“There is a child who may be like other children,” said Merton. “But in this house it would not be believed.”
“Let us go and look at him,” said Trissie. “Children are so pretty when they are asleep. And he will grow into a boy and be different.”
“And boys are so often awake,” said Reuben. “And we have noticed the difference.”
“I will go home,” said Hetty. “Merton can follow me later.”
“As you will,” said her husband. “I shall not be very long.”
“Hetty lives up to herself,” said Joanna to Sir Michael. “She will not stand with Merton by Henry’s bedside in Hereward’s house.”
“Ah, it was a natural feeling. It was a sensitive thought. I sympathise with it.”
“So do I. How nice it is that we both have wide sympathies!”
When they reached Henry’s room, a figure was in their path. Hereward was bending over the cot, his eyes on its occupant’s face.
“Hush; he is asleep,” he said.
“That is why we are here,” said Salomon. “It is our object to view him in that state.”
“Do not wake him, sir,” said Nurse, whose instinct had brought her to the spot. “He is disturbed by any sound.”
“What of the deep sleep of childhood?” said Reuben. “Is it another of the illusions about it.”
It seemed that it might be, as Henry stirred and murmured.
“Henry. Not Maud. Just Henry.”
“I might come to say it in the opposite way,” said Ada to her husband. “Do I begin to feel it?”
Henry’s eyes wavered over her face, and he made an effort to speak.
“Yes, yes, always just Henry,” said Hereward.
“Oh, no, poor Maud I” said Henry, in a reproachful tone, and succumbed to the kind of sleep expected of him.
“He has held us together, Hereward,” said Ada. “Will he now come between us?”
“No, you are yourself, and he is helpless. I will trust you, as I know I can. It is you who are proved worthy of trust.”
Nurse moved away, as though as unconscious of their presence as they were of hers.
“Well, we have the hours before us,” said Salomon, as they left the room. “We can’t take refuge in sleep like Henry. And even then Father might come to look at us.”
“Not at me,” said Reuben. “It could only be at you. For Merton he must have the awkward feeling we have towards someone we have wronged. What has Merton to say to me? I meant to be silent to the grave. I was driven beyond myself.”
“The truth was there,” said his brother. “It has lain between my wife and me. The change is in my feeling to my father.”
“What an hour he has lived!” said Salomon. “Could anyone have deserved it? His guilt exposed and discussed before him! And judgement and mercy meted out! To him, the head of the family, and destined to remain so! The way he did remain so showed the man he was.”
“He had already shown us that,” said Reuben. “I don’t regret that I betrayed him. Why should I control myself? I am his son.”
“Not wholly,” said Hereward’s voice behind them. “I may not always be master of myself. But I have never betrayed another man. Any other man’s secret is safe with me. If you would not have my actions on your conscience, I would not have yours on mine. You may come to the first, as your life goes by. I shall not come to yours. That is my word on the matter. I shall say no more.”
“But I shall,” said Reuben. “Your secret was safe. It would have been safe to the end. But it was leading to another. That is my word. I too shall say no more. It is enough.”
Hereward passed them in silence, and Salomon spoke in a low tone.
“It seems I can never be married. My wife would be in the house. I should live under a dangling sword.”
“You would not,” said Hereward, glancing back. “Your talking in that way shows you know it.”
The brothers were silent until their father’s door closed, and then went down to their mother.
“Well, you know it all, my sons. You knew when I did not In knowing your father’s life you know your mother’s. You see her wrongs and her forgiveness of them. And you do not see her exalted by either. I can put myself in your place. You feel she is humbled by both.”
“Well, I did feel reluctant to take similar risks,” said Reuben.
“You are not cast for a heroic part,” said Salomon. “It is Mother who is.”
“I did not know that anything could happen in a family,” said Joanna. “I thought it was always outside them. And wild oats used to be sown in youth. Now it seems to be different.”
“And they ought to be,” said Sir Michael. “It is the right time for them. I mean, if they must be, it should be at that time. At the natural, excusable one. Or at any rate more excusable.”
“You must not excuse it, Grandpa,” said Reuben. “You must live up to yourself.”
“Where is Trissie?” said Zillah. “I hope she is not still in trouble. She should be with us.”
“She is in her room,” said Reuben. “She will go tomorrow, and will not come again before our marriage. And I daresay not often after it. This must leave its trace. Father will never forgive me. And I am hardly inclined to set him the example.”
“How you are meeting life!” said Joanna. “If I have not lived, I am glad I have not. I don’t even like to see other people living. And they don’t seem to like it very much.”
“Ah, Joanna, you have a simple old husband,” said Sir Michael. “He did not see what you did. He saw nothing. He took things to be what they seemed.”
“It is what they generally are. It is conceited to say they are not. And it is really what they were.”
“Well, the truth has come out,” said Salomon. “And few of us are wiser, and no one better for it. Shall we have to treat Father in the same way? We should not dare not to. But is it a moral duty?”
“Yes, it is,” said Sir Michael. “He is your father, and you owe him everything. You take from him more than you return. Nothing else can be said.”
“Many men have secrets in their lives,” said Zillah. “It is by chance that this one has escaped.”
“It was its destiny,” said Salomon. “Henry could only be its betrayal. And he will be the reminder of it. I wonder Father was not prepared. He knew the risk he took.”
He paused, as Hereward stood on the threshold, upright and calm and in possession of himself.
“Yes, I knew the risk and faced it. I knew what I owed, and to whom I owed it. That debt will not soon be paid.
“You have all given your account of me. I will give you my account of myself. I am not afraid of it, and you need not be. I do not speak to hurt.
“I am a man of great powers, swift passions and a generous heart. You have met them all, benefited by most, suffered from some. You will not cease to benefit. You will not suffer again. I am an ageing man. My vigour fails. This last approach was a light thing.
“But I still have a word to say. I am a man, as not all men are. If I have lived a man’s life, what other life should I have led? I have carried a man’s burdens, given up a man’s gains, done the work of men. It is my nature that enables me to do it. It is the force in me that carries me on. All force may at times go astray.
“I have cheered the homes of thousands. I have served our family home. I have judged easily, pardoned much, helped others to fulfil their lives. I will help them still. I will still understand and give. Would some men ask a return?
“I will ask nothing. I have never asked. I find no fault with what has been. But am I not too simply judged? Should a stumble be so hardly forgiven? I will leave it to you. My word is said. I shall not say it again.”