“Well, Mater; well, children,” said Henrietta Ponsonby, as she entered the house with her brother and cast her quick glance round the hall. “Well, how have you been without us? How have you got through the last weeks? We can’t help wanting a holiday sometimes, can we? Shut the door, someone! Cannot anyone shut a door? It does not seem an impossible thing, with all these able-bodied people about.” The speaker stood aside, as if to shut the door herself would have been unfitting. “Well, are you glad to have us back again? Or would you like us to leave you for good?”
“No, Aunt Hetta,” said Muriel.
“You would not like it? Well then, perhaps we won’t do it this time. Take those books from your father, Chilton. Don’t stand about empty-handed, with older people laden. I can see you want me back: I expect you feel it. Girls, have you spoken to your father? Are you not glad to see him? You have been thinking of his coming, I suppose? Or have you no feelings on the occasion? I do not believe in feelings that are not expressed. They say that still waters run deep, but in my experience they do not run at all.” Hetta’s tone had significance beyond the occasion and took on the piercing note of Sabine’s. “You hardly seem the sort of daughters people would expect. But you need not hang on his arm, France. That won’t make him any less tired, will it? The weight of a grown young woman is not an advantage. Or do you think it is? Now, John, you have had your word with them. You can come away until dinner. It will be on the table in an hour, and you will have them all round you again.”
Hetta Ponsonby was a pale, fair, upright woman of forty eight, who was vital without being physically vigorous, and stately without being tall. She had the family flattish features and pale grey eyes in so much finer a form, that she seemed as good-looking as Victor in another way. Her brother was a tall, top-heavy-looking man, a few years older, with a dark, ruddy face, dark, clear eyes, a wide, nervous nose and a deep, square head which linked him with his elder children. He resembled on the whole his father, whose type he had transmitted to his younger son, without great likeness to himself. There was a touch of the conscious artist in his clothes and his pointed beard, the result of his break with tradition and service to the pen. His mother surveyed him with controlled, maternal eyes, as if she would have seen him differently, if he had not been her son. His face was old for his years, and had a look of exhaustion beneath its colour and constant change.
“Well, here are my reasons for life and work,” he said, with the rather laboured liveliness which had become his manner. “I would not have only my public to serve. They are all equally my children, those and these.”
“Too large a family,” said Clare. “The attention cannot go round.”
“Do not begin to whisper at the moment we arrive,” said her aunt. “Look about to see if there is anything you can do. Chilton, there are your father’s books. I have spoken before.”
“I made a sign to Victor, Aunt Hetta.”
“Well, my fellow men, how is the world with you?” said John. “Is it an easier place than for your father?”
“It is at the moment, I fear,” said Sabine. “But I have a tutor in my mind. In the meantime they are working by themselves.”
“In the meantime!” said Hetta. “We must put an end to that. We can guess what will be the result.”
Hetta Ponsonby had cast in her lot with her brother’s on the death of his wife, and for eleven years he had lived under her control, finding his dependence and gratitude becoming constraint and doubt. It took all his effort to maintain his name and do his part for his family, and she shared his aims and steered the course for them both. Sabine regarded her daughter with a proud, possessive eye, admiring her powers, seeing her above any ordinary mate, submitting or no to her absolute direction, according to her own mood. Hetta was the only person who did not fear Sabine, and Sabine alone was normally at ease with her daughter; but they were both the only people in much of what they did.
The grandchildren saw their aunt with feelings which had grown with themselves, and which they hardly defined. She was an influence at once dubious and powerful, at once natural and sinister, an authority at once lower and higher than Sabine.
“Well, is it all as usual?” said Hetta. “Nothing for me to be told? It is pleasant to see these fresh country faces. I wonder if you all feel you are fortunate?”
“I would as soon have a London face,” said Clare. “And my face has not been described as fresh to-day. Grandma took another view of it.”
“Now, Clare, don’t begin to be foolish,” said Sabine.
“What is it, Mater?” said Hetta, who had almost established a rule that nothing was to escape her.
“Clare says she is tired of the country. I don’t know why her feelings towards it matter more than other people’s.”
“Well, she may as well be tired of life. There is nowhere but here for her to live, and no one but her father to support her.”
“It comes to being tired of life,” said her niece.
“We could all put an end to our lives, if we wanted,” said Hetta, who had entangled her wraps, and who vented all irritations. “The fact that we do not do it shows we do not want to. We prefer to be kept in luxury at other people’s expense. Chilton, give me a hand with this cloak: don’t stand there looking at someone struggling single-handed with something too much for her, and not offer to help. And don’t make any silly joke about Victor; give me a hand yourself.”
“It does want a delicate touch,” said Chilton, doing as she said.
“The girls do not cost us much,” said Sabine. “It would not be right that they should, but it is a fact that they don’t.”
“Don’t take me up in that absurd way, Mater,” said Hetta, almost with violence. “You knew quite well what I meant; you are not an idiot. Muriel, are you always yawning? You were yawning when I left three weeks ago, and you are yawning still! You must try and conquer the habit; it is ugly and self-indulgent. I don’t know what is the good of Miss Bunyan, if she teaches you nothing but that.”
“It is because of what Miss Bunyan teaches her, that the poor young girl is exhausted,” said Victor.
“I don’t know why Clare and France cannot teach her. I presume they remember what they were taught themselves.”
“Why do you presume that? People never do remember it,” said Clare.
“And if they do not, what was the good of it? It is absurd to have two grown women in the house and keep a governess. There is no better cure for being tired of life than regular occupation. Seriously, Mater, can’t we get rid of Miss Bunyan, and kill two birds with one stone? I don’t know what I should do, if I mooned about all day. I should have no self-respect; I could not hold up my head.”
“We do not need the girls’ self-respect to grow beyond a point,” said Sabine in a grim tone, going into the drawing-room. “Come to the fire, my dears. You find us quiet as usual.”
“We are naturally quiet, when anything else would add to expense, and we are only just able to keep things going.”
“Hetta, pray make some contribution to the talk, that is not couched in this vein,” said her brother. “Let the girls see some other aspect of you. Clare will be inclined to your tone, as it is.”
“I should be only too glad for her to copy me in any way. It would be an advance on what she is. I should be thankful to see the change.”
“It would not make her you,” said Sabine.
“Let her go further in my line and stop doing nothing. Shall we consider the question of the governess? I have not been answered there.”
“I don’t care for the girls to do that work,” said John, lifting his eyes from the fire. “Why should I work myself? What would be my reason?”
“France has her writing,” said Sabine, “and Clare is often with me. You know I do not care to sit alone. So you have been answered, Hetta, as it was proper you should be. Your suggestion is a good one, and you had every right to make it, but it is not practicable. Now dinner is at half past seven and you have not too much time. The girls are already dressed.”
“It would save the girls’ dresses if they did not put them on so soon,” said Hetta to her brother with Sabine’s grimness, as they went upstairs. “But it would be taken ill if I suggested it, so I hold my peace. There is something cropping up every moment to be put right, but it gives offence if it is done, so there is an end of it. I should like to save your money, but it just has to be spent.”
John walked at her side in silence.
The young people came into the drawing-room when it was free, looking round the door to assure themselves of this condition.
“It is a good thing Miss Bunyan does not know that someone grudges her support, even more than Grandma,” said France.
“One gets used to having one’s support grudged,” said Clare. “It does not take away the support.”
“It seems it may take away Miss Bunyan’s.”
“Even to Miss Bunyan life may be sweet,” said Victor.
“I wonder who thought of its being sweet,” said Clare.
“It is sweet to Miss Bunyan,” said Chilton. “Bread is the staff of it.”
“If Muriel laughs so loud, she will be heard,” said France. “It is Father’s life that is threatened. Aunt Hetta is planning his end much more surely than Miss Bunyan’s.”
“Grandma is the only one of us in a strong position,” said Chilton. “She cannot be sent into her grave out of due time.”
“It would be good to have power,” said his brother.
“No, we should use it,” said France. “No one can stand it. None of us could: think of the stock we come of.”
“I don’t want to come to dinner,” said Muriel. “I would rather be with Miss Bunyan.”
“So would we all,” said France. “And it is Aunt Hetta’s excuse, that she would be surprised if she knew.”
“And her fault that we do not dare to tell her,” said Clare.
“Yes, so perhaps there is no excuse. We would rather think there is none.”
“How a governess must know life!” said Chilton.
“Not as much as a daughter. Life is less deep when you are not related.”
“Does Father like Aunt Hetta?” said Muriel.
“He used to,” said Clare. “After Mother died, he could not let her out of his sight. But his feeling is changing. I can see it day by day.”
“Grandma likes her too, doesn’t she?”
“You are not struck by a third phenomenon?” said France.
“Why does not Aunt Hetta have a husband?”
“Someone else would have to like her,” said Clare, breaking off at the sound of the door.
“Because she does not want one,” said Hetta in a light and lively manner, coming in with the almost open intention of effacing her first impression. “And a nice thing it would be for all of you, if she did, and decided to leave you to your own devices. How would you like all your life to be like the last three weeks? Well, you make me look an old woman, you two young ones, but youth is not everything, is it? Or do you all think it is?”
“It must seem a small thing at the moment,” said Victor.
“When there is only one thing to be said, Victor can say it,” said Chilton.
“So Muriel is to sit up to dinner? You others never did at her age.”
“Victor and she are both sitting up, Aunt Hetta.”
“Grandma wanted Father to see her,” said Clare.
“She has already been in his full view.”
“A sight that is not easily forgotten,” said Victor, turning Muriel to the light and causing her considerable amusement.
“I do not want her to feel her father is a stranger,” said Sabine, coming in with her son. “She will be no trouble. She is a very easy-tempered child.”
“She has not much to make her anything else,” said Hetta. “When everything is done for her, it is the least she can do to be pleasant.”
“It is the most she can do as well. Everything has to be done for children, of course.”
“Well, Clare,” said Hetta, as they came to the table, “so you have managed to while away the week?”
“I have not done so. It has dragged away.”
“You have found nothing to do from morning till night?”
“Those are the seasons which embrace my waking life.”
“Can you not find some occupation in the house?”
“The house is my province,” said Sabine.
“You could give Clare your directions.”
“I have given them. They are, that she is to leave it to me. It cannot do with too many mistresses.”
“She need not be its mistress because she gives her help.”
“She would be,” said Sabine with a grim smile. “She is more your niece than her sisters.”
“I do not see the likeness.”
“Neither do I,” said the niece.
“I have seen you both grow up, and I see it,” said Sabine.
“How about your week, France?” said Hetta.
“Have you earned the right to enquire into our affairs?” said Clare.
“Earned the right? Do you hear that?” said Hetta in a shrill tone to her brother. “Earned the right! I have the right; the right is naturally mine! Earned the right! Who would trouble to earn it, or to use it, if it were not necessary? Well, what pitiful thoughts they have in their minds! What do you say to it, Mater? Have you brought them up for this?”
“Clare does not show the best of herself, and does not go the way to get it from other people. She is not getting it from you, or deserving to get it.”
“How about your week, France?” said Hetta, repeating her former words.
France glanced at her father’s face.
“I am following in Father’s steps and writing a novel.”
“Well, that is a rather ambitious plan. Wouldn’t it be better to choose something more likely to come off?”
“Less ambitious things need training,” said Sabine. “We will leave her her own occupation, as it costs us nothing.”
“It does not save us anything either. But I am glad she has some occupation, and is not too sunk in black sulks to mention it. We will leave her to waste her time in her own way.”
“There is no alternative,” said Sabine.
“What of the boys? Now I am going to ask these questions, so you need not gather yourselves up and look offensive. It is clearly my duty to ask them; I see that more and more. The fact that you are so reluctant to answer them, tells its tale. Now what are you both reading? Your future begins to loom large. You would not want to be supported like the girls, would you?”
“I am sure they would not,” said Clare.
“What about the other side of our lives,” said Victor. “Does Aunt Hetta desire a complete view? Would she like an account of our relaxations?”
“Spare time can look after itself in the country.”
“That is a contradiction in terms,” said Clare.
“Does Miss Bunyan not sleep in the house?” said John.
“She is having an evening to herself,” said his mother. “I thought we would be a family party.”
“Your purpose is fulfilled,” said Clare.
“Do you want to be sent out of the room like a child, girl?” said Sabine with her sudden hiss.
“I have no feeling on the matter, Grandma.”
“Would you like me to have a word with Miss Bunyan, John?” said Hetta. “And judge if she is a suitable person for Muriel?”
“I have judged that she is suitable,” said Sabine, “or she would not be here.”
“You don’t make things easy for me, Mater.”
Sabine did not reply.
“You look tired, Father,” said France.
“Was your holiday free from worries?” said Chilton. “Victor was not at all on your mind?”
“There are a lot of you to keep going,” said Hetta. “He could not take a full holiday, as you seem to be doing.”
John turned to talk to his daughters, and his sister watched for a minute and then interposed.
“That is not the way to get rested, John, if you are so tired; and not the way for France to help you, if she is so concerned. Leave them alone, at any rate until to-morrow. They will drain every ounce of energy out of you. I know they have drained it out of me. I am as tired as you can be.”
“It is a mercy Miss Bunyan was not at dinner,” said Clare, under cover of the move to the drawing-room. “Grandma was very wise.”
“It is more than you were, girl,” said Sabine, looking back.
“I cannot pretend to like Aunt Hetta. She gives too little reason.”
“Why do you not pretend to?” said France. “It would be better for Father. Perhaps you do not pretend to like him?”
“We have so little to do with him. He seems to have been pushed out of our lives.”
“You need not push him further out.”
“I believe it would be better for him. He has to suffer for any share in them.”
“Let us keep him apart from Aunt Hetta to-night.”
“We can try to entice her away from him.”
“You may try to be enticing to your aunt, my dear,” said Sabine. “I think it is time.”
“You do seem to need some practice, Clare,” said France. “I see it is an art which requires it.”
The evening passed without further strain. Hetta made an effort to retrieve her position, and talked with the conscious fluency and liveliness which she felt to be charm, prevented as she was by her life from turning her eyes on herself. The brothers exchanged their banter, or rather Chilton bantered Victor without response, and Sabine and her son withdrew their influence by falling asleep.
The next morning, which was Sunday, Sabine looked pale and withdrawn. The day, as she had lived it, had been too much. While her son read prayers, she sat with her hand over her eyes, making no sound or sign of response. When Miss Bunyan entered with a touch of bustling and breathlessness, she seemed to sense it with closed eyes and met it with a frown. She watched the family take their seats for breakfast, with an air of holding herself in readiness for cause of irritation, and raised her hand to repudiate morning greetings, with a fluttering movement which suggested a fear that she would not be in time.
“We will take this meal in silence,” murmured Victor.
“We will, as far as you are concerned, boy.”
“We shall miss his innocent, mindless chatter,” said Chilton.
“And as far as you are concerned, Chilton.”
“We did not see you last night, Miss Bunyan,” said John. “You were tired and had gone to bed.”
“Yes, Mr. Ponsonby, I remember I was very tired. We had had a long day, Muriel and I.” Miss Bunyan stumbled as she recalled that her pupil’s retirement had not been hastened, and Muriel marked the hesitation in her usual way.
“You may follow the others’ example, Muriel.”
“It will not involve much change,” said Clare.
“So may you, Clare.”
“Miss Bunyan, you and I will now embark upon our dialogue,” said France.
“You will take part in the general conversation or be still.”
“I don’t see how we are to manage general conversation.”
“Then you have the alternative.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Ponsonby,” said Miss Bunyan, as if she had been waiting to achieve her greeting.
“Good morning,” said Sabine, just moving her lips.
“Good morning, Miss Ponsonby.”
“Good morning,” said Hetta, with a hint of a smile.
“Well, gapy-face!” said Sabine.
“Miss Bunyan, Muriel’s manners!” said Hetta. “We must see what can be done. We ought to begin to see some result of all her advantages.”
Miss Bunyan recognised the allusion to herself, but hardly knew how far to be flattered by it. Sabine gave Hetta a repressive glance, aware of Miss Bunyan’s view, that criticism should come from herself, and caused her daughter to continue.
“We were talking about her education last night, and I was asking her sisters if they were prepared to give any help. But they did not seem to care for the idea. And it may not be wise to have that sort of thing within a family.”
There was a pause.
“But I think it is a very interesting question, Miss Ponsonby,” said Miss Bunyan, in a fluent, social tone, which somehow held a new, equal note. “I have often thought upon the subject. It is interesting to an educationist. I must tell my uncle your view, as it coincides with his own. He has often said I ought to live with him, and undertake his household, and put an end to such problems in his case. I do not know, of course”—She gave a little laugh—“how much his desire to have me is a determining factor; but I think there is an element of sincerity in his view or—I am sure you will agree with me here—he would not voice it; and there may be an element of truth. May I have some more coffee, Mrs. Ponsonby? And just a thought weaker, if it is not fussy? You are rather generous with the coffee-pot. Thank you so much.”
Sabine was more generous with either pot than she would have been.
“Who is going to church to-day?” she said, showing that her thoughts were not with her eyes, on Miss Bunyan’s cup.
“I am staying at home,” said Hetta. “I feel I want a little time alone.”
“So do I, Miss Ponsonby,” said Miss Bunyan, as if struck by this similarity.
“I cannot go,” said Sabine, speaking more faintly. “I should like to, but I cannot.”
“I should like to go too,” said Chilton, “but I cannot.”
“I do not need to go to church to worship,” said Sabine, using a vaguely reproachful tone. “We can do whatever is worship for us, wherever we may be.”
“I think I will go,” said Clare. “It is better than doing nothing at home, and nothing else is worship for me.”
“I don’t want anything better than the first,” said Miss Bunyan, lightly.
“Neither do I,” said Chilton. “But perhaps Victor should go. Something might come home to him.”
“Clare and Muriel can go,” said Sabine. “The boys and Miss Bunyan may do as they please. France can go for a walk with her father.”
“France can go to church with the others,” said Hetta. “There is no reason to make an exception.”
“I have said what is to be done.”
As the family stood about the table, Miss Bunyan suddenly rose and approached Sabine, with her eyes set and prominent.
“May I speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Ponsonby?”
“Yes, certainly,” said Sabine, her own eyes becoming bright for a moment and then going down.
“I should have said, might I speak to you privately.”
“There can hardly be anything private in what you have to say.”
“This is both private and important, Mrs. Ponsonby.”
“I think it surely is not. It is only that you wish to leave, isn’t it?”
Miss Bunyan looked at Sabine and did not speak.
“That is not important. And it can hardly be private. People will have to know that you have left. They may notice it.”
Miss Bunyan did not dispute this possibility, but held to her purpose.
“I thought you might wish to know—I thought I might tell you my reasons. It is usual to do so.”
“No,” said Sabine, possibly feeling that these might as well be private. “They are not my concern; they are your own.”
“That is not quite so, Mrs. Ponsonby. They are really yours as well, if you will excuse me. You will be having another governess.”
Sabine was silent upon her affairs.
“Unless Muriel’s sisters are really going to teach her.”
Sabine was silent.
“You will wish to know—it would be wise, well for you to know—you might find it convenient—”
“No, I should not. My manner of dealing with one person does not bear upon my dealing with another. Each person determines her own treatment; it is indicated by the individual.”
Miss Bunyan stared in front of her, as the extent of her responsibility was brought home.
“What is the good of Miss Bunyan’s leaving, if she must meet the same treatment everywhere?” murmured Clare.
“Then I will leave at the end of the term, Mrs. Ponsonby.”
“Yes, that will be the usual time.”
“I shall be sorry to leave Muriel,” said Miss Bunyan, indicating the line of her feeling to a certain extent.
Sabine did not speak.
“I shall, of course, take as much pains with her, as if I were going to stay.”
“Of course, as you say. It should really go without saying.”
Miss Bunyan was silent, as silence seemed to be indicated.
“I shall not be needing a testimonial, as I shall be living with my family.”
“Then that is all we need say,” said Sabine, as if further words would have been suggested in the other case.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ponsonby,” said Miss Bunyan, turning and walking to the door with a gait needlessly stiffened by her sense of watching eyes, as all were averted but Muriel’s.
“She wanted to make a scene,” said Sabine.
“And does not know how well she succeeded,” said France.
“It does seem that the turn in her fortunes has been passed over rather easily,” said John.
“I am glad she did not ask a testimonial, Grandma,” said France, “as she would not give you one.”
“What she wanted to give Grandma,” said Clare, “is better passed over, as Grandma passed over it.”
Sabine gave the genuine laugh, which had a note of Muriel’s.
“Muriel is the only one who has had a testimonial,” said Chilton, “so unjust are the rewards in this world. I half expected Miss Bunyan to speak in Victor’s favour.”
“Are you sorry she is going, Muriel?”
“I don’t mind, Aunt Hetta.”
“Here is a chance to further your own suggestion, Aunt Hetta,” said Victor. “We honour your forbearance.”
“I should be more worthy of honour, if I did further it. I cannot face the struggle.”
“The woman has several homes,” said John in a dubious manner. “There is no need to be in trouble over her.”
“Certainly not, in that case,” muttered Clare. “It would be absurd in us. But I wish one of the homes was not here.”
“Would you like to teach your little sister, Clare?”
“I should not mind, if I had the education, Grandma.”
“Would you, France?” said Hetta, looking at her niece.
“No, not at all: it would try my patience too much.”
“More than you tried people’s patience when you were a child?”
“I daresay not, but I remember that was too much.”
Miss Bunyan opened the door, wearing her coat and hat.
“You do not mind my going to church, Mrs. Ponsonby?”
“No, not at all. You decided not to go, yourself.”
“I feel I should like to go,” said Miss Bunyan, pausing after these words and then closing the door.
“I think Miss Bunyan wants a little comfort,” said France.
“For not being allowed to speak her mind to Grandma,” said Victor. “It must be a disappointment. I can’t think how she can bear it.”
“She evidently cannot in her own strength.”
“How came she to conceive the project?” said Chilton. “There must be a lion heart in that little body.”
“That will do, all of you,” said Sabine. “Clare and Muriel, you may start for church. It is a most undignified thing to be late. Go and sit with Miss Bunyan, as if nothing had happened. We don’t want to advertise our every little household disturbance.”
“Certainly we do not,” said Clare. “I can’t remember one which we should want to advertise. But Miss Bunyan may want to advertise this one. She seems somehow to be another woman.”
“Boys, go out into the air,” said Sabine. “France, get ready for your walk with your father. John, you need not stand there looking upset. Nothing has happened. Go out with the girl and think of other things. Hetta, my dear, come and sit with your mother. I shall forget that you are my daughter.”
“Well, France, well!” said John with his conscious lightness. “So things go smoothly with you all? The ruffles are on the surface? It is the surface that I must see.”
“It is a pity that is the case. That is where they show.”
“And that proves they do not go deeper? The surface is their place?”
“I don’t wonder Grandma forgets Aunt Hetta is her daughter. It seems such a subordinate position for her.”
“Ah, your aunt is one by herself, France. We don’t meet others like her. I hope her life is the right one; I hope she is doing well by herself as well as by her family.”
“It is difficult to do much for both. I always wonder that living for others stands in such good repute.”
“There is no greater pathos than that of the person, who gives her life for too little, and feels it.”
“A good definition of living for others.”
“After all, what is the difference between giving service and taking it?” said John, with his swift change of mood.
“Not much in Aunt Hetta’s case. So perhaps it is well after all.”
“And so there is nothing amiss? There is nothing below the surface? You would not keep things from your father?”
“Do you keep things from us, Father? Is the family rushing to ruin as quickly as Aunt Hetta would suggest?”
“Well, I have not a steady profession,” said John in a sharper tone. “The human brain is not a machine. I worked hard as a young man, and look to work hard as an old one; and when you burn a candle at both ends, you can’t do so much in the middle. You must be content with the lean years while they last.”
He walked on, striking the hedges with his cane, and moving his lips as if he would have talked to himself, if he had been alone. France led the talk away, but could not bring it to herself.
They returned to the house to find the family at luncheon. Sabine had never relinquished the head of the board to her son. It was her natural place, as the opposite one was her daughter’s. John sat at the side by his sister.
Sabine raised her hand to ward off the attack on her nerves, made by the general entrance. Miss Bunyan came to her seat with a briskness and ease which were somehow unfamiliar, though these were qualities she cultivated. Sabine gave her a glance, and under it she drew forth her napkin, laid it on her lap and gazed at nothing.
“Are you too warm, Miss Bunyan?” said John, observing her colour. “Would you like a seat away from the fire?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Ponsonby. I always make for the fire. I am a most catlike person. Wherever I am, I seem to make my own a place near to it.”
Sabine looked up in almost open recognition of the change, and Miss Bunyan seemed impelled to maintain it.
“Are you with me, Mrs. Ponsonby, in preferring a place in the full heat?”
“I like to be warm enough: I am not with anyone in particular over it.”
“He that is not with me is against me,” murmured France.
“What is that, France?”
“Nothing, Grandma.”
“Tell me what you said.”
“I said, ‘He that is not with me is against me.’”
“Oh, how did you enjoy the sermon?” said Sabine, allowing herself to be diverted. “Was it a suitable sermon, for Muriel?”
“Yes, more or less,” said Clare.
“Was it about foolish virgins then?” said Chilton.
“It was about hiding talents in the earth.”
“I wish Victor had gone. He could have taken a lesson from the man with one talent.”
“Did you like it, Clare?” said Hetta.
“No, it was stilted and lifeless. I think it came out of a book.”
“Did you, Miss Bunyan?”
“Well, yes, Miss Ponsonby, I was sufficiently held. For me it served its purpose. I was not so struck by its bookishness. That is really a new idea to me. Were you struck by it, Muriel?”
“No.”
“Were the usual people there?” said Sabine.
“I do not know,” said Clare. “I did not look.”
“You must have seen some of them.”
“I tried not to, for fear I should have to talk to them.”
“Why should you object to that?”
“Because it is time for us to ask them here.”
“I could not bear it,” said Sabine, putting her hand to her head. “I am past all that: I have indeed done my share.”
“I could hardly tell them you could not bear it.”
“No, they would have been quite startled,” said Miss Bunyan, causing Sabine to frown.
“Whom do you want to ask?” said John to his daughter.
“Everyone whom we call by the name of friend, or once called by it.”
“Are the friends proving fickle?” said Miss Bunyan.
“It is we who are proving that.”
“There are too many,” said Sabine. “I am not equal to a crowd of people in the house.”
“It sounds as if it would be quite a reception,” said Miss Bunyan. “It would be quite a change.”
“Miss Bunyan,” said Sabine, rounding on her with her hiss, “we will not have any difference, if you please. We will go on in just the same way while you are here.”
“I do not know what you mean, Mrs. Ponsonby.”
“Oh, yes, you do, though I daresay you dislike to hear it said. You cannot suddenly change in a moment without knowing. You are not any more one of us, because you are leaving; rather less.”
“Miss Bunyan has decided not to be one of us at all,” said John.
“I am sorry if my going inconveniences you, Mrs. Ponsonby.”
“I am sorry it inconveniences all of us,” murmured Clare.
“It does not, as you know, but your staying will, if you are going to be like this. It is not a suitable thing.”
“I am quite at a loss as to your meaning, Mrs. Ponsonby.”
“Muriel, don’t sit there laughing at nothing. You need not listen to grown up people’s talk,” said Hetta, hardly assigning her niece’s amusement to nothing.
“There is no other talk for her to listen to,” said Clare.
“I could not resist listening to it myself,” said France. “I suppose it to be quite unique.”
“Don’t whisper; don’t whisper,” said Hetta.
“Will you have some more chicken, Miss Bunyan?” said Sabine, with her eyes on carving the bird, and an assumption that she was retrieving her position. She had not reckoned with the change in Miss Bunyan, though she had discussed it.
“No, Mrs. Ponsonby, thank you,” said the latter, rising to her feet. “I will not have any more; I will eat and drink no more in this house. I shall be leaving this afternoon and going to my uncle at the vicarage. Strictly speaking, I should not go without notice, but as you render my remaining impossible, the question does not arise. I will take the opportunity of wishing everyone goodbye. Goodbye, all”—The note of equality was so pronounced that it touched something further—“goodbye, Muriel; I hope you will do well.”
She stalked to the door, putting her napkin down unfolded, in token of no further use for it. Victor opened the door, and she gave him a short, definite bow and vanished without looking back.
There was silence for a second, and then Sabine gave a sigh of weary indifference, which expressed her feeling, if not all of it.
“Come, come, this is going too far,” said her son. “The woman is in our house and under our protection. Someone must go after her.”
“No one will go,” said his mother, foretelling the truth.
“She will eat and drink no more in this house,” said France. “Miss Bunyan’s oath of farewell! True to herself to the last.”
“And not false to any man,” said Victor. “She met Grandma in open fight.”
“Now you are going to make a heroine of her, I suppose,” said Sabine, “and talk about straightness and pluck and the other admirations of boys. But I beg you will wait until I have left the room.”
“Now Victor must feel very self-conscious and uncomfortable,” said Chilton.
“I hope he is glad to suffer for Miss Bunyan,” said France.
“It is her triumph that she left in the middle of a meal. No calculating waiting until it was over! With Grandma’s hands actually on the chicken, she went.”
“What will she do without luncheon?” said Victor. “I suppose she will pack the biscuits last of all.”
Muriel burst into laughter in anticipation of her own words.
“Or—or finish them,” she said.
“This is a very stale joke,” said Sabine,” and in bad taste, if you were sincere in what you said.”
“We shall never live down letting slip a word in favour of Miss Bunyan,” said France. “But I am not ashamed of taking a stand for the right.”
“Grandma, you have gone too far,” said Clare. “Let it be a lesson to you.”
“Lessons are not for me, my dear.”
“Clearly not, if you have not taken one.”
“What are we to do, Hetta?” said John. “The woman is our responsibility. She is related to our friends. She cannot go like this.”
“What can we do, since she refuses food?” said France.
“You need not appeal to me,” said Hetta. “My suggestions are taken so ill, that I am ceasing to make them. You can get out of this difficulty in your own way. But I hope you see my point in wanting to give up a governess.”
“That is quite a different point,” said John.
“There is a sameness in the result,” said Victor.
“Miss Bunyan sees it,” said Clare. “She has come to know us, and shakes the dust of our house from her feet.”
“I daresay knowledge of most families would lead people to that,” said France. “Governesses often change their posts.”
Sabine raised her hand to impose silence, and motioned Victor to the bell. When the table was cleared, she spoke.
“Her salary can be calculated up to date, and taken up to her in an envelope. The trap can come round for her luggage later. Tea can be taken to her room, and she can send it down or not, as she pleases. She will hurt no one but herself.”
“She will hurt me,” said France. “I cannot bear Miss Bunyan to go hungry from our door.”
“I cannot bear her to go hungry to her uncle,” said Clare. “It is most embarrassing.”
“Clare, you can teach Muriel until we get another governess.”
“You are responsible for her being without one, Grandma. Why do you not teach her?”
Muriel looked up with her eyes surprisingly wide.
“I teach you all enough. And I have no modern education.”
“Neither have I.”
“I have said what is to be done.”
“It cannot be done, but it does not matter.”
“It does not matter much,” agreed Sabine. “Governesses exaggerate their importance. I had very little education myself, and I have seldom felt the want of it.”
“Other people have done that,” said Chilton to France. “No educated person would dare as she has dared.”
“People’s disadvantages generally fall on other people.”
“Don’t whisper, don’t whisper,” said Hetta. “How often am I to speak? Don’t behave as if you were ashamed of what you have to say.”
“It is often the only way to behave,” said John, smiling.
“What was it? Make it a rule to speak so that everyone can hear.”
“We should never speak in Grandma’s house,” said Clare, “and she tells us we should be received in no other. We have not Miss Bunyan’s choice of abodes.”
“Her uncle may come in after the service,” said Victor. “He often calls on his way back from church.”
“I hope Miss Bunyan will not be going just when he arrives,” said Sabine, with simple sincerity.
“You are right that her going is a disgrace to us,” said Clare.
“Well, well, we must learn how to deal with the next governess,” said Sabine in an almost amiable manner. “Governesses are touchy people. They are situated just where touchiness is natural.”
“I should not describe Miss Bunyan as touchy,” said France. “If she is, she is a heroine and a martyr.”
“Well, you have decided she is both,” said Sabine. “Do this sum for me, Clare.”
“I don’t know why I am equal to all these mental demands. Grandma! Is this all Miss Bunyan was paid?”
“She had a good home,” said Sabine, her voice less full than usual.
“We have learned to-day that she did not think so.”
“We must count board and lodging in a resident post.”
“Did Grandma count board?” said France. “She always seemed to see it as an extra.”
“You are a set of stupid, inconsiderate children,” hissed Sabine. “I get no help and support from you at all. You might have some grievance against me, instead of great reason for gratitude. I simply don’t understand your frame of mind.”
“Oh, don’t try to, Mater,” said Hetta. “I have long given up the effort.”
“I will leave you all,” said Sabine. “I can bear no more. No one is to go up to Miss Bunyan. She has said goodbye.”
“She has,” said Chilton, returning from the door; “and never shall I forget the moment of her saying it.”
“Naught in her life in this house became her like the leaving of it,” said Victor. “We can say it now that Grandma is not here to put us to shame.”
“Things did not generally become Miss Bunyan, did they?” said Muriel.
“Let us leave the subject,” said Hetta. “Have you no other interest in life?”
“No other,” said Clare.
“Well, this is our chief one at the moment,” said France.
“Surely it is yours too, Aunt Hetta,” said Victor. “If it is not, I can hardly credit the scale of your experience.”
“You ought to be resting, John,” said Hetta. “You have been in a crowd all day.”
“I must appear a feeble old creature, always retiring to recover from an hour with my family.”
“This was no ordinary hour,” said France.
“Well, I have personal work to do, and must be prepared for personal effort,” said John, looking round with a flash in his eyes. “Your aunt is not wrong there. I wish one of you had chosen my path, the path of the man who makes the thing he gives. I wish I had a child who would follow me.”
“You have one,” said Chilton. “France has set her foot on the path. She has reached the first natural halt, the end of her first novel.”
“Has she? Has she got as far as that? So my wish is granted, and I am to have a companion. But the first halt is the hard one. It is then we go back and begin the climb again. We reject our first effort and forget it. And then the road winds uphill all the way. I shall not complain, if she has not courage to climb it.”
“That is what he was complaining of,” muttered Chilton.
“I have the courage to start,” said France. “That is generally forthcoming, and it may as well be used while it is there.”
“But have you courage to start a second time?” said her father, almost with challenge.
“What has been done can be done again,” said Chilton.
“That is not what is before her. She has to do something different, climb up another way, starting from the same place.”
“What is that noise?” said Hetta, willing to turn her brother’s mind.
“Miss Bunyan’s luggage on the stairs,” said Victor. “I suppose Miss Bunyan is following with noiseless tread.”
“I suppose she must go?” said his father.
“Clearly she must,” said Clare, “Grandma being what she is. Grandma has not altered in the last hour. What eighty four years have not accomplished, is not done in a moment, even a moment such as this has been.”
“Miss Bunyan’s voice sounds just like it always does, doesn’t it?” said Muriel.
“Did she have her tea?” said Victor, breaking off as a maid entered and looked about for some possession of Miss Bunyan’s. “Gertrude, has Miss Bunyan had any tea before her drive?”
“I took it up to her, sir, but she did not take it. It was rather soon after luncheon.”
“We know it was not, considering her part in that meal,” said France. “Her food is to be a problem to the end. Her two last meals have been the most difficult.”
“Indeed, have not come off at all,” said Chilton. “It is the first time we have had to say that.”
Muriel laughed at this circumstance.
Miss Bunyan’s voice was heard in the hall, distinct, pleasant, thanking the maids. Her luggage, bulky in proportion to her personal display, was piled on the trap. Muriel was pulled from the window. Miss Bunyan mounted to her seat and settled her gloves and her bag, and continued to settle them under her sense of the eyes of Sabine openly watching from above.
“A ship that passes in the night,” said Victor.
“A ship that will frequently pass in the day,” said Clare. “She is only to be at the vicarage, and very difficult we shall find it.”
“Grandma will not,” said Victor. “We must leave all dealings with Miss Bunyan to her. Such is the irony of life.”
“Will Miss Bunyan think we don’t like her?” said Muriel, in an uncertain tone.
“Do we all bear these marks of the last hour?” said France. “Will Muriel never be the same again?”
“She may think you do not, Muriel,” said Clare. “She does not know of the change in you. It has come just too late. That is what things do.”
“We have no comfort on the score of Miss Bunyan,” said Victor, “who has shared our ups and downs for a year.”
“A little chapter of your life has gone, Muriel,” said Chilton, “a chapter you will never be able to go back and live better.”
Muriel looked at him with tears in her eyes.
“Don’t be silly, Muriel,” said Clare. “You have never been fond of Miss Bunyan, or been anything but tiresome to her. It is of no good to try to be upset.”
“I think it is very suitable,” said France. “I could not have borne it, if no one had shed a tear for Miss Bunyan.”
“I have had to wink mine back,” said Chilton. “But I know it is nothing to be ashamed of. Victor, these are not the tears that are unmanly.”
Muriel went into hysterical mirth.
“So this is the sort of laughter that is near to tears,” said France.
John looked on and listened, amused, proud, uneasy; Hetta did the same, wearing a tolerant smile; and the two soon went to the library, where they often sat alone.
When the family were at tea, a visitor called, who combined the characters of a family friend, the vicar of the parish and the maternal uncle of Miss Bunyan. The Reverend Dr. Chaucer was a large, loosely-built man of fifty four, with round, pale, speckled eyes, a pendulous neck and chin and a nose and mouth of an oddly infantine mould. If people were inclined to pity him for this appearance, the pity was, as so often where appearance is concerned, needlessly bestowed, for he had a confidence in his poise and stateliness which almost gave him these qualities. His voice was full and without tone; his hands and shoes and linen were all but impossibly clean; his eyes went over his friends with an almost emotional expression. He had a consciousness of his doctor’s degree, and the acceptance of the work he had presented for it, had at the time occasioned criticism. The criticism had died away; the work had died also; and as the degree remained, his attitude was perhaps incredulous towards it. He advanced and bent over the hands of the ladies, with a deliberate smile for each, making no exception of Muriel.
“Well, Chaucer, you see me with my mother, my sister, my three daughters and my two sons,” said John. “You know me to be a person who practises many relationships under his roof.”
“Chaucer sees me with my grandmother, my aunt, my father and my three sisters,” said Chilton, “and also with my brother, whom I may as well mention.”
Chaucer gave a smile to John, but continued his way to Sabine, as if concentrating on the most significant greeting.
“I am right, Mrs. Ponsonby, in assuming that I have my usual welcome?”
“Indeed you are. How could it be otherwise?”
“I am glad,” said Chaucer, allowing himself to smile, “that the sins of nieces are not visited upon their uncles.”
“There is no question of sins. Your niece had every right to leave my house.”
“The occurrence has been a shock to me,” said Chaucer, shaking his head. “I could not have anticipated such an incident between your house and mine.”
“It is hardly between ourselves or our houses.”
“I cannot think my niece was clear in her mind about the step. I was sensible of the advantages of your post to a girl in her position; and accordingly bowed to her earning her support in the place where, in my own sphere, I earn my own. As a bachelor, I can find a use for her, but I feel that a dependent girl tends to be like a prophet, without honour in her own house.”
Muriel, who had been striving with the emotions aroused by this description of Miss Bunyan, was conquered by them, and Chaucer looked about with a broad smile.
“Muriel, you may take round the cups,” said Sabine.
“Stay, Mrs. Ponsonby,” said Chaucer, hastening forward. “Neither I nor your grandsons can submit to such ministrations from a lady, however young. To her performing the office for her father I make no demur. That relation covers a multitude of irregularities.”
“Boys, come and take the cups,” said Hetta. “You should not go to sleep.”
“Instructions short and sharp!” said Chaucer, going into laughter, with his eyes on Hetta. “And, I will wager, just as sharply to be obeyed. Well, boys”—As he took his cup, he glanced to see that the sisters were supplied—“may I enlist your support in a petition to your father? We hope he may address us on the occasion of our village dramatic effort. Or, if you doubt yourselves as intermediaries, I will solicit the office of your sisters, knowing that the persuasions of a daughter have a particular potency.”
“I think my brother would like it,” said Hetta in an easy tone, “if you don’t want too much of an address. I can’t regard his time as his own.”
“Miss Ponsonby, I should have known the quarter in which to lodge my appeal, and am grateful you will regard it as so lodged. I hardly know whether to express my gratitude to you or your brother, and will therefore solve the problem by expressing it to both.”
“What play are you acting?”
“That, Miss Ponsonby, remains a question. We are somewhat in the position of Shakespeare’s day, in that our ladies have to be acted by the choir-boys. And the play has to suit the capacities of the young and the tastes of their elders. So far, the choice has eluded us.”
“France,” said Chilton, going to his sister, “part of your book would make into a play, and would be something of what is wanted. It would be a chance to make Father notice your writing. We can’t do anything with him in his present mood. Shall I say a word to Chaucer, or shall we discuss it together?”
Chaucer was drawn into the younger group, and appeared to relish the position. He sat with his hands on his knees, leaning forward into the midst, wearing an elated, conspiratorial air and glancing at the elders of the family with simple furtiveness. When the conference ended, he rose to his feet and, after bare, smooth farewells, went with a suggestion of tiptoeing to the door, seeming to feel that this interest excluded any other.
“What was all that confabulation?” said Hetta.
“Oh, nothing,” said Victor.
“My dear boy, don’t talk like a child. Clare, what was all the talk?”
“Nothing that need be said.”
“Of course it need not be said. I did not say it need. I simply asked what it was. And as I happened to ask, I will be answered.”
There was silence.
“It cannot be a private matter, with a family of you involved. And Dr. Chaucer would not have a secret with you.”
“Answer your aunt, one of you,” said Sabine.
“We were talking amongst ourselves,” said Victor. “You will all know in the end.”
“Know in the end!” said Hetta, her voice rising. “Why should we know in the end? Why should we want to? It cannot be anything we should want to know. But as I asked a simple question, I will be answered. When people make casual conversation, other people should respond. I cannot have this custom of secretiveness and mystery making. It is silly; it is empty; it is impossible.”
“Let it be, let it be,” said John. “Do not let me see my children harried in their home. This has been a day to give me heart.”
His sister threw him a glance and rose and left the room. She went to the table laid with the cold Sunday fare, assuming that she would be followed, and naturally right in the assumption. She did not speak through the meal, except to dismiss the maids, as though seeing the conditions unsuitable for witnesses.
John spoke at last in a weary manner, seeming to hear his own words.
“Hetta, is this what it has come to? Is this the way to go on with the work so well begun? Why cannot we live in ease and goodwill, glad of our lives and of each other?”
His sister heard him in silence, with her head held back, and her eyelids nearly covering her eyes in a way which recalled Clare. While he still spoke, she rose and moved to the door, beckoning slowly and vaguely to her mother. John signed to his children to follow them, and sat with his head buried in his hands. Hetta left the others in the hall and went upstairs. The young people went to the drawing-room and sat in silence round Sabine. Later Hetta came to them and spoke a cold, curt word.
“Your father is busy and wants to be by himself. Do not go into the dining-room and disturb him. He is in the mood when nothing he says means anything, and he does not like it heard. You know these moods and are old enough to respect them.”
“We are debarred from one room, and hardly dare to remain in the other,” said Chilton, moving aside.
“Why is Aunt Hetta getting so much worse?” said Muriel.
“She tried to live for others,” said France, “and people try to improve what they live for, and that is the end.”
“Most people live for themselves,” said Clare, “Grandma among them. Do they try to improve what they live for?”
“Grandma showed no embarrassment in meeting Chaucer,” said Victor. “I was cringing with shame for the gross conduct of my family.”
“She knew he would rank himself with the person in the superior place,” said Chilton. “Miss Bunyan, taking refuge in his house, is not in it.”
“Is she not?” said Clare.
“Chaucer really thinks he is a chivalrous man,” said Chilton.
“Chaucer keeps staring at Aunt Hetta, doesn’t he?” said Muriel.
“Don’t let Grandma hear you call him that,” said Clare. “I rather like Miss Bunyan; I don’t know why she is so absurd.”
“I know many reasons why she is absurd,” said France, “but I like her too. We are more absurd, and we are not surprised if people like us, on our rare occasions of contact.”
“She is anyhow accorded an adult place.”
“Not by Chaucer, is she?” said Muriel with mirth.
“What are you laughing at, Muriel?” said Hetta from her seat.
“Dr. Chaucer called Miss Bunyan a girl, Aunt Hetta.”
“Well, that must seem funny to you, of course.”