“Children are always reproached for doing what we do ourselves. What else could they be reproached for? They must have some bringing-up, and that consists of reproach. A term as a schoolmaster shows you that. And without it they would yield too much to their instincts. You see we yield enough, as it is. I do not mean Maria, of course. She yielded to just the right extent.”
Sir Roderick took one of his wife’s hands from her face, and held it in his. His face was dark and set, and might have belied his action, if she had seen it. But he knew that she did not see.
“Aunt Juliet is the heroine of the story,” said Oliver. “If it were written, it would bear her name. She is the only person who has lost anything. But I gather she has one earring left. Who would have thought one pair would go so far? No wonder Spode thought we had a collection. You would think the pair bred.”
“The earrings are the chief sufferers,” said Lesbia, speaking for the first time. “They have lost the name of being unique, when they have every right to it.”
“It is a trivial sort of a tale,” said Mr. Firebrace.
“What a shallow word!” said his grandson. “When the facts are trivial, and it is itself rooted in the depths. It is the sort of thing that is a test, and you have failed.”
“Of course we ought to pay the debt to Juliet,” said Maria. “But she would not consent.”
“I think we may leave Juliet in her place,” said Sir Roderick. “It carries its reward.”
“Father, I never thought to hear you say a mean thing.”
“But we seem to get things out of the position,” said Maria.
“And so we do,” said her stepson. “Everything has its bright side. Why should this be an exception, though I should almost have thought it might be? Father has the farm. You have the honour of giving it to him, and many other kinds of honour. Aunt Juliet has her own kind. Spode has an earring for his mother. I have had interest and excitement; it is dreadful, but I have had them; and Grandpa has too. The children will have understanding. I do not know what Aunt Lesbia has had.”
“I have had a shock, Oliver,” said Lesbia, with quiet distinctness. “And I do not think I am paying any less tribute to Maria than the rest of you, when I say that.”
“I think you are,” said Oliver.
“So, Miss Petticoat, you have been in the room all the time?” said Sir Roderick.
“Well, Sir Roderick, I did not know what to do. I was following the children upstairs, when Mrs. Cassidy arrived; and I paused to say the conventional things, and found myself involved in the group before I knew. I could not escape without attracting attention, and it seemed better to avoid that. No one seemed to notice me, and I hoped I was such a familiar figure, that I should not be noticed any more than the furniture—”
There was silence, as it was realised that this had largely been the case.
“Oh, come, Miss Petticoat, you are more to us than that,” said Sir Roderick. “And as regards discretion, we can rely on you as much — you will not betray us any more than … than as you say.”
“Need you ask, Sir Roderick? Am I a stranger to you?”
“Of course she is not,” murmured Juliet. “She has told him what she is.”
“And he seemed to follow her,” said Oliver.
“Do you feel you can remain with me, Miss Petticott?” said Maria.
“Do not hurt me, Lady Shelley. What do I know of your mutual lives, or of your claims upon each other?”
“That is a wise word,” said Mr. Firebrace. “After all I have taken here, anything that is mine is theirs.”
“He gave what was his to Spode,” murmured Oliver. “But it is nice to give it twice, so ungrudging. How the best is being brought out of everyone! Generally it only comes out of one person, as it did out of Maria.”
“Miss Petticott knows better,” said Maria. “And I am glad she does. If she did not, I could not leave the children in her hands.”
“Poor Miss Petticott! A middle course is so unrewarding. Or anyhow so unrewarded.”
“I do not ask reward, Mr. Shelley.”
“But you have it, Miss Petticoat,” said Sir Roderick, in a rather loud tone. “In our trust and affection and the other things worth having.”
“Father, do think what you are saying,” said Oliver. “We shall not know where to look.”
“I wish Lucius was here,” said Juliet. “We could depend so upon his silence.”
“It would be no good to us,” said her nephew. “Silence never does what has to be done. It would not show that we think nothing of the matter. It is not true that it is golden.”
Sir Roderick looked at his son with the expression that was almost of gratitude. He had not wished for his silence.
“There is almost too much of this generosity,” said Maria, with a break in her voice. “It would mean more, if there were less. All this care to avoid looking at the truth only means it cannot be faced.”
“But it can be,” said her stepson. “It has to be, to be grasped at all. I have never met a matter that called for closer attention.”
“There, there, my pretty, we have been clumsy, have we?” said Sir Roderick.
“You may have, Father. It is a thing I could not be. It is a quality that Maria likes, and I do see her point of view.”
“She does not want a too tactful and easy smoothing over of things. She is too honest to want anything but honesty in other people.”
“Honest!” said Maria.
“We never get honesty by itself,” said Juliet. “It is inseparable from other things, and the last ones to be coupled with it. Do not insist upon it, Maria. It would show us in such a bad light, and we have been so careful to present ourselves in a good one.”
“Yes, care has been taken,” said Lesbia.
“By you as well, Aunt Lesbia.”
“No, I do not think so, Oliver. I think I have appeared in an unconsidered one.”
“I am not going to pose as an authority upon honesty,” said Maria.
“Or to pose at all, my pretty. It is not in you. I know how you have wanted to make a clean breast of it all.”
“Have you really, Maria?” said Oliver. “I should so like to know.”
“Of course I have not. I could easily have done it. I meant the truth to remain hidden.”
“Easily have done it! No, no, no,” said Mr. Firebrace.
“Well, most truth does remain so,” said Oliver. “Think what would happen if it did not.”
“I do want to think,” said Juliet. “I have often thought.”
“We know in one case,” said Maria.
“There, there, my dear. Your nerves are all on edge,” said Sir Roderick. “And I do not wonder.”
“Ought you not to wonder, Father? You are losing the thread of things. I am in rather a carping mood. It is because I was accused of clumsiness.”
“It seems to me a mild accusation,” said Maria. “What could I be accused of? I have been accused of clumsiness all my life, and never been the worse.”
“Not by me, my pretty, not by me,” said Sir Roderick.
“Anyone who finds you so in any deep matter must be a poor judge, Lady Shelley,” said Miss Petticott.
“And it is a disgrace to excel in anything on the surface,” said Juliet.
“When people are sound at bottom,” said Mr. Firebrace, “who cares for so much smoothness on the top?”
“Now they have all accused Maria of clumsiness,” said Lesbia to Juliet, hardly moving her lips. “And, as she says, she is none the worse. I wonder if she is better.”
“My children will not know what I have done,” said Maria. “And they had to face my knowing what they had. How the heavier burdens fall on the helpless!”
“People who are not helpless would avoid them,” said Oliver.
“I actually did not think of my own stumble, when we were dealing with theirs. I gave the money to Roderick on that very day. I was as dishonest with myself as I was with other people.”