“I should not have kept the secret. I am learning the value of truth.”
“It might not have seemed to have so much value at the time.”
“If I had married you, Rosa, these things would not have happened.”
“Other things would. They did happen. Our relation was one of them.”
“My poor boy! My selfless, dependable son! The girl is less on my mind. I almost feel I came first with her.”
“Hereward, how far did you go?”
“As far as I should, and no further. Who should have a greater care for her? And I can guard against women’s feelings for me.”
“You might have put the power to better use. But you have used other powers, Hereward. You have served many.”
“My heart goes out in sympathy and pity,” said Hereward, moving about the room. “My strongest instinct is to ease the human way. I see it as a long, hard journey. I take no credit for it. It is my way of fulfilling myself. I ask no gratitude. And perhaps I hardly have it. It is felt it means no sacrifice. And it has meant none. I am not made up of failings. And those I have, come from my strength.”
“What a satisfactory reason for them! Mine come from something else.”
“You could have held me, Rosa. Something in you would have done it, something in yourself.”
“It would have worn thin. You would have come to the end of it.”
“But I have not done so. It is always there for me.”
“It is there when you are with me. That is not always. It is very seldom.”
“From the first I saw the whole of my wife. I do not mean there is little to see. She is larger-hearted than many. And there is other largeness in her. But she is herself and nothing more.”
“You say you saw the whole of her. How much did you see? How much did she see of you? She may have realised her largeness of heart and felt you would both need it. And it seems you have done so.”
“It is true. But her life has been a full one. And I feel she knows it.”
“I have no doubt of it. It could hardly have escaped her.”
“You and she might have had a friendship, if you had come together. But it seemed it should not be.”
“It did. You could hardly betray yourself before your marriage.”
“Would you have liked to have sons?”
“I suppose I should. I see people do like it.”
“You would not like the position of my wife?”
“The words can have two meanings. On the whole I should not.”
“On the whole Ada does.”
“Well, she is large-hearted. I think my heart must be only of average size.”
“You can’t think that average is the word for you.”
“Not on the whole. No one thinks that of himself. If anyone did, we should sometimes meet it.”
“I believe we meet it in Ada. She does not see herself as above the average.”
“But she knows how rare that is. It is a way of feeling she is above it.”
“I am grateful to her, Rosa. Do not think I am not. But I might have been grateful to you.”
“I don’t want gratitude. It is earned too hardly. And people do not give enough.”
“Perhaps not. But I have tried to give it. I believe my wife has found it all worth while.”
“Some of it has been so. She has taken the rough with the smooth. I should have been inclined to reject the rough. I don’t know why it always has to be included.”
“Well, I have a good wife, Rosa, dear sons, grandchildren coming. But I hoped to have them through you. And to-day I feel I must imagine it. It is not often in my thought.”
“It hardly ever is. So do not put it into mine. I have no place for it.”
“So you really never feel regret?”
“You think I should imagine what might have been? We found I had not a large heart. Now you must find I have not much imagination.”
“In me it is the force of my life. And to-day it is working on you.”
“What do you mean? You don’t want to use me in a book?”
“You would not recognise yourself. Would you not be glad to be of help to me?”
“I am seldom glad to be of help. The gladness would not be on my side. And we are supposed not to write about a person until the deep feeling is past. So that is what it is.”
“Rosa, I gave you a book before I was married. With a farewell poem on the flyleaf. If you have it, will you lend it to me? It would be of help.”
“I will give it to you. It is yours. It holds something for you and nothing for me. You can put it to your own use.”
Hereward accepted the book, and soon afterwards took his leave. He seemed ready to be gone, as if his thought was pressing forward. His companion let him go and did not look after him.
When he reached his house, he left the book in the hall while he changed his clothes. Ada and Salomon entered from outside, and Ada took up the book and glanced at it.
“What is this? The poem that is written here? What does it mean?”
“Yes, I see it, Mother. It means or has meant what it says. It may mean nothing now. The years have passed.”
“Your poor father! I have wondered what he did before we were married. It seems there must have been something.”
“Considering what he did afterwards? Yes, there must have been. I have wondered too. Well, it seems it was no bad thing.”
“My poor Hereward! I was not the woman for him. So I was not even then.”
“Mother, was he the man for you? Is that someone you have not known? Perhaps that was equal between you. And you have come to a fair end.”
“Other things have not been equal. And there have been things before the end. I do not forget them. I never shall. And there are others who will not forget. But we will not speak of the poem to your father. It was not written for our eyes.”
“Or it would not have told us so much. And it tells us something more. The woman it was written for has parted with it. And to the man who wrote it and gave it. Perhaps we are told enough.” As they entered the library, Hereward followed with Henry in his arms, having met him as he came from the garden. The latter carried the book, and seemed content with his possession of it.
“Read,” he said as his father sat down.
“No, you read to us,” said Hereward.
Henry leant towards the book and appeared held by its words.
“‘Ride a cock horse
To Banbury Cross,’”
he said, as if struck by them.
“Well, go on, or do you forget?”
“Not forget. Book not tell any more.”
“No, say what is true,” said Nurse. “You often forget just there! ‘And see a fine lady—’”
“‘Get on a white horse’,” said Henry, in a painstaking tone, his eyes close to the page.
“There is something written on the blank leaf,” said Sir Michael. “It looks like a poem.”
“That is what it is,” said Hereward. “An effort of my youth. Not to be regarded or revealed.”
“I did not know you wrote poetry.”
“I don’t. And I have realised it. I found it was not what I wrote.”
Sir Michael made a movement to take the book, but Henry forestalled him.
“No, not Grandpa’s. Take it upstairs. Henry’s own book.”
“Well, perhaps you can have it,” said Nurse, with a glance at Hereward. “But you would like to hear a story first.”
“Once upon a time,” said Henry, urgently, turning to his father.
Hereward rose to the effort, and as Henry became absorbed, received the book from Nurse and put it in his pocket.
Chapter XV
“Good-Morning, Sir Hereward,” said Galleon.
“Oh, good-morning. So that is what you call me now. I had forgotten about it.”
“It will have to be remembered, Sir Hereward. The change has taken place.”
“It is only a nominal change. It will not affect myself.”