Miss Murdoch stood with her eyes on Jocasta’s, as if to hold them. She was a small, spare, elderly woman with a deep, grey gaze produced from a plain, lined face, and a suggestion about her that nothing mattered much.
“Ah yes, our paths lie apart. It is when they cross that we see how far apart they lie. And mine is dedicated and yours is free. And that does not draw them closer.”
“We should be grateful for the dedication. Nothing else has the same results.”
“Results? Are we to think of them? Or to keep our minds from them as points of danger? What do you feel about it? Tell me your thoughts.”
“It is best to have good ones in anything we undertake. Or why do we undertake it?”
“And what would good ones be? What do we mean by them? What do you mean? By good ones you mean the most accepted, those that are recognised? That is what you mean?”
“I hope there are some in Amy’s case. I would not criticise the kind.”
“Amy? Amy Grimstone would it be? Yes, you would share the name. It quivers like a thread through the years and adds to the bond.”
“You will let me talk of Amy herself. She has been with you for some time. I hope she gains what she should.”
“Gains?” said Miss Murdoch, drawing in her brows. “Gets something for herself to add to her, to be her own? Now, if there is gain, there is giving. We come to what you mean. You mean, do we give her anything? What do we give?”
“Well, perhaps I do. It can be put in that way.”
“Time, interest, effort,” said Miss Murdoch, looking before her. “They are in our gift. And our hope and thought, our sufferance, if need be. She must gain something I think. Do you not think with me?”
“Well, I hope she must. If so we should see it before long. This is my son, Amy’s uncle. You know she has no parents.”
“Do I know? Should I have known? Well, it must sometimes be. We take what comes of it. Something must come. We accept it when it is there.”
“What would you say it is in Amy’s case? It seems that I should know.”
“Does it? Or would you look aside? Let others deal with the innocent need, the lack of the natural basis, the want in a young life. It may give its strength. It has been known to give it. I have seen something of difference, a vein of independent thought. Have you seen it?”
“I can’t imagine it in Amy’s case,” said Jocasta, as if this would prevent it, as it was probable that it would. “She and her brother and sister are the children of the son I lost. I am a widow with a life behind me. I give them what I can.”
“What you have left. What you have to give. You give it and can give no more.” Miss Murdoch lifted a hand and moved with a muted step towards sounds that heralded the concert. “And it does what it can. It is theirs as it was yours. It is given.”
“I fear to take a place from someone with a claim to it,” said Hamilton, looking round. “An unbidden guest should remain within his rights.”
“They are glad for the seats to be filled. Why should they want them empty?” said Jocasta, taking the one that suited her, and motioning him to her side. “The state of things is clear.”
“Then I may feel I am accommodating as well as accommodated,” said her son, in an audible tone, looking about him.
“Yes,” said Miss Murdoch, with an open smile. “It is clear, and we do not try to disguise it. We let the truth appear. We let it justify itself. We are not afraid of truth.”
Jocasta glanced about her, as if she did not underestimate this courage, and settled down to show the deportment expected. Her son found the quality of the concert as Amy had foretold, and failed to respect its claims.
“Miss Murdoch’s talk might be designed to obscure her meaning rather than convey it.”
“It might be and is. But leave it for the moment. She notices more than appears.”
“Is that Miss Heriot at the side? The tall, dark, upright woman standing by herself? It seems it must be.”
“I think it is. But that is enough. The interval will come.”
It came, and Jocasta rose and moved to Hermia, with no thought of disguising the purpose of her presence.
“I think you are Miss Murdoch’s partner? I am glad to meet you. I hope you can give me a moment?”
“As many moments as you please. They are all my own. Too many to have any meaning. A partner is what I am supposed to be. I hardly know what I am. Miss Murdoch is not afraid of the truth. I will not be either.”
“It is not as you thought it would be? Perhaps you put your hopes too high. It took strong reasons on both sides to lead to a scheme like this.”
“There was the need of the school for material help. And my father met it. But the reason for me was my own. I was to put the whole thing on another basis, to save its future. I could do it. I see how it could be done. But my help is not wanted or welcome. I am to make no change. And there can’t be progress without it.”
“It must come to all things in the end. Amy told us you were trying to make it.”
“Amy? Your daughter, your grand-daughter? Ought I to know her? Which form is she in?”
“I am not sure,” said Jocasta, finding she shared the vagueness concerning Amy that seemed to mark those in charge of her. “The school has a good past. Is there any hope for the future?”
“It depends on the present. And how much hope lies there? Things can’t go on as they are. They don’t remain at a standstill. Did you notice the standard of the concert? Or pay no attention to it? I hope you closed your ears.”
“I will admit I was alive to it,” said Hamilton, with a smile. “Ungracious though the admission may sound in someone made welcome to it. I am deriving pleasure from it on other grounds.”
“I am deriving it on only one ground. That my family is not here. It was a struggle to achieve my escape. You would hardly know how great. And a good deal was done for me against the family will. Failure asks more of me than I thought to face.”
“And of your honesty and your courage. But I feel neither will fail. We know that both have been tried.”
Miss Murdoch approached with hand upraised, indicating return to their seats.
“The high water mark of a concert may be the interval,” murmured Hamilton, as they took them. “If it encroached on the time, the gain outweighed the loss.”
After the concert tea was handed by the girls to the guests, who were uncertain whether it was a grave or a festive occasion, and were not helped to a decision. Amy chose an unobtrusive part as members of both her worlds were present, and although possessed of two personalities, she had the use of none. Hamilton provided his mother with a seat, and moved about among the guests.
“Who is the man who is with you, Amy?” said a girl.
“Oh, he is some sort of relation who lives with us,” said Amy, not prepared to go nearer to the truth.
“Why does he live with you?”
“To get rich more quickly,” said Amy, in a confidential manner, dropping her voice. “It saves the expense of a home. Or I believe that is what it is.”
“What kind of work does he do?”
“None. He has never done any.”
“We heard you call him ‘Uncle’.”
“Oh, well, we do. He is so much older than we are.”
“And he called your grandmother ‘Mamma’.”
“Oh, he does sometimes. He often does odd things.”
“I wonder what the reason is.”
“Oh, I suppose it satisfies some kind of want in him,” said Amy, lifting her shoulders.
“Perhaps he is illegitimate?”
“No, of course he is not.”
“But how can you tell? You would not be told about it.”
“Oh, I have heard what he is, but I forget,” said Amy, feeling she had better not have done so, and foreseeing problems in the future. “There is no mystery about him, and I daresay he might be worse. I will go and get them some more tea.”