‘What are you doing?’ said Eleanor, to the other two.
‘Latin declensions,’ said Honor, not taking her eyes from her book.
‘Aren’t they almost too wonderful?’ said a woman guest. ‘I thought it was only backward children who ever fulfilled any promise. But these have fulfilled the promise already, so it is all right. I always find it a test to be with a woman with nine children. I find I am inclined to feel that she has more than I have. Of course one ought not to feel it, but I almost think she might agree. It somehow seems nice of Miss Mitford to have that small one on her knee, so unembittered.’
‘This is Miss Pilbeam,’ said Eleanor.
‘Of course, I felt I knew her face. I knew it was a different face from Miss Mitford’s. It is much younger, isn’t it? And Miss Mitford’s face is quite young enough.’
‘I think we sometimes pass in the village,’ said Miss Pilbeam.
‘Yes, that would be it,’ said Mrs Cranmer, shaking hands. ‘When we learn faces, it is in the village. There don’t seem to be so many outside. You knew my face was not Miss Mitford’s. Of course all our thoughts might be hers. And I hope they are. Miss Mitford would have such deep thoughts.’
Hope Cranmer was a small, vital-looking woman of sixty, with strong, grey, springy hair, a straight, handsome nose, clear, brown eyes, an openly curious and critical expression, and a voice so strong and sudden and deep that it took people by surprise. Her stepdaughter stood behind her, a tall, slightly awkward woman of thirty-six, with pale, hazel eyes, a long, stiff nose and chin, an oddly youthful expression, and an obstinate, innocent, complacent mouth, which did not open as much as other people’s, when in use. The husband and father was a short, solid man of sixty-eight, with a heavy, hooked nose, bright, dark eyes with a look of benevolence and scepticism, and an air of humorous content with part of life, and gentle regret for the rest of it.
‘Paul is always with me now,’ said Hope. ‘He has saved some money and inherited some more, and he is going to devote himself to leisure, because he likes it so much. He has even given up the work he loved, because of it. And he has not aged or soured or gone to pieces or anything.’
‘I think he deserves a rest now, Mother,’ said Faith.
‘But then he would be one of the people who are lost without their work. Or who would those people be?’
‘I enjoy leisure the more for not deserving it too well,’ said Paul. ‘People who have hardly earned it, are past its use.’
‘And I can’t help thinking we ascribe too much to leisure,’ said his wife, ‘that even if people do spend their lives in useful effort, they may age a little sometimes. It seems hard, when they have done all they can to prevent it. Up with the lark, a hard day’s work, and going to bed healthily tired; what more can people do?’
‘We confess to a suspicion of your good faith, Mrs Cranmer,’ said her stepson, who completed the family.
‘We should follow the golden mean,’ said Faith.
‘I dislike the mean,’ said Paul, ‘and anything else that prevents our going the full length with things.’
‘You will follow that principle in your pursuit of leisure, Father,’ said Ridley.
Ridley Cranmer was a tall, large, almost commanding-looking man of forty-three, with a broad, full face and head, large, expressionless eyes, whose colour could not be determined, and cannot be recorded, a rather full and fleshy, but not ill-modelled nose and chin, and a suave, appreciative, and where possible chivalrous manner. He was a lawyer in London, as his father had been before him, and spent his spare time at home; where the spectacle of Paul’s freedom chafed him with its reminder that his inheritance might have been increased, an attitude which his father found unfilial, which he did not mind, and unreasonable, which he did.
Ridley and Faith were on terms of inevitable intimacy. Ridley understood his sister, and neither liked nor disliked the character he accepted; and Faith, who was used to vague conceptions, had a feeling that it was as well not to understand her brother. Hope said it was absurd that she and her stepdaughter should be called Hope and Faith, and that she admired Paul for not betraying embarrassment, and sympathized with Ridley when he did. Ridley treated his stepmother with formally affectionate concern, and Faith tried to be a daughter to her; and these efforts increased her tendency to admit acid undertones into her apparently inconsequent and genial speech.
Faith’s name had been chosen by her own mother, in spite of, or perhaps because of, her father’s lack of the attribute. It was said to suit her, and she had been heard quietly to observe that she hoped it did. Paul viewed his daughter’s religion with a smooth consideration, and Hope with an indifference changed to impatience by Faith’s conscientious concern for herself. Whether or not Ridley had a religion was not known, as he evinced one or not according to his company, a course which he pursued with many things.
‘Fancy having to sit on someone’s knee to learn!’ said Hope.
‘You mean, Mrs Cranmer, fancy learning when you have to sit on someone’s knee!’ said Ridley.
‘I am sure the lessons are very interesting,’ said Faith.
‘They are bad things for the young,’ said Paul. ‘We don’t choose the right time for them.’
‘They will come to appreciate them later, Father.’
‘You both seem to think the same,’ said Hope. ‘And that happens so seldom that I am sure you must be right. But we are supposed to see them appreciating them now.’
‘You must be very gratified, Mrs Sullivan,’ said Ridley, in an almost emotional tone.
‘Haven’t we any more rooms to see?’ said Hope. ‘I look forward to going from floor to floor, and seeing people younger and younger on each. Isn’t there anyone smaller than that little one? I am sure there used to be. I do hope this house is not going to be that depressing thing, a home without a baby.’
‘The person smaller than Nevill was probably Nevill himself,’ said Ridley.
‘Yes, he is the last,’ said Eleanor. ‘This is the first day he has had lessons.’
Ridley shook his head with no change in his eyes, and his sister gave him a glance with one in hers.
‘Do you remember me, Honor?’ she said.
‘Yes, you are Miss Cranmer.’
‘Yes, my name is Faith Cranmer.’
‘Isn’t she Miss?’ said Gavin to his sister, with a gesture towards Faith.
‘Yes, that is what you would call me,’ said the latter.
’She is only Miss, isn’t she?’ said Gavin to Honor, in a more insistent tone.
Faith gave a smile to Eleanor, with reference to this childish view.
‘No one thinks it better to be Mrs, dear,’ said Hope.
‘I think I do,’ said Honor.
‘Why do you think so?’ said Eleanor, with a smile.
‘Well, it is better to have a house and a husband and children, than not to have anything.’
The laughter that greeted the answer mystified Honor.
‘Why isn’t it better?’ she said.
‘It is in some senses, of course,’ said Faith.
‘I think it is difficult for Honor,’ said Hope. ‘I am almost finding it so myself.’
‘Do you think you are an advantage?’ said Eleanor, to the child.
‘She does sums better than Miss Pilbeam,’ said Gavin.
‘That settles it,’ said Paul.
‘Now isn’t that a little bit of an exaggeration?’ said Faith.
‘No, it really is not this morning,’ said Miss Pilbeam, in a tone of full tribute. ‘I was very pleased.’
Eleanor laid a hand on Honor’s head.
‘Now what about the question of the advantage, Mrs Sullivan?’ said Ridley.
‘We have seen a rare caress,’ said Hope. ‘And it is true that it means more than frequent ones. Though perhaps the frequent ones together may mean more still. But of course it means enough.’