said Reuben. “I can’t think of a kinder feeling.”
“I am ashamed of understanding it,” said Joanna.
“Well, I understand it too,” said Sir Michael. “To do that would be a mark of genius. And they would like to think he had it.”
“They seem nicer and nicer,” said Reuben.
“And no doubt they do think so. And I daresay he has. If they want the proof, his books give it.”
“I agree that they are nice,” said Salomon. “They don’t think that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. It is a grudging and heartless theory.”
“And a false one,” said Merton.
“Well, we ought to appreciate them,” said Sir Michael. “They are Hereward’s readers, and we can’t have too many of them.”
“His work would always create readers,” said Zillah.
“Yes, of course. It has created me. I feel I now belong to them.”
“I have not been created,” said Joanna. “I enjoyed the books from the first. And I am not at all sure I enjoyed them for the wrong reasons.”
“Well, I must go and work for the readers,” said Hereward. “If it is a humble position, it is.”
“And I must go and work to gain some,” said Merton. “And it is a humble position.”
“And we must go home,” said Penelope. “It has been good to have an hour with you.”
“And to us to have one with you, Aunt Penelope,” said Ada. “You don’t know what these flashes of you and Father mean to us. They hold all the echoes of the past for me. My girlhood and my sister seem to be carried in them.”
“Well, your girlhood and motherhood are in the hours for us,” said Alfred. “It is no wonder that we seek them.”
The older people went with the guests to the hall, and Salomon and Reuben were alone.
“You heard, Salomon? I saw you heard. Hetty heard too, and Merton did not. Don’t pretend you don’t understand. We both know you do.”
“Would it be best not to understand? Best to forget?”
“We shall not forget. No human being could. And we must speak of it. No one could be silent.”
“Well, words may be a safeguard. It is the suppressed things that escape. ‘Blood of my blood, so deeply derived from me’. It is a warning. We are Father’s sons.”
“Things fall into place,” said Reuben. “There are a number to be explained.”
“Yes. Father’s sympathy with Hetty. The way he saw other people’s feeling for her. His acceptance of the news of the child. His wish to adopt it, and his contriving to represent the wish as his wife’s. I was struck by that at the time, but could not explain it. His caring for Henry more than his own grandchild. The touches in Henry supposed to be copied from us. What a story it is! It should not belong to real life.”
“It would be better in a book. I am sure I wish it was in one.”
“It would. It is a pity Merton cannot use it. It is hard to be the victim of it, when he might find it useful. And the light on the character of Father! It is a pity he cannot use him too. He may be short of material. His progress seems in doubt.”
“Hetty must live on the edge of a precipice,” said Reuben.
“She was prepared. And she keeps her foothold. Father is on it, and is growing unwary. He should be warned, and we cannot warn him. We are in peril.”
“I suppose Mother has never suspected?”
“Why should she? We did not suspect. She would not think it possible. And in a sense it was not. A father’s having that relation with his son’s promised wife! What man would have come to it?”
“This one,” said Reuben. “He yields to all his feelings. He does more; he fosters them. That is how he gets them on to paper. If he subdued them, they would lose their force. And releasing them sets them free in his life. I understand it all.”
“You have great understanding. Take care that it does not betray you. And remember that other people are without it. If this came out, they would see it through their own eyes.”
“How do you see it?” said Reuben.
“Through mine. I cannot help it. I should not have thought it of him. What man would of his father? I resent being forced to think it. It is not a lapse we can condone. If he was helpless, he should not have been. We are masters of ourselves.”
“Perhaps he was not. He is not a man who would always be. He can be carried away. Think how he is affected by his books.”
“This was actual life. He knew it for what it was. The truth is what it is. It must not escape. It proves what we think of it, that we fear it so much. And Mother and Merton do not know. Remember they do not. If they do, the guilt will be ours. And it is a guilt that no man should incur.”
“Why, what a solemn pair!” said Hereward. “What serious matter is on foot?”
“Henry and his story,” said Salomon. “You will not be surprised.”
“No, he makes a strange appeal to me. There is wonder in every child. And in this one I find so much. I feel that my love for him will remain and grow, instead of changing to another, as with all of you. It may be so with a late child. And to me he is the last of my sons. It is strange that so great a good should arise from what might be called a wrong.”
“It must be called one,” said Salomon. “What else could we call it?”
“It might have been almost unconscious.”
“What led up to it was not.”
“Well, well, we will not judge,” said Hereward, as he turned away.
“We can’t all arrange for our wrong-doing not to be judged,” said Salomon. “The weak point about it is the judgement.”
“It is what there is to trouble us. We don’t find anything else. Anyhow Father does not. And people feel a zest in judging. I am glad I never do wrong.”
“I never do either. ‘Not anything the world calls wrong.’ And I think the world must know. Indeed we see it does. But if we cannot speak without referring to the matter, we are bound to betray it. I feel the deepest misgiving.”
“And Father feels none. The danger is there. What has happened can happen again.”
“The words may escape at any moment. They are on the edge of his mind. But are we quite sure of their meaning? Were they used in a literal sense? He has been fond of us all as children.”
“He has,” said Reuben. “And here is one of us.”
A cry came from an upper floor, and the brothers’ footsteps joined the others on their way to it.
Henry was sitting up in bed, looking small enough for any trouble to be large for him, and Nurse was standing, remonstrant and unruffled, at his side. He spoke in an accusing tone.
“Poor Grandpa Merton wear them! Hurt him very much.”
“No, no, he is not wearing them now,” said Ada.
“Yes, Henry see him. He always wear them. Oh, dear Grandpa Merton!”
“No, he left them behind,” said Hereward, with a glance at his wife. “He will never wear them again.”
“No?” said Henry, relaxing in a doubtful manner.
“There is a pair on the table in my room,” said Hereward, in a rapid, incidental tone that eluded Henry. “Let someone fetch them.”
This was done, and Henry looked at them in recognition.
“Yes,” he said in relief.
“So that is all right,” said Ada. “You can go to sleep.”
Henry kept his eyes on the glasses.
“You don’t want them, do you?” said Nurse.
“Yes,” said Henry, holding out his hands.
“What will you do with them?” said Salomon.
“Not wear them. No. But very nice spectacles. Henry’s.”
“Look how well they suit me,” said Reuben, putting them on.
“Yes,” said Henry, smiling at the sight, “But Henry’s spectacles. Grandpa Merton give them.”