“You could not repress the question,” said Oliver. “It would come out. Why do we talk as if questions should not do that? What else should happen to them? And if they did not, the answers would not come out either.”
“And answers to questions always contain some truth,” said Mr. Spode.
“So they do,” said Oliver. “People are so cruel.”
“Do you see your way to answering this question?” said Sir Roderick, seeming to control his voice.
“I thought badly of the trouble,” said Mr. Spode. “I do think ill of such things. But the boy only tried to command success, when he should have done more, deserved it. He may have thought people would not think it was more. He may, indeed, have noticed it. I pitied the boy, and it was pity with equal feeling in it. It was the kind I give myself. I am often in need of it.”
“Would you advise me to keep him at home?”
“Roderick, ought you to ask advice from our masters, when you have taken your son from the school?” said Juliet.
“I am asking the advice of Oliver’s friend. And he will be leaving himself at the end of the term.”
“I love to give advice,” said Mr. Spode. “It makes me feel so much at home. I advise you to keep him where memories are shortest. That would probably be at school. But the matter is in your hands.”
“I understand you. I will see that the thing is forgotten.”
“My father takes advice without resenting it,” said Oliver. “You can cast your bread upon the waters, and see it return on the same day.”
“The seed falls upon good ground and brings forth fruit,” said Lesbia, half to herself. “Sixty and an hundredfold.”
“No wonder Shelley does not apologise for his home,” said Mr. Spode.
“Do most people do that?” said Lesbia.
“Everyone but your nephew.”
“How do you know of our relationship?”
“He has told me about his home life,” said Mr. Spode, with a note of reproach.
“I expect the apology for home comes from a sort of pride in it.”
“No, it comes from a sort of shame. The simplicity of life is inescapable.”
“The two feelings probably have the same source.”
“They have opposite sources. Life is as simple as that.”
“Do you apologise for your home?”
“I owe it to myself. Apology is called for.”
“You despise yourself, and yet you find yourself doing it?”
“I do not despise myself. It is my home that I despise.”
“I daresay there is not as much reason as you think,” said Sir Roderick.
“I know the reasons. It is economical and comfortless, and my mother says the things that—”
“That are not always said,” said Sir Roderick, on an understanding note.
“That people’s parents say,” said Mr. Spode.
“Well, those are not such terrible things.”
“No, they are not. One would not apologise for those.”
“I hope you can go round the place with my son. It is to be his home for life.”
“If I may send a telegram to my mother.”
“Of course, if it will ease her mind.”
“It will ease mine. The manner of our parting weighs on it.”
“If you will dictate the telegram, it will go at once.”
“I would rather write it, as it is a message from the heart.”
“You will retract every word you said?” said Oliver.
“I said no words. That is what I retract. But those minutes will never come again.”
Sir Roderick put writing materials on the desk, and Mr. Spode sat down. As he rose he suddenly exclaimed.
“Why, there is my earring!”
“One like it. I knew it was,” said Oliver.
“So it is a stock pattern. My mother will never believe it.”
“And she will be right,” said Mr. Firebrace, coming to the desk. “The one that was matched with yours could not have been the same. As you say, this one is yours, or rather it is hers. Take it to her from me as my message from the past. I gave her the other all those years ago, and this one was to have made the pair. But it can take its place.”
“I think she deserves this one, if she has the other,” said Lesbia. “The separation was a mistake.”
“She has not the other,” said Mr. Spode. “But she always gets more than she deserves. That is a tribute to her.”
Aldom entered to take the telegram and spoke to his master as he passed.
“My mother has come to see you about the farm, Sir Roderick. I have shown her into the library.”
“Oh, yes, Aldom. I will go to her at once. I am sorry to leave you, Mr. Spode. I was not the object of your visit, but you make us feel you came to see us all. I hope you will be here when I return. We will shake hands, in case I am not so fortunate.”
“I should hardly have known your father was a parent, Shelley,” said Mr. Spode.
“No, he has not been a father to me. And you make me feel I should be glad. You take a load of bitterness from my heart. The old, sad burden is rolling away.”
“I have never had a mother.”
“And I have not been a son. I have only just realised it.”
“You have been a good stepson and a kind nephew,” said Lesbia. “We cannot all fulfil ourselves in the deeper relations of life.”
“Thank you, Aunt Lesbia. I have heard there is good in everyone.”
“I do not think your father would change you, Oliver.”
“Only for Sefton. He wishes that Sefton could inherit the place.”
“A thing that Maria does not wish,” said Juliet. “How Maria is a person by herself! I think we take it too much for granted.”
“It is the best way to take it,” said Oliver. “Of course I am attached to Maria. I say that, to show I did not mean anything disparaging. Or rather in case I did.”
“I have never heard you express affection for Maria before,” said Lesbia.
“Well, it is not my habit to disparage her.”
Sir Roderick went into the library, and a small, thin woman rose to meet him, and lifted a face that was Aldom’s, apart from the eyes. He suddenly saw, with a rise and fall of his heart, whose eyes Aldom’s were.
“Elizabeth!” he said.
The small, even voice, though having no likeness to Aldom’s, recalled Aldom himself.
“It is a good many years, what some would call a great many. We have had the farm, but you have never known the truth. It was best, and I had given my word. My husband bought it with the money you gave me, though we often said we might have put it to a better use. The boy has had his name, and has never known. And the same may be said of others, as it may of you. But if we move to the village, encounter will be natural. So I have come myself, instead of leaving it to the men, as women do.”
“You are well, Elizabeth? Things have gone fairly with you? Your life has been a success?”
“Well, words may be easily used. I lost my husband and those have hardly been the terms. But my son is good, and has kept his place, and it is to his credit not to have wanted a change. I was not aware, when he took it, in whose house it was, and then it seemed no good to speak. It seemed the time was past, and silence was the best safeguard. And you have never known, with my keeping on the farm. Indeed it has not been often that I could get away.”
“So the boy has been here — your son. He has had his home under my roof.”
“It is where he has earned his bread. It has often seemed strange, as I have said to myself, but it does not do to pursue things in your heart. It does not take you any further.”
“I have done my best for him, though I have not known. I trust he has been happy in my house.”
“Well, the years go by, and we have never made a change. And when a thing has gone on, it seems as if it might as well go on doing so.”