"You are Jinny," he said, "and I haven't seen you since you were six years old."
She had been ready to stand on her dignity, to speak at once in defence of Hal, of all that had happened, to accuse Henry if need be of neglect, unkindness, hardness of heart, but at his words her antagonism went, her defences were stripped from her, and she saw that he was shy and uncertain, even as she was herself, and lonely too.
"Yes," she said, "I'm Jinny, and this is John-Henry."
The boy put up his hand, as he had been told to do, and looked then around him at the door, wishing they might go.
"Won't you sit down?" said Henry, pointing to the chair, and Jinny held the boy by her side, whispering to him to be still.
For a moment Henry did not speak. He glanced away from the boy to the wood fire in the grate.
"What are your plans?" he said.
"I shall go on living in Doonhaven, with father and mother at the Rectory," she said, "until it is time for John-Henry to go to school. Then, I don't know.
It will depend on many things."
"I suppose," said Henry, "that Tom would like him to be a parson?"
"I don't think so," said Jinny. "Once, when I was talking about the future, he said that the Navy would be an excellent thing for John-Henry. But we needn't think about it yet."
There was a moment's pause.
"And Hal?" said his father. "Did he have any ideas on the subject?"
Jinny held the boy's hand, which was fidgeting with the lace collar.
"No," she said gently. "Hal was not interested in education, or professions. He just imagined that-that one day John-Henry would live here at Clonmere."
Henry rose to his feet, and stood with his hands behind his back, looking down on Jinny and his grandson, "I wanted to sell the place," he said, "many years ago. Hal will have told you that. I would still sell it, but, as you probably know, Clonmere is entailed. When I die, and this boy reaches the age of twenty-one, he can do as he likes. He can break the entail at will."
"Yes," said Jinny.
Henry walked slowly up and down the room.
"Property is a burden these days," he said.
"There is not the value in it that there used to be.
We're soon going to enter upon a new century too, and things are changing fast. This country may be slower to change than most, I don't know about that.
I've lived away too long either to know or to care."
He spoke without bitterness, but his voice was sad, as though, since he had looked upon his home, the past had risen up and closed upon him.
"Will you never come back to live here again?" said Jinny.
"No," he said, "no, that's all finished and done with."
He turned and faced her, his hands behind his back, his head a little on one side. That is how Hal used to stand, she thought. He had been part of him after all, a very great part, he had not belonged entirely to his mother.
"The mines are gone," he said; "they were the great link with this country. They brought good fortune to my family, but I doubt if they brought happiness. That is one of the reasons that I sold them, not to be quit of a bad debt, as most people believe. Now only the house remains, and if you and the boy want to live here, you are welcome to do so. There won't be any money for the upkeep though, not until I die. And I don't propose spending a penny on it in the meantime."
Jinny flushed. This was the Henry her father had warned her about. The business man, who sought first his own interests, or rather those of the wife at his back across the water, and was not likely to put his hand in his pocket for anyone else, not even his own grandson.
"It would be rather too big," said Jinny, "for me and John-Henry alone. Living close by, at the Rectory, we can come here often, and later on, when he is older, he will understand that one day it will belong to him."
It seemed to her that he looked upon her strangely, and with pity, and she held the boy's hand tightly, as though the firmness of his touch gave her strength and consolation.
"This is the third generation of my family," he said, "to be brought up by one parent only. You have lost Hal. I lost my Katherine. And my mother lost her John, when he was only a year or so older than your Hal. You will find it is not easy, for the one who is left…?
"No," said Jinny, "it will not be easy. But I love John-Henry, and I am not afraid."
He looked away from her, up at the portrait of Katherine on the wall. Then, very slowly, he put his hand inside his waistcoat pocket, and drew out a small round leather case. He held it a moment in his hands, and then snapped the clasp. He took from the case a replica of the portrait on the wall, in miniature. The likeness was well done, although the colouring was a little smudged in places, and the hair brighter than in reality.
"I have not shown this to anyone else," said Henry, "and I never shall. Hal did it for me, when he was a lad… He gave it me the night I brought Adeline back to London with me, and I rather think I never thanked him for it. You see, we were both a little shy of one another."
Jinny held the miniature, and then gave it back to Henry. He replaced it carefully in the leather case, and put it in his pocket.
"I've carried it now for twenty-one years," he said, "and Adeline has never discovered it."
A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, and in a flash Jinny saw the gay, laughing Henry that once had been, the young man who stood beside her father in the university group.
"You won't give me away to anyone, will you?" he said.
Jinny shook her head.
He turned once more, and looked out of the window at the grass bank sloping to the creek. The sun shone upon a strip of carpet at his feet, and the myriad dust particles danced in a beam of light.
"You are fortunate in having Tom and Harriet for parents," said Henry. "They will take care of you and this boy, and you won't be alone. Hal's allowance will automatically come to you now, of course, you realise that. And when I die, as I told you before, the child has everything."
He glanced down dubiously at the small, solemn figure in the bottle-green velvet suit. "An empty house, and a load of doubts and dreams-not much of a legacy," he said.
John-Henry leant against his mother, and tugged at her hand, his signal that he wished to go. He did not care greatly for the strange man who looked down at him with pity, and he wanted to be back at the Rectory, with Granpie, amongst familiar things that he knew and understood.
"He's had enough of me," said Henry, with a smile.
"All right, young man, I won't keep you any longer. I am going too."
He walked with them to the hall. The luggage had been put in the carriage, the valet was standing in his hat and coat by the open door.
"It's a mistake," said Henry, "to walk back into the past. Look forward always, if you can."
He gazed up at the house, the barred windows of the new wing, the iron balcony above the door. Then he shook hands with Jinny, and touched the boy lightly on the head. He climbed into the carriage, and the servant slammed the door, taking his seat on the box beside the driver.
"I want you to say goodbye to Tom and your mother for me," said Henry. "I won't see them again. Ask Tom whether he remembers saying to me over thirty years ago, "I would rather be good like the Eyres than clever like you Brodricks'? The trouble is that goodness dies, and lies buried in the earth. Cleverness passes on and becomes degenerate."
He looked for the last time at the stone walls of the castle, and down across the sloping grass to the creek, and Doon Island, and the grey mass of Hungry Hill. Then he smiled once more at Jinny.