One morning Duncan’s silence had a new quality. He seemed to be waiting for someone to speak, and at last spoke himself.
‘Does anyone notice a difference in the room?’
‘The portrait of Aunt Ellen is over the sideboard. I saw it when I came in.’
‘Then why did you not speak of it?’
‘I don’t know, Uncle. No one else did,’ said Grant, not acknowledging the shyness attendant on mention of the dead.
‘Did you take it from the landing, Father?’
‘My dear Sibyl, from where should I take it, when it was on the landing that it hung?’
‘It is nice to have it in here,’ said Nance.
‘Nice?’ said her father, contracting his forehead. ‘What an odd word!’
‘Well, what word would you use?’
‘I shall find it a support to have her portrait before my eyes.’
‘That is certainly expanding the phrase.’
‘It is not a joke, Nance.’
‘Of course it is not, Father. But it is not a change of oppressive import either. If it is, why did you make it?’ 100
‘You have not improved since your mother’s death,’ said Duncan, looking with quiet appraisement at his daughter’s face.
‘I believe I have not. The event has been fraught with no improvement.’
‘I am glad you have put the portrait there, Father,’ said Sibyl.
‘Are you, my dear? I am glad one of you is. I hoped you all would be.’
‘We all like to have it there,’ said Grant. ‘But it is not a good likeness, is it?’
Duncan gave his nephew a long look.
‘You do not mean you are unable to supply the deficiencies from your own memory?’
‘It is because I can supply them, that I do not care for the portrait. And if we are to supply the likeness from our memories, what is the good of it?’
‘It would be of no use to tell you,’ said Duncan, returning to his breakfast.
‘Did you take it down, yourself, Father? And put it up?’ said Sibyl.
‘Should I have allowed any hand but mine to touch it?’
‘I thought I saw some plaster on the landing,’ said Nance.
‘In what way is that on the point?’ said Duncan, with strong irritation.
‘It was not a contribution to the subject, certainly.’
‘Nance, this note is most uncongenial. I have tried not to guess what it must mean; I have tried to put it from me. I can put it from me no longer.’
‘It is not much good for families to put things from them.’
‘Families!’ said Duncan, in an aloof tone. ‘We are hardly a family now. We lack our binding force.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘You do not do much to help me through the beginning of my day.’ 101
‘You are attending to it yourself,’ said Nance. ‘We have done all we can for you, Father.’
‘Yes, you have done it, done it in a way that has showed it was a duty. It is true you have done all you can. You have let me see I am alone.’
‘Mother is not here to console him for her death,’ said Nance to Grant. ‘It will be his last grievance against her. Or I cannot imagine a later one.’
‘If his married happiness goes on increasing, I don’t know what we are to do. The contrast must also increase.’
Duncan signed to Grant to fetch him something from the sideboard, and continued to sign until Sibyl drew her cousin’s attention. When a package was given him, he took out a scroll of parchment, and bent his head over it.
‘I thought this design for the stone, and these characters for the inscription,’ he said, as though his companions’ thoughts would be running on this line. ‘Have you any other suggestion?’
‘Is it for Mother?’ said Nance.
Duncan turned his head towards her, and did not speak.
‘It is beautiful, Father,’ said Sibyl.
‘Of course, there has to be a gravestone?’ said Grant. ‘I thought at the time that there was a place in the family vault.’
‘There was a place,’ said his uncle.
‘But you did not wish it used?’
‘There were not two places.’
‘I do not feel I could bite my tongue out,’ murmured Grant. ‘I should rather like to think of Aunt Ellen in the vault, and Uncle outside.’
‘And why, Grant?’ said Duncan.
102 ‘Oh, I wish I had bitten my tongue out – Because, Uncle – because I should like her to have an especial place.’
‘You would not like her to have the place she would have chosen?’
‘Yes, of course I should, Uncle. Of course you are right – It was silly not to bite my tongue out, so that I should be dumb, and not expected to speak.’
‘It would be better, Grant, to put your tongue to uses you are not ashamed of.’
‘Grant was joking, Father,’ said Nance.
‘Joking?’ said Duncan, his brows taking their slow, upward line. ‘Joking, at this time, when we are discussing – I will not say what; I would choose to keep it apart.’
‘I may as well bite my tongue out,’ said Nance, ‘for all the good it seems to be. I shall soon not dare to use it.’
‘Here is a letter from my invalid sister, your Aunt Maria,’ said Duncan, in an incidental tone. ‘She wishes me to pay her a visit; and it may be my duty; I even fear it is. I must not become so sunk in myself, that I am careless of her need. I have made the excuse of reluctance to leave your mother: I cannot make it now.’
‘Yes, do go to see her, Father. It will do you good,’ said Sibyl.
‘Do me good? Do her good, you mean? There would be little point in the visit, if my good were its object.’ Duncan gave a little laugh. ‘That need not be taken into account.’
There was a pause.
‘I suppose this is one of those silences that speak,’ murmured Grant. ‘I hope it does not really.’
‘Your mother was not easy about your aunt’s isolation. I must try to recall her words. How clearly they come back to me!’ 103
‘She would hardly wish you to go just now, if it goes against the grain.’
‘Would she not, Nance?’ said Duncan, almost gently. ‘I am afraid I cannot tell myself that: I happen to know, you see, what her wishes would be.’
‘It would anyhow be a change, Father.’
‘It would not be that, Sibyl. The past is outside the sphere of change; and my life is in the past. There is one thing of which I can assure myself. It cannot be worse with me.’
‘Is Aunt Maria’s life in the present?’ said Nance. ‘Though she is a widow, and has lost her children? We hear of the differences in families.’
‘She is a widow, Nance, and has lost her children. And I am a widower; and, I sometimes think, have lost my children. It seems meet we should be together.’
‘I believe he inclines to the trip,’ muttered Grant.
‘Yes, Grant, I expect you do believe it,’ said Duncan, whose hearing maintained its inconsistence. ‘Yes, you would believe that.’
‘Would you want me to do anything, while you were away, Uncle?’
‘What you would want to do, yourself,’ said Duncan in his own tone. ‘You know you should get a grip of the workings of the place. It is for your own sake and your own future. You may stop putting it all on to me. Miss Jekyll, will you very kindly give directions about my packing?’
‘You should ask me to do that, Father.’
‘Yes, Nance, I should. Ask yourself why I do not.’
‘You are not going at once, Father?’ said Sibyl.
‘To-morrow,’ said Duncan, in a faintly weary tone. ‘If I put it off, my resolution will fail: I almost feel it failing.’ 104
‘Is Aunt Maria expecting you?’
‘My poor sister!’ said Duncan, almost with a laugh. ‘She has long been expecting me. I reproach myself when I think of it; I hear your mother’s reproaches. We will telegraph, and end her suspense, and incidentally bind me to my project.’
‘He hears Mother’s reproaches!’ murmured Nance. ‘How different Mother is getting!’
‘She is, Nance,’ said Duncan, in almost pleasant tone. ‘With every day I realize more, what were the workings of her mind; and how our two minds bore upon each other.’
‘It would be a shame to disappoint Aunt Maria,’ said Sibyl.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Would it? She is very used to it. I admit I am still dallying with the idea. It may get the better of me.’
‘The silence spoke,’ murmured Grant.
‘I never can make out whether Father’s hearing is below the average or above it,’ said Nance.
‘You have made up your mind for some time,’ said Duncan. ‘It would have to be very much below, to prevent my realizing that.’
‘What time does the train go, if you decide to take it?’ said Cassie.
‘My sister has kept me informed of the trains. The one she always recommends, is at a quarter past eleven.’
‘And you want to catch that?’
‘I do not want to,’ said Duncan, leaning back. ‘But if we assume I am going to, it will dispose of this shilly-shallying, which need not be apparent, as well as real.’
‘Do you want anything done for you, before you go?’ said Nance.
‘If there is anything to be done, see that it is done,’ said her father, going to the door. ‘We don’t want question and answer over what goes without saying.’ 105
‘What goes without saying! Does it really?’ said Grant. ‘I shall hold my breath until it comes to pass.’
‘You may hold it too long,’ said Nance: ‘I can’t think it can happen.’
‘Well, I believe that would kill me, anyhow.’
The next day Duncan appeared submissive to fate, and simply acquiescent in arrangements; but as the morning advanced, there was a change.
‘Grant!’ he called from his bedroom landing, ‘fetch my writing case from my desk; and put in some pens and stamps, and bring it up here! I have been calling until I am hoarse; I thought you were all stone deaf.’
‘It was odd to continue calling,’ said Grant, as he hastened on the quest.
‘Grant! Grant! Don’t you hear me? Can’t you answer me, boy?’
‘I am getting the things, Uncle! I will be up in a minute.’
‘But can’t you answer me? Can’t you open your mouth to reply, when I stand and shout myself hoarse? Are you dumb as well as deaf?’
‘I thought you would know I was getting the case, Uncle.’
‘How was I to know, when I shouted and got no response? How was I to guess at what moment I should pierce your senses? How was I to know you had any senses, when there was no evidence of it?’
Grant ran upstairs and offered the case, Sibyl on his heels with its supplies. Something in the zeal attending these offices, caused Duncan to meet them with deliberation.
‘Pens; stamps; yes. Paper? Do I want paper? Will not your aunt have that, Sibyl? That is’ – he gave his little laugh – ‘if I get there, and need it.’ 106
‘Of course she will, Father. How stupid of me! I will take it back, and look round to see if there is anything else.’
‘There is no reason for hurry: I don’t want the final look round made yet. We may never get to it. Who knows?’ Duncan raised his arms with a yawn and a sigh. ‘So many things come in the way of really getting off, more than the business is worth.’
He broke off, and looked up and down a newspaper from a trunk, smiling to himself at its reminders.
Grant and Sibyl went downstairs.
‘Nance, we betrayed an eagerness to get Uncle off. I can hardly believe in our foolishness.’
‘What about putting some obstacles in his path?’
‘There will be enough in it,’ said Cassie. ‘You had better avoid his path.’
‘There he is, calling again!’ said Sibyl.
‘He has soon begun to miss us.’
‘Has anyone seen my old gloves, that I wear in the grounds? Those that are kept in the drawer in the hall, or should be kept there? I know people are always disturbing that drawer.’
‘They are not there, Father!’ called Sibyl, after a swift search.
‘Of course they are not there!’ said Duncan, coming to the stairs. ‘If they were there, should I ask you if you had seen them? I should simply tell you to fetch them.’ This was accepted as true.
‘I thought you wanted them fetched, Father.’
‘Of course I wanted them fetched,’ said Duncan, moving from foot to foot. ‘If I did not, should I have asked about them? I should not expect them to walk to me, should I? Or to fly to my hand?’
‘If they don’t fly to his hand, I don’t know what we are to do,’ said Cassie. 107
‘Why, you have them in your hand, Father, waving them about!’ said Sibyl, with an easy laugh that laid no stress on the mistake.
Duncan glanced at the gloves, and continued to wave them.
‘Fetch me the scarf from the drawer, that I wear with the gloves,’ he said, giving a quick glance behind him, as though arrested by something.
‘I believe the gloves did fly to his hand,’ said Grant.
‘There he is again!’ said Sibyl, running with the scarf.
Duncan stood still, his hand outstretched, until his daughter had mounted the stairs and put the scarf into it.
‘The fire in my room is smoking again,’ he observed, tossing up the scarf and catching it.
‘We shall never get him off in time,’ said Nance, ‘if the things in one drawer prove such an obstacle. So far he is equipped with one scarf and a pair of gloves, and neither of them suitable for general wear.’
‘We had better resign ourselves to frustration,’ said Grant. ‘The hope has been very sweet.’
Duncan entered the drawing-room, with bag and rug, using these objects to wave from his path Bethia, with some offer of assistance. He put his burdens down, and taking a chair picked up the paper.
‘I should not have left the paper lying idle, when I was your age,’ he said, smiling. ‘You have very little curiosity about the nation’s affairs.’
‘True, when they are swamped by an acute private anxiety,’ said Grant.
‘You don’t think this election business will follow that course –’ 108
‘No, Uncle, I scarcely think it will.’
Duncan continued his perusal with an air of alertness and interest, pausing to comment or quote.
‘Father, it is a quarter to eleven,’ said Sibyl.
‘A quarter to eleven?’ said Duncan, taking out his watch. ‘A shade past the quarter. My watch is absolutely right, exactly to the second. A quarter of a minute past the quarter.’ He smiled at the coincidence of the words, and resumed the journal.
‘You like half an hour between leaving the house and catching the train,’ said Nance. ‘The cob is at the door.’
Duncan glanced out of the window, and back to the page.
‘He stamps and paws, that little brute,’ he observed, his tone preoccupied. ‘It will do him good to learn patience.’
‘Too hard a lesson for a dumb beast,’ muttered Grant.
‘Horses are said to know the moods of human beings,’ said Nance. ‘I hope we shall not render this one unfit to take Father to the train.’
‘Father, William is looking through the window,’ said Sibyl. ‘He cannot get down because of the horse.’
Duncan lifted his eyes, and catching the signs of the groom, rose from his seat.
‘My umbrella, my rug!’ he said in a quick, curt tone, turning rapidly about. ‘I suppose you can hand me the things before your eyes. Grant, you know by which end to hand an umbrella! You do not comfortably take the handle yourself, and offer the point! Nance, here is a list of the things I want remembered. It is clearly written. You can read it, I suppose?’
‘Certainly, in that case, Father.’
‘My purse!’ said Duncan, pausing with a jerk. ‘Will somebody give me my purse? Can I do without it? Shall I have to pay for 109 my ticket, for my luncheon, for my porter? Sibyl, will you fetch it? You seem the least phlegmatic of the three.’
Sibyl made a dart in a vague direction, and glanced back at her father.
‘I can’t see it, Father; I shall find it in a second; I shall be sure to sight it?’
Duncan stood still, his eyes on her movements, and suddenly let his possessions fall, and sat down on the hall bench.
‘Well, bring the paper then,’ he called to his daughter, as though making provision for a period.
‘Did you put the purse in your pocket, Father?’
Duncan put his hand to his waistcoat, and withdrew it, picked up his belongings, and walked to the door, in one smooth, unglancing movement.
Sibyl sprang back; Nance gathered up the rug; Grant ran out to the door of the trap.
‘Good-bye, Father! Good-bye, Uncle! Good-bye, Father!’
‘Good-bye, Miss Jekyll,’ said Duncan, turning to Cassie with deliberate courtesy. ‘I fear some of my responsibilities will devolve on you. And good-bye, Nance; good-bye, Sibyl. Grant, don’t block the way out of the house. I may miss the train yet; though if I do, I shall be back in ample time for luncheon. Let me hear from one of you twice a week, and go to church on Sunday mornings. In the evenings do as you please.’
‘Good-bye, Father. Good-bye, Uncle. Good-bye, Father. Take care of yourself. You will let us hear when you arrive?’
‘If I stay more than a day or two,’ said Duncan, pausing with his foot on the step of the trap. ‘If I do not, one letter will serve a double purpose. Have you any messages for your aunt? I shall be able to deliver them anyhow.’ 110
‘The messages usual between people who do not meet,’ said Nance, ‘and would not know each other, if they did.’
‘So no message. Good-bye, all of you,’ said Duncan, mounting the steps.
Sibyl waved in the porch, and her father looked back and raised his hat.
‘How you have the spirit to wave, when the train may yet be missed!’ said Grant.
‘If I had not had the spirit for a good deal, the train would not have been aimed at at all.’
‘The train will not be missed,’ said Cassie.
‘Nance, we are to go to church on Sunday mornings,’ said Grant. ‘Does that mean he will be away for weeks?’
‘What should I be, if I did not prick up my ears at that? Not Father’s daughter.’
‘The trap is coming back!’ said Sibyl.
‘The trap? With Uncle in it?’
‘Of course with him in it. They could not have got to the station and back.’
‘He might have been thrown out and killed. I see that his death would be the only thing.’
‘The trap might have headed the sad procession,’ said Nance.
‘It could hardly be sadder,’ said her cousin.
The trap came up the drive, with Duncan leaning forward over the horse.
‘Hold back, Williams! Do you want to destroy the beast? A horse for the sake of a train! What a muddle of values! Now pull up gently, and quiet him. Grant, come to his head, and see if harm is done. Williams, you may keep your seat, in case we want to start again.’ 111
‘None at all, Uncle. He is hardly in a heat. He is fresh, and wants to get along.’
‘No harm done!’ said Nance.
Duncan sat waiting to be asked to explain his return, and as no one put the inquiry, took out his purse and went through his change, and then leaned back and crossed his legs.
Bethia hurried out with his dressing bag, and he made a quick movement towards it, but checked himself and signed to his nephew.
‘That bag is rather heavy for a woman,’ he said in a tone almost of interest, his eyes on the bag. ‘You should keep your wits about you. Well, good-bye again, if only for the moment. It will be a matter of minutes or weeks, I suppose; and it does not much matter which it is.’