The door closed on a silence.
“Suppose he did say it again!” said Reuben. “How would things be then?”
“Well, I suppose it is true,” said Sir Michael. “There is truth in it, of course. But I can’t go the whole length. I feel we should keep our human laws. I am carried away at the moment. But I can’t alter myself.”
“I am really carried away,” said Joanna. “So I must alter myself. I am going to try to be worthy of Hereward. You see I am already trying. And I think you must feel I am succeeding.”
“I may disturb you, my lady?” said Galleon at the door. “It is already later than usual.”
This was true, as Galleon and Nurse had met and talked in the hall.
“Well, when something should be safe with me, Nurse, that is what it is.”
“Silence is my watchword, Galleon. It is natural to me, my tendency being to reticence.”
“I am myself a man of few words,” said Galleon, sighing in remembrance of large numbers.
“And this might befall any gentleman. It is not a loss of dignity.”
“When he addressed the family, Nurse, dignity was the word. I shivered as I heard.”
“I should have done the same. A gentleman justifying himself! It is not a thing that should be.”
“Well, he did not lower himself. It marks him as what he is. And the writing cannot alter it.”
“No, he keeps above it. It is a call for quality. Few would be equal to it. And I cast no stone. As regards me he has not failed.”
“Ah, well, you know your time of life, and so does he.”
“You can hardly be aware of it, Galleon. You go beyond yourself. And you are light in your talk of those above you. To fall is not to condescend. And you should not broach the subjects. It does not sit well on you.”
Chapter XIII
“I am resolved, Aunt Penelope,” said Ada. “I have made up my mind. I will not let my heart be troubled. I will not let it be afraid. Whatever happens, I shall have my sister. We shall bridge the gulf of years and re-live youth. It will be as if the parting had not been. The reason for it is dead. And if it is not, I will not see it. I will keep above what is beneath me. I will pay the price that must be paid. Who should have learned that lesson, if not I? I look forward with an easy heart.”
“There should be no danger,” said Alfred. “The memory will be a safeguard. And time has passed.”
“It is true, Father. I will feel it is. We turn to you for truth. I will take full joy in the reunion, in the future that must hold so much of the past. My sister will be with me. My sister who has lived in my thought, who returns as a widow to my care. I envy you, Aunt Penelope. I grudge you the task of preparing for her. For her and the adopted daughter we are to see as her own. I long to be making ready for them. But I respect your prior claim. We shall all be with you to welcome her. My sons know her only as a name. So much has been forbidden to us, and to Hereward is still forbidden. To him it is a matter for silence. But I can forget it and go forward. This my sister was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found. I feel I could break into song.”
“You have not fallen so far short,” said Alfred, smiling.
“Oh, Father, think what it is to me. Even more perhaps than to you. I have watched her growth as I have watched that of my sons. And now the years of our parting fade away. They will never mean nothing. We shall not atone for the loss. But I shall have something of what I might have had.”
“Watching my growth has achieved as much as watching anything else,” said Reuben.
“You should be grateful,” said Salomon. “Only a mother would have done it. Most people express surprise when growth attracts their notice.”
“Even my father forgot about mine,” said Trissie. “Of course there wasn’t much to remind him.”
“Oh, forget yourselves and your growth,” said Ada. “It is someone else who is in our minds to-day. Our growth can take care of itself. We can all see how much of it there was. In my case there was a good deal. But I have no thought to spare for it.”
“You have words to spare, as we had,” said Merton.
“Oh, I make no claim to be consistent. My mind is too full for me to watch my words. I shall not be in command of myself until the moment comes. If only the days would pass!”
The days did not fail, and the family gathered in Alfred’s house to await the arrival. The meeting seemed to come and pass before they knew. It seemed there was something wanting, to which they hardly gave a name.
Emmeline greeted them without emotion, and with an ease that was more in accord with their memory than their mood. She was heavier and soberer, and her charm revealed itself at once as more intermittent and ordinary. Her eyes went often to her adopted daughter, and her thought seemed to be on her more than on herself.
“My sister!” said Ada. “After the years of thought and memory. How I have lived in this moment!”
“My daughter!” said Alfred. “The other words can be the same.”
“Your niece, Aunt Penelope!” said Emmeline, smiling and passing to the third embrace.
“My sons!” said Ada. “Your nephews whom you have not seen.”
“And my daughter!” said Emmeline. “For that is how you must see her. It is what she is to me.”
“And will be to us,” said Penelope. “You did wisely to choose a girl. Your father is rich in grandsons.”
“She has always been needed. She came to me when I was alone. And my husband was glad to share her. We never felt we were childless. You will not think of me in that way.”
The daughter came forward, a comely girl of about twenty-two, seeming rather mature for her age. She had pleasant, straight features, large, hazel eyes, and an expression at once amiable, confident and resolute. Emmeline was always aware of her, and when interest turned to her from herself, seemed to expect and wish it.
Hereward moved towards them and spoke for every ear.
“So we meet at last. With much to remember and forget. We can do both. It is a clear way.”
“It is,” said Emmeline. “And it is more. It is to be a new one.”
“I am a minor figure on the occasion,” said Sir Michael. “But as Ada’s father-in-law I can feel a part of it.”
“I feel it might be the same without me,” said Joanna. “And I believe it would.”
“I feel you are my relations as well as Ada’s,” said Emmeline. “As we are sisters, it seems to be natural. But there is so much to know about you all.”
“I will give you my account,” said Hereward. “I am still the slave of the pen. And still by some held to be its master.”
“I am one of those,” said Hetty. “And I am Merton’s wife. That is all I need to say.”
“There is that about Hereward’s books,” said Sir Michael. “They can be read by people of any age or kind. To my mind it is the truest strength.”
“One of them could be read by Grandpa,” said Reuben. “I saw it admitting of it.”
“So did I,” said Salomon. “And the true strength was Grandpa’s.”
“I am hardly a slave of the pen,” said Merton. “That implies too much. But I remain its servant.”
“I am a useful member of society,” said Reuben. “I should hardly be a member, if I were not useful. And that may show it is not society.”
“I am nothing but myself,” said Salomon. “So that is enough about me. There can hardly be any more.”
“So am I,” said Viola. “And I feel it is quite enough. Why should we be more than ourselves?”
“I am the person who provides Viola,” said Emmeline. “Nothing further can be asked of me.”
“Oh, I belong to myself, Mother. But I am glad to be with you in your home.”