“I don’t want to hurry you,” said Sabine to Miss Marcon, who was paying her a call, “but Muriel’s new governess will arrive in a few minutes.”
“If you really don’t want to hurry me, I will stay and see her arrive. I have never seen a homeless woman coming among strangers before.”
“You may have to wait some time. That train is often late.”
“Well, you said you did not want to hurry me. I suppose it is just like a governess to begin by giving trouble. But it may be better to begin as you are going on. Does the station master know she is on the train? He always shows his knowledge.”
“I hope he will be polite to her.”
“Yes, I think he will be polite. Do you think it natural not to be polite to a governess? Perhaps that is why you have one; it might make it very easy. But I thought people were always so careful to make no difference. This will be a tiresome hour for her to want tea, won’t it?”
“Do you suppose she will want tea?”
“Yes, I do suppose so. Governesses have that habit of ringing bells. But wouldn’t you want some in her place? I know I should, because I am in her place.”
“Oh, will you ring the bell? I forget how early I have my tea. We will soon have some for you. I don’t know why I should ask you to ring, except that I am an old woman.”
“I expect you were thinking of the governess. I am afraid I am not glad you did not wait. I wish you had waited; it looks as if the tea was just for me. I hope it will not upset the maids; that is so unpardonable. People must do something the maids cannot pardon, to do it, and maids pardon more than anyone else, I always think. What a pleasant face this maid has! I hope she does not think the tea is just for me. What is her name?”
“I do not know. We call her Gertrude. We always use the same name. It makes it easier.”
“But not for her, does it? For the first one, I suppose. It hardly seems fair that the first to leave should have the most consideration. What was the name of the last governess? Do you want to call this one by it?”
“Her name was Miss Bunyan; Bunyan, I should say. Of course we shall have to call this one by her own name.”
“Miss seems part of the name of a governess, but she would not pardon the other part’s being anyone’s but her own. I said that maids pardoned more than anyone else.”
“Here is the governess!” said Sabine in the low, conspiratorial tone of speaking to an equal of a different being. “Do not look as if we were talking about her. Speak of something else.”
“Would it matter our talking about her, when we are just expecting her to arrive? I think that would be an excuse—”
“How do you do, Miss Hallam?” said Sabine, offering her hand from her seat. “You see I have not forgotten your name. I am afraid your train was late.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Ponsonby? You see I have not forgotten your name either. We do not often forget names we have seen written.”
“No, but my memory is not what it was,” said Sabine, her tone as even as before, but betraying to Miss Marcon that her idea of the newcomer had undergone a revolution. “You must forgive my not getting up; I am a very old woman. Let me introduce you and my friend.”
“You think I am nearer to an old woman than you expected?”
“I think you said you were forty six in your letters. Perhaps you do look a little more.”
“You have not forgotten that either; I do not think you are forgetful.”
“I thought it was pathetic, when women seeking employment concealed their age,” murmured Miss Marcon for Miss Hallam’s ears. “I see it is not.”
Edith Hallam was a woman of medium height and rather heavy build. She had a broad, bare brow, a pale, straight-featured face, delicate hands and limbs and little, clear, brownish eyes, which showed a sudden, passing light. Her speech was blunt and easy, her voice natural and dry. Her clothes were rather worn and rather good, and she looked older than her age.
“My memory is up and down,” said Sabine. “I cannot depend on it.”
“I was forty six last month. I have brought my birth certificate.”
“I would have taken your word.”
“Yes, but I would rather you believed me.”
“She did not mean you would doubt her,” said Miss Marcon.
“Are you fond of teaching?”
“I have come to see it as my life. I began to teach when I was seventeen.”
“Then you are almost a born teacher,” said Miss Marcon.
“That was very young to begin,” said Sabine.
“Very young, so I said I was twenty, and of course they took my word. That must have been the beginning of my looking older than my age.”
“I hope it began then,” said Miss Marcon.
“Did you make the choice yourself?” said Sabine.
“No, I am the classic governess, driven by necessity. When my father died, I found myself without a home. He had speculated and lost all he had.”
“And I expect he had such a good reason,” said Miss Marcon. “I had a brother who speculated and lost all he had, and it was because he wanted to treble it. I don’t think his reason could have been more sensible. And it turned out so differently from what he hoped, that he shot himself. Of course it could not have been more different.”
“I have not heard of that brother,” said Sabine.
“Haven’t you? I thought it was the kind of thing that inevitably leaked out. People told me it was. He was Alfred’s father, and Alfred is situated just like Miss Hallam, and dealing with the situation in the same way.”
“Miss Marcon’s nephew is my grandsons’ tutor,” said Sabine to Edith. “It is strange that your cases should be parallel.”
“I think a tutor’s and a governess’s case might easily be.”
“Your father did not think of you, did he?”
“But it was of her he was thinking,” said Miss Marcon. “It was for her sake he wanted to treble all he had, just as my brother wanted to for Alfred’s. My brother left a note to explain it, and it seems that that is best. And then he would not be a burden. It would not have done for anyone to be a burden on Alfred.”
“Were you an only child, Miss Hallam?”
“Yes; I had no brothers and sisters to support.”
“And your father was a widower?”
“Yes; I did not even have to support a mother. You feel I am fortunate?”
“And the life has proved what you hoped?”
“No; I hoped to be able to provide for my old age. I did not know at first that teaching was its own reward.”
“I believe there are homes for worn out—for governesses who have retired,” said Sabine, looking away as she ended.
“If you think, there would have to be,” said Miss Marcon.
“An aunt left me some money, and I am letting it accumulate until it is enough.”
“You would like to treble it,” said Miss Marcon, “but do be warned.”
“I should like to treble it so much that I am afraid it must be a family trait.”
“But it is wonderful that money gets more by being left. We are really rewarded for not spending it, as we ought to be.”
“That does seem astonishing, when you think how things generally are.”
“I am sorry I could not agree to the salary you asked,” said Sabine to Edith; “but I have no aunts to leave me money as you have.”
“People are nearly always left their money by somebody nearer,” said Miss Marcon, “and they do not seem to count that. I am glad we are to leave our money to Alfred, and have it counted.”
“Am I to see my pupil this afternoon?”
“Would you like to see her? I can easily send for her,” said Sabine.
“I think I must go now,” said Miss Marcon. “Goodbye, Mrs. Ponsonby. It is so kind of you to let me make a friend. I make one very seldom, but when I do, it is for life.”
“Is there anything to tell me about the child?”
“She is eleven and a half, the youngest of my grandchildren by six years, a merry, good-tempered child. She is not very forward, but you may alter that; and she is young for your teaching, perhaps, but she will mend of that by herself.”
“People do have to alter their pupils. Can I tell her that I was a governess when I was six years older than she? Or is that the sort of thing you would not wish to come near her?”
“It would not do her any harm. She will certainly not be capable of it. I will ring and have her fetched. No, don’t let me trouble you; I can reach the bell.”
The sisters appeared, and Edith shook hands with her eyes on their faces.
“Have you had a long holiday?” she said to Muriel.
“Her sister taught her for a time, after Miss Bunyan left,” said Sabine.
“Then if I see their natural affection reassert itself, teaching will be its own reward.”
“Are you having a second tea, Grandma?” said Clare, for the sake of speaking.
“I am not having any. Miss Hallam needed some, of course. Muriel, pick up Miss Hallam’s handkerchief.”
Muriel did so, showing no amusement at the mention of refreshment for her governess.
“Did you hate Miss Bunyan, Muriel?”
“No—yes—no,” said Muriel, looking at Edith.
“You already have more respect for me, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we will learn to respect Miss Bunyan together. It will be the first change I shall make in you. I always respect the person who did what I am doing. I know what her difficulties were, and if her methods were obsolete, it was reasonable in one who was to be superseded. Now you may come and help me to unpack.”
“Muriel,” said Sabine in a low tone, as her granddaughter was following, “come here and listen. Now Miss Hallam is a very clever lady, and is very kind to teach you, so do not let us have any nonsense as we had with Miss Bunyan. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“You may run after her and ask if she would like a fire in her room. She may be unpacking for some time.”
Muriel returned with the message that Miss Hallam would like a fire, and Sabine rang and gave the direction.
“Thank you very much,” said Edith to the maid. “I like to be warmed in the same way as other people. Did Miss Bunyan feel the cold?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, but you need a fire after your journey.”
“You already know more about me than about her. I must be easier to know. We should not go on seeing the same face day after day, and never know what lies behind it. You will tell me some time what lies behind yours.”
“Yes, I will, ma’am. Do you want any help in unpacking?”
“Only a little, and Miss Muriel will give me that. Did you help Miss Bunyan to pack, Muriel?”
“No, she packed by herself. She went all of a sudden. She—her uncle wanted her.”
“She sounds to have been as much of a stranger when she went, as when she came. I have never known that really happen before. I must see that you write to her.”
“No, I don’t want to,” said Muriel with shrillness.
“Well, well, what would be the good of writing to a stranger? Did you like learning with your sister?”
“No, she was impatient and she did not know anything.”
“So you are a pupil who needs patience. I hope you made her difficult task as easy as you could. Do you come down to dinner?”
“No, but I am coming to-night.”
“And do I come down?”
“Yes; that is why I am coming.”
“Of course, to get to know me. Don’t we have any meals together?”
“Yes, schoolroom tea at half past five.”
“Why don’t we get to know each other then? That is when we shall do it. Do you mean a real schoolroom meal with real things to eat? Do I have dinner as well?”
“You do not—you need not—Miss Bunyan—you need not eat more than you want at tea.”
“I am glad of that. Did Miss Bunyan eat real food at half past five, and then dinner at half past seven?”
“She often did,” said Muriel in a tone of confidence.
“And so you had no respect for her? You found her a person of a gross habit?”
“What?”
“You thought she ate more than was proper?”
“She kept things in her room as well,” said Muriel, lowering her voice.
“Well, perhaps she needed them with that habit. You see I keep nothing. I expect to be given all I want to eat, and I find I am. I have heard it is astonishing what governesses expect, and I think it was astonishing if Miss Bunyan expected what she had. Now we must go down. Do you have to change your dress?”
“I changed it when I came upstairs.”
“Yes, of course, it is a different one. How do you know which to wear first?”
“One is older than the other,” said Muriel, laughing with comprehension. “They look more different in daylight.”
“It is in daylight that we see the other, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be better to change them round, to fit in with the lights?”
“I am not allowed to wear what I like; Grandma tells me.”
“Of course. How fortunate you are to have a grandmother! Now we shall never be strangers again.”
A group on the drawing-room hearth fell silent, as Edith entered.
“If you stop talking because I am here, you will be able to talk so seldom. The drawback to a governess is that she is always there. You cannot get rid of her when you would like.”
“We are all regarded as having that drawback here,” said Clare.
“Did you have a good journey?” said Victor.
“Well, I had that familiar feeling of approaching the unknown, and it was prolonged, as the train was late. But I enjoyed it very much, thank you.”
“You will find us different from other families,” said Chilton.
“Families are different. I did not know at first about the difference. You have a grandmother instead of a father and mother?”
“We have a father and an aunt as well.”
“Yes, it is different. Do you keep everything from all three?”
“Everything from two. Not always everything from Father.”
“It is very different; that would very seldom happen. I somehow feel you are all my pupils.”
“There is a great deal they may all learn from you,” said Sabine, coming in with Alfred. “Well, boys, have you had a good day’s work?”
“I shall enlist you on my side when that fails to happen, Mrs. Ponsonby,” said Alfred. “So, Miss Hallam, you and I do what is best worth doing in the house. We stand a little superior and apart.”
“We stand a little apart. But the worst of things worth doing is that they are worth so little else. I don’t think we are seen as superior. But I am glad not to feel alone.”
“You will certainly not be that here,” said Sabine, catching the last words. “I hope you will not find all these young people too much. I confess I often do myself.”
“It is good to hear that as a confession,” said France. “It tends to be a statement.”
“Miss Hallam is not so much older than I am,” said Clare. “I am twenty six.”
“Twenty years,” said Edith. “It is true it is not as much as you think, but I expect it is not as little as I think, either. Would you like to die before you are forty six, Muriel?”
“I think I should like to be as old as Grandma.”
“Then you will be a little more than forty six.”
“Yes.”
“What was that fuss you were making over the post?” said Sabine. “Was there some exciting letter?”
“No, Grandma; we were having an argument,” said Chilton.
“No, you were not. I know your voices when you are doing that; I have reason to. But I do not desire you to lie to me. I would rather hear nothing than a pack of ugly lies.”
“Miss Hallam is seeing us as we are,” said Clare. “Do families often stand revealed as soon as this?”
“Yes, fairly often,” said Edith. “You would hardly believe about families. Or many people would not.”
“We have to belong to a family to believe it,” said France. “But everybody does belong to one. It seems so odd, when you think of what is involved.”
“There is nothing so revealing in my not desiring to hear lies,” said Sabine. “Miss Hallam can hardly be surprised at it.”
“Miss Hallam’s faculty of surprise must be already exhausted,” said Victor.
“I think it must,” said Alfred, smiling. “I thought when I came here, ‘What an astonishing family! What an inexhaustible fund of surprise!’ But it is all held together by the hand at the top.”
“Do you like lies, Miss Hallam?” said Sabine in her ruthless manner.
“No, I like to know the exact truth about the smallest thing. It is the result of a narrow life. I hope the truth will come out about the letter.”
“I daresay it will to you. I am a lonely old woman and do not count.”
“How many of us would dare to say that?” said Alf red. “We should be afraid of the power of words. We do not count enough.”
“Did you really live with your grandmother before Mr. Marcon came?” said Edith. “All your lives until the last weeks?”
“Well, here is the breadwinner come to join you!” said John at the door. “The most harmless, necessary member of the house.”
“Let me introduce my son, Miss Hallam.”
“Another strange face!” said John. “You must be tired of the procession. And another unfamiliar name.”
“Your name is far from unfamiliar.”
“Well, that may be a help. You have one acquaintance in the family, even if a shadowy one.”
“It is interesting to see him take a definite form.”
“It is supposed to be a shock to see someone in the flesh, whom you have known in the spirit. But only one of us has that effect upon you?”
“I am not so sure,” said Sabine. “Clare said our family stood revealed, and I am afraid it did.”
“I have a book about the origin of the family,” said Edith, “and it is based on property. It seems so tangible.”
“It has its tangible side. A family has to be fed and housed and clothed and educated. It is not all so intangible.”
“It must be based on a good deal of property.”
“Well, is this a case of keeping the best for the last?” said Hetta, coming in prepared with her effect. “I am sorry I could not be here to welcome you. I was detained by manifold duties.”
“Families are even more surprising than you thought, Miss Hallam,” said Alfred.
“I ought to be prepared for anything in them.”
“But you were not prepared for this? You cannot boast that you were?”
“I hope Miss Hallam is prepared for her dinner,” said Hetta, going to the door. “She ought to be after the effort of grappling with a family of eight.”
“Aunt Hetta’s talk is so much more ordinary than she is,” said Victor.
“Do we never have any talk suitable for Muriel?” said Edith. “Ought I to be guiding it into that channel?”
“It will do her good to listen,” said Sabine. “It is a treat to her to be downstairs.”
“Well, it is no good to keep too much from children. They begin by belonging to a family.”
“Her family is incomplete, poor child,” said John. “She cannot remember her mother.”
“Gapy-face,” said Sabine, in a low, warning tone.
“I thought the talk was too heavy for her. When it is a treat too! It cannot be much of a treat to hear you have no mother, and have to be fed and clothed and educated. Being educated is never a treat; they ought to have some other word for it than advantages. No, I will not have any more, thank you; I feel I have just had tea.”
“Your predecessor would have frightened you,” said Hetta.
Muriel laughed.
“This is more of a treat, I see. But she would not have frightened me, only brought back my old self. My nurse used to say it was a treat to see me at meals, and Muriel would have found it so, I see.”
“We must try and feed you up,” said Hetta.
“No, no, it is too early in the term for treats. It can be something for Muriel to work for.”
“Shall we go to the drawing-room?” said Sabine. “Muriel, you can say good night, unless Miss Hallam will let you stay a little longer.”
“Do I have absolute power over Muriel? It seems dreadful to want to be a governess; but I don’t think anyone ever has wanted it. Human nature always has a certain decency.”
“Come and talk to us,” said Victor. “Marcon is taking our place. As long as he will be a son to Grandma, we are free.”
“There is a great bond between you all. I have never met such a bond in a family. The bonds I have met have been outside. I said I was prepared for anything, but I was not prepared for that. Had I better settle on which side I am, yours or your grandmother’s?”
“On ours,” said France. “Grandma declares everyone is against her, and we accept anything she says.”
“But she does not know it is true. She must not know it about me. By the way, I see Muriel cannot talk, but can she listen?”
“It does not matter, as she cannot talk,” said Clare.
“Did Miss Bunyan improve her much?”
“Muriel has been the same ever since she was born.”
“That is what I thought, and, of course, if people do not improve her, she has to remain the same. But the rest of you have altered since you were born. The little daily events will help me to understand it. What about that lie you told to your grandmother? I see a lie is a little daily event. You know I am on your side.”
There was a pause, and then Chilton answered in a tone of saying all that could be said.
“The letter was for France from a publisher, offering her terms for a book. It may not lead to anything, and it is to be kept a dark secret.”
“It is to be a complete surprise?”
“No, no, it is to be a permanent secret in the house.”
“But is it to be a secret from the public as well? Isn’t it giving the house rather a large place, compared with the rest of the world? I don’t mean it is not more important; I only mean I am inclined to take the weaker side.”
“It is like this,” said Victor. “My father read the book, and said something for it; but he felt that another writer of his name might do him harm, and so do harm to all of us. So my sister is in a quandary, and feels there is no way out. It was really no good to submit the book to a publisher.”
“How different you are from when you were born! And when you were born so lately!”
“My brother is a very imitative boy,” said Chilton. “And he is a great deal with me.”
“France could use another name,” said Clare, “but even then the letters would attract attention. Letters get a deal of attention here; Grandma always sorts them.”
“And publishers’ letters have the name of the firm on the back,” said Edith. “You can’t always manage as you did to-day.”
“We are so little different from when we were born, that we don’t know how to manage at all,” said Chilton.
“Would your sister like to use my name? I must be here for a time; I can hardly be dismissed at once. And I am never dismissed; I only leave of my own accord; and I shall not leave here yet; I take too deep an interest in everything. It is nothing to anyone if I correspond with a publisher, and it is a good enough name for the purpose.”
“Thank you!” said France. “It is a great solution. You can open the letters, and give them to me, if they are mine. I have no private correspondence, or only private from Grandma and Aunt Hetta. The way is smooth.”
“And if the veil is withdrawn, the explanation is good,” said Chilton. “It is the best of ideas, as it comes from whom it does. It would have been no good if it had come from Miss Bunyan. Grandma would have been on the scent.”
“What would Grandma have been on the scent about?” said Sabine, crossing the room.
“About any correspondence of Miss Bunyan’s that followed her here,” said Victor.
“Correspondence is private, and no one would be on the scent of it in this house, I hope. It is in my own family that I have to be a sleuth hound. And Miss Bunyan only had letters from her relations.”
There was laughter.
“My dear children, I had to get to know the writings, when I sorted the letters and saw them regularly for months. And Miss Bunyan told me she heard from her family.”
“Miss Bunyan told you many things, Grandma. Shall we start this train of memory?”
“That will do, Victor; I do not need another word. I am speaking to you, and not you to me. I think you all seem brighter to-night. Miss Hallam will be a companion for you. I should think you may have a good deal in common; I hope she will find it so. You must do what you can to be companionable.”
“I have never felt less alone among many, on a first night,” said Edith. “I have hardly remembered about being as if I were not there. I believe I have simply been here.”
“You are talking nonsense,” said Sabine, smiling. “Have you made up your mind about your pupil?”
“I have said some nice things about her, but they would sound foolish repeated.”
“Well, I think I will say good night. You will understand that I am an old woman. I have seen you are happy and at home. Good night, my dear; good night, all of you.”
“Good night, Mrs. Ponsonby.”
“Good night, Grandma.”
“So I already have my rush of compunction,” said Edith. “I have taken kindness from someone I have wronged. It is supposed to be generous not to mind that, but I do not mind at all. I really appreciate the kindness more; I must be very generous. I almost think it is the wronged person who is generous. I will go and say good night to Muriel, as that is an action loyal to your grandmother.”
“Well, this is better than Miss Bunyan,” said Victor.
“We need not put it in terms of Miss Bunyan,” said his brother.
“France is safe,” said Clare; “and not only from the world, as Father wished her to be, but from Father. And when you have to be safe from the world, it is wiser to include your family.”
“That is a needless tone to take about Father,” said Victor. “I notice France never takes it.”
“I never understand about France and Father,” said Chilton.
“You would, if Father had taken to you as he has to her,” said his brother.
“I daresay I should. A lot of little favours from childhood may mean more than one large thing that alters a life. But they do less.”
“Father has done nothing to prevent France from writing, and publishing what she has written.”
“I wonder if he thinks he has. I think so.”
“He has been especially nice to her lately.”
“I have noticed that.”
“You take a good deal from Father yourself.”
“Not more than I must, considering my age and condition. It is what you take, and I have heard you complain of it.”
“You had better go to bed,” said Hetta, coming up to them. “When Miss Hallam comes down, I want her to find you gone. She has to learn we are an early house, and we cannot say it to her face.”
“Actions speak louder than words,” said Clare. “We could have said it to Miss Bunyan’s face. Miss Hallam’s being better treated is not going to be much advantage.”
The next morning Edith missed prayers and joined the family at breakfast. Hetta was nervous after a sleepless night, and chanced to stumble as she took her seat.
“You do not mind my saying, Miss Hallam, that it is our custom to meet in the morning at prayers.”
Edith looked at her with the light in her eyes.
“I do rather mind your saying it. I do not know why you say I do not. And I never come to prayers; I do not find them congenial.”
“They would do for you what they do for other people.”
“They would do nothing for me. I don’t take any comfort in religion. I always live in my own strength.”
There was silence, apart from an indefinite sound from Sabine.
“You do not mind reading the Bible with Muriel?” said Hetta. “I am afraid that is part of the duty you undertake.”
“No, not at all, if you don’t mind her reading it. I think it is an unsuitable book for a child, but I like it very much myself. I am glad she is to adapt herself to me, and it is good for children to read unsuitable books.”
“I did not say anything that annoyed you, I hope, Miss Hallam?”
“You make up your mind rather readily. I thought I admitted that I was annoyed.”
“What are you all laughing at?” said Hetta, almost with violence. “I might be sitting with a lot of grinning idiots instead of human beings.”
“Let us leave Miss Hallam her own ways,” said Sabine. “She has had a great deal of experience.”
“I certainly cannot do that, if she is at all like anyone else I have had in the house. I always have to guide and influence people. If they do not like it at first, they soon come to depend on it.”
“But I am not like those other people,” said Edith. “I can tell I am not by Muriel’s expression.”
“You certainly strike your own note,” said Hetta in a casual tone, “or do your best to strike it.”
“I have done my best and I have struck it. And you may have done the same. I think we both have that something which marks us as ourselves.”
“My daughter means she would like to help you in any way she can,” said Sabine.
“I did not quite catch her meaning. And I do not need any help. I said that I lived in my own strength. I don’t think the other people can have done that.”
“They lived in mine,” said Hetta with nonchalant coldness. “I am only too glad to meet someone who does not need to do so.”
“I think they ought to have come to prayers, if their own strength was not enough. They should have allowed as much to be taken off you as possible.”
“I am glad you feel enough at home to do as you please,” said Sabine.
“Is that a speech with a second meaning?”
“No,” said Clare. “If Grandma had a second meaning, it would be the first.”
“I don’t think that is Miss Hallam’s reason,” said Alfred. “She would not call it one. It is just that she does not adapt herself to the family. There is always a little touch of the guest about her. Now I adapt myself in every way. And I have never enjoyed anything as much as adapting myself to this family, or been so much improved by it.”
“Will you be able to manage on the books Muriel has?” said Hetta to Edith.
“Yes, I shall, thank you.”
“You have had time to look over them?”
“No, but I always manage on the books people have. Wanting new books is resented more than many graver things. And all books say the same about their subjects. If you think, they must, or they would not be the usual books.”
“You make me feel a very ordinary person, Miss Hallam,” said Alfred. “I wanted new books; I came to prayers; I behaved just like anyone else. I made no attempt at all to be original.”
“Neither did Miss Hallam,” said Chilton.
“Have you nothing to say this morning, John?” said Sabine.
“Nothing, Mater, unless you want me to say what is worse than nothing. I have had a publisher’s account, and although I did not look for much from it, I looked for more than is forthcoming. It is not a bright chapter, the one before us; I was not eager to talk of it. I have not been working on my own level, and if I give people less, they give me less. But they did not at first; their faith in one dies hard. But it recovers hard too, and I shall not pull at once to my place. There is a lean time ahead.”
“People do not realise, when they see things there, what it means to keep on making them,” said Edith.
“They do not, Miss Hallam,” said John, swiftly turning his head. “Their part is different as readers. Their yoke is indeed easy and their burden light.”
“And a good thing, the ordinary creatures!” said Alfred.
“I can’t have my readers disparaged. They are much of the meaning of my life. I have been meaning less in theirs. Is it a forward or a backward step to say it?”
“A wonderful step anyhow,” said Edith.
Sabine turned and smiled at Edith.
“We shan’t have our time in London this winter, Hetta,” said John, seeming to take advantage of a stranger’s presence. “You can have the convenience of certainty about it.”
“That will be a great saving of expense,” said Clare. “To cut off one big thing is better than snipping off trifles everywhere and making life a continual strain. It is a good piece of news.”
“For you, my dear,” said Sabine, “better than perhaps it should be. You are not giving up anything. It is your father and aunt who are doing that. It is one big deprivation for them, instead of the many little ones for you. We are to be clear that you like it better?”
“Much better, because it is better. It is better for Father too. If it is not for Aunt Hetta, she has had what none of us has shared, for a long time. She would not expect it for ever.”
“It is not for you to say what she would expect.”
“I should expect it, if it were good for your father,” said Hetta. “It is for him we have had it; I have never wanted it for myself. It has been an extra strain in a burdened life.”
“Then it is not a deprivation for you either, and we can all look forward to a better life together.”
“I wish I could say we could,” said John, who had heard with a clouded face. “I hope we can in time. But as things are, we must keep our tight hand. It is what we cannot afford that we are cutting off, not one extra instead of others. It is good to have a daughter to tell of my troubles.”
“I should hardly have thought so,” said France, in a low tone to Clare. “It might be better.”
“We shall have nothing that Clare does not share, anyhow,” said Hetta. “That should put her mind at rest. It is a good thing we are not going away. The house can do with my eye over it; I can see that, or rather I have been shown it.”
“It hardly can, my dear,” said Sabine, in her grim manner. “It only just does with my eye. The children will not have any more. I am not defending them or saying you could not improve things. I merely state the fact.”
“It would mean our improving ourselves,” said France, “and self-improvement is always terrible.”
“What would you say, Miss Hallam?” said John, lightly. “Do you not advocate self-improvement in your profession?”
“I have never met it. People are always improved by others. That is what gives rise to the profession.”
“It is hard to see how the word, self-improvement, arose,” said France.
“You must have great knowledge of people. And it is the greatest of all knowledge. Shakespeare had only to be himself and use it.”
“That is all,” said Edith.
“We have sat an hour at breakfast,” said Sabine. “I can sit no longer. Say grace, gapy-face”—She stumbled at the juxtaposition of the words—“Muriel, you may say grace.”
Muriel obeyed, and Sabine left the room, followed by her son and daughter, the latter turning to cast a cold, appraising glance behind, as though with some private purpose.
“Are you afraid of your aunt?” said Edith.
“Only me,” said Muriel. “The others are not afraid of anything.”
“I always feel we do not know her,” said France.
“She has no life of her own,” said Chilton. “And she is not a person to live in other lives. I can’t think why she tried to.”
“Having no life of one’s own is often the reason,” said Edith; “and it is the best one. It would be seldom done for any other.”
“Religious people may do it for their eternal welfare,” said Victor. “Aunt Hetta may be religious.”
“Well, that is a life of their own.”
“She goes to church,” said Muriel. “And she does not have to go, does she?”
“If she were religious, she would not go,” said France. “She would have thought about her religion and lost it.”
“Father seems to be very poor,” said Clare. “If the London visit is to be cut off and not make any difference, he must be earning much less.”
“He said he was,” said France. “And we know he is.”
“I don’t think I ought to be afforded,” said Edith. “I don’t think your grandmother should run to me, as well as to Mr. Marcon. Your aunt looks at me, as if I ought to be cut off. Of course, he has become a necessity.”
“I am thankful you are here,” said Clare. “Grandma can’t let herself go beyond a point.”
“Unfortunately Aunt Hetta can,” said Chilton.
“People believe in the sanctity of the home,” said France. “It makes them let themselves go. They think the sanctity is over everything, and it is astonishing how it seems to be.”
“What home do you know but this?” said her sister.
“This is where I have noticed it. And you do not seem to have been blind.”
“You observe that my sisters are outspoken, Miss Hallam, where a normal self-respect would keep them silent,” said Victor.
“If silence were a protection, we would be silent,” said Clare.
“I rather wonder that your grandmother welcomes strangers in the house.”
“I can’t think how she dares to,” said Victor. “It is sheer impudence and dare-devilry. It comes of a lifetime of having her own way.”
“Miss Hallam has not seen her yet,” said Clare. “Grandma has kept herself under a tight hand. I can’t think how she knows about her.”
“Even the degree of silence we have observed, has been useless,” said Chilton.
“I would not let Muriel hear this talk,” said Edith, “if I could not see it has never done her any harm.”
“She must be one of those people who cast off evil,” said France. “I think she casts off everything.”
“Muriel, look me in the face,” said Victor, “and tell me you got no harm from Grandma’s dealings with Miss Bunyan.”
“She was a little brutalised by them,” said France. “No one could touch so much pitch and not be defiled.”
“Tell me about that,” said Edith. “I have wanted to know.”
“Miss Bunyan went at a moment’s notice,” said Victor.
Muriel began to laugh.
“At whose notice?”
“Oh, at her own,” said Chilton. “We had no unworthy triumph.”
“Not one of those victories which are more painful than defeat,” said France. “I think Miss Bunyan had that.”
“I believe we did have an unworthy triumph, very unworthy,” said Clare.
“But tell me how it came to a climax.”
“How much you know!” said Chilton. “Well, Grandma and Miss Bunyan indulged in some conversation, and ‘indulged’ is the right word in both cases, and it came to Miss Bunyan’s saying she would eat no more in this house. And so she went that afternoon. It was really the only thing.”
“But what did your grandmother say to her? You have only told me one side.”
“No, no, we have not come to that. If you have not guessed, you shall not know. Even Muriel would hardly put it into words.”
Muriel was making an effort to do so, impeded by her mirth. When she recovered, she did what she could.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“Evil rolls off her,” said France. “You would think the words would be engraved on her heart.”
“The London visit should have been given up long ago,” said Victor. “I suppose Aunt Hetta dreaded the prospect of her life without it.”
“I see her point of view,” said Clare. “Such a life is not unfamiliar.”
“You did not go up to London with them?” said Edith.
“No. Father is supposed to be happy with Aunt Hetta. And Aunt Hetta will now be supposed to make his happiness here. That is, she will seek out points for minute economies, and take away Grandma’s interest in life.”
“When Grandma is dead, Aunt Hetta can do it,” said Muriel.
“When do you think your grandmother will die?” said Edith.
“I don’t know, but she is very old.”
“I knew a woman who lived to be ninety eight.”
“Grandma is eighty four,” said Muriel, mentioning a similar age.
“The mother and child must manage together somehow,” said Victor.
“Is Aunt Hetta Grandma’s child?” said Muriel. “Oh, yes, of course she is.”
“Well, what is all the talk?” said John, opening the door. “I am not so often seen in my family circle. I ought to learn the life of my house, if I am to spend all my time in it. You won’t mind another member of the family, Miss Hallam? One more or less cannot make much difference.”
“Miss Hallam has already ceased to be surprised at the number of her following,” said Victor.
“She is surprised at nothing, ignorant of nothing, puzzled by nothing. I shall come to her in my doubts about human life, and thank her in my prefaces and say that without her help the books could not have been written. Well, you have a sad, weary fellow for a father. You have to do with less at a time when you are needing more.”
“We have Miss Hallam and Mr. Marcon,” said Muriel, “and we have you always at home now.”
“So you have, my little one, so you have. And you have said a word your father needed, at a time when he needed it. You may look back one day and remember.”
“It is a pity that things roll off Muriel,” said France.
“It is Aunt Hetta who will not profit by the change,” said Victor.
“My son, I should have fared but sadly without my sister. In my dark hour I had no one else. If I do not requite her sacrifice, it will be because I cannot.”
“Sacrifice does recoil on people,” said Edith, “and most of all on those who make it. In our resentment of it we should remember that.”
“People say someone regrets a sacrifice, as if it were against her,” said France. “As if she could do anything else, when she comes to consider! People repenting at leisure are not at their best.”
“Ah, the words, her and she!” said John. “Sacrifice has been the woman’s privilege.”
“There, the word privilege!” said Edith. “That is what we want of people, that sacrifice should be for their own good and not for other people’s, when it is simply the other way round.”
“Aunt Hetta has not made so much sacrifice,” said Clare. “She has not had so much to give up. She has behaved naturally, not nobly.”
“And we grow to the life we lead,” said John. “We are moulded to it and by it. It becomes our own.”
“What is all the talk?” said Hetta, coming in with her eyes going straight to her brother.
“We were talking about sacrifice,” said Victor. “I don’t know how we got on to it.”
“I do not know either. It is not a thing that has ever come your way. It must be quite an academic subject. What conclusions have you reached?”
“That it is a bad thing for the person who makes it, and tends to be regretted.”
“It may be a bad thing for her, but it is not regretted, I hope. It must bring its own inner satisfaction.”
“It is very inner,” said Clare. “Self-sacrificing people do not incline to spirits.”
“You have met very few people, hardly enough to generalise.”
“Very few, and perhaps a self-sacrificing person has not been included among them.”
“You would not recognise one, if you saw her.”
“So the satisfaction is as inner as all that.”