“I am not so sure,” said Simon, laughing. “It takes your light for itself.”
“And stands in yours in a way,” said Sir Edwin. “Or is involved with those who do.”
“I meant just what I said, Uncle. It is not good to live in shade. You would be better with it gone.”
“We are clinging to life. I think you would not deny it.”
“It is the fault of the old, that they do that,” said Hamish.
“You both seem to think you are a hundred,” said Walter.
“No, I hardly like to think I am sixty-nine, as you have observed,” said Sir Edwin.
“You ought to be just a little deaf, Uncle.”
“We are not always treated as what we ought to be. I think we seldom are. Perhaps I am fortunate.”
“Uncle, pray do not speak to me in a dry manner.”
“We don’t know how long the creeper lives,” said Simon.
“Something else we have in common with it,” said his father.
“It used to be forbidden to talk about age,” said Sir Edwin. “When a custom is broken, we see what lies at the back of it. There is reason behind all convention.”
“I think we may talk about the age of a plant,” said Simon.
“This plant is nothing to do with you or me,” said Hamish, gently. “The house and what is in or on it are your uncle’s.”
“They are for the time. But they are to do with all of us. Each of us in turn holds them in trust.”
“But not out of his turn,” said Sir Edwin. “We live in the present, not in the ultimate future. We need not voice our thoughts about it.”
“Ultimate future!” murmured Walter. “Indeed they are immortal.”
“We are, or ought to be, as far as your brother is concerned. Looking past other people’s lives is a poor habit.”
“What habit is that?” said another voice, as a grey-haired woman entered the room. “Simon, you are not beginning the day by arguing with your uncle?”
“I am glad to hear it,” said her son. “I was afraid I was.”
“I quarrel with anyone who peoples his world simply with himself,” said Sir Edwin.
“Some people must see themselves in their place,” said Hamish. “Simon’s is not his fault. He cannot help knowing it.”
“He talks as if he had no other interest.”
“Well, what other has he, Edwin?” said Mrs. Challoner. “We have not so much in our life.”
“People should wait for changes to come. And they may safely do so.”
“Who brought up the subject? It is not a good one for the morning.”
“The creeper on the house, Mater,” said Simon. “I said it should be cut down.”
“And implied that it would be,” said Hamish. “And we throw no doubt on it. But everything has its time.”
“We know not on what day nor at what hour—” said his wife. “But what is wrong with the creeper? It adds so much to the house.”
“Too much,” said Simon. “It throws its shadow all over it. This room is like a dungeon. I should be thankful to see it gone.”
“I should be most distressed. It is a part of my home to me, of the background of my married life. It will not go with my consent.”
“Then it will not go,” said her son.
“Has the creeper a name?” said Walter.
“No one knows it,” said Simon. “And no one has taken the trouble to find out. And the name we give it suits it, the thing that creeps.”
Julia Challoner was a long-limbed, upright woman of fifty-eight, with clear, hazel eyes, waving, grey hair, hands that might have met a demand, if one had been made, and a face that was at once roughly-hewn and handsome, pleasant and prone to cloud. She and her husband had lost their early feeling, but retained dependence and trust; and of late her affection for him had been charged with her fears for his health. She was both critical and fond as a mother, and would have found more fault than she did, had not a natural, nervous discontent been held in check by her religion.
“Do you know the name of the creeper on the house, Deakin?” she said, as the butler entered.
The latter mentioned two Latin words in an even tone.
“What is the popular name?” said Simon.
“I am not aware of that, sir.”
“Neither am I,” said Walter. “And I find I am proud of it.”
“Could not the gardener tell us?” said Hamish.
“He does not make use of popular names, sir.”
“So I am equal to him,” said Walter.
“What do you feel about the creeper itself, Deakin?” said Julia. “You would not like to see it go?”
“Well, ma’am, it would be a piece of life gone. But we are used to yielding it, little by little.”
“I never become so,” said Hamish. “Not even as I yield it more fully. I am always surprised by the lowering cloud.”
“And we cannot depend on the silver lining, sir,” said Deakin. “I have seen many clouds without it.”
“I have never seen one with it,” said Walter. “My clouds have been so very black.”
“Well, the lighter the lining, sir, the darker the cloud may seem.”
“You pride yourself on pessimism, Deakin,” said Julia.
“Well, ma’am, when we are told to look on the bright side of things, it is not generally at a happy time.”
“But it is good advice for daily life.”
“Daily life harbours everything, ma’am. All our troubles come into it.”
“You are a subtle talker, Deakin,” said Walter.
“Well, sir, there may be a tendency. And I have had examples.”
“I could never copy anyone,” said Simon.
“I think that is true,” said his father.
“Copy was not a term I employed, sir,” said Deakin.
“Father said a generous word to you, Simon,” said Walter.
“Well, I am content with my own level. And I am sure Deakin is with his.”
“Well, sir, if we had the choice of position, it might not have fallen on mine. Indeed we might say it would not. But I do not quarrel with fate. It is not a contest in which we should emerge victorious.”
“I meant you were content with your personal standard.”
“Well, sir, it is hardly for me to comment there.”
“I wonder how many of us are dissatisfied with it,” said Hamish.
“Very few of us,” said Julia. “We like to be ourselves. And often it is what other people like us to be,”
“Yes, for many reasons,” said Walter.
“They may not welcome encroachment, sir,” said Deakin, almost with a smile.
“We have forgotten about the creeper,” said Simon.
“I think not,” said Sir Edwin. “Anyhow you have remembered it. But it might be as well forgotten.”
Deakin was an angular, middle-aged man, with pale, hollow eyes and a hollow-cheeked face, whose look of complete resignation was the key to his nature. He had been for years with the family, and had as high an opinion of it, as it was in him to hold. He had a peculiar regard for Julia, whose aloofness from household matters he approved; and much that might have been her province, he attended to himself, without intensifying his demeanour. He looked at her now with a sympathetic eye, as she addressed her younger son, feeling that in any difference right would be on her side.
“When are you returning to Oxford, Walter?”
“I am not doing so, Mater.”
“What do you mean? The term must almost have begun.”
“It has done so. Simon will tell you about it. I am too tender a plant for such a harsh wind.”
“He has been expelled,” said Simon, in his easy manner.
“Oh, I have not. You should temper the wind to us. It was intimated that I should not return, as the life was not suited to me. Deakin looks as if he understands.”
“Life is not exactly adapted to any of us, sir. The conforming is not on that side.”
“That is what you did not realise, Walter,” said Julia.