“I think it is such a good idea to give a dinner, when you have been supposed to be dead,” said Miss Marcon to her brother, as they walked up the Ponsonbys’ drive. “It takes away the general sense of guilt. It is very awkward to feel you have driven someone to her death, and going to dinner with her is especially different.”
“It is Hetta who ought to have a sense of guilt. I hope she has it.”
“Everyone ought to have one. We did not deter her from her purpose.”
“You talk as if she meant to put an end to herself.”
“We shall never be sure she did not, that her heart did not fail her at the last. And the thought of us did not prevent her; it is a great disgrace to us. And now she is making our life brighter, when we had such a different effect on hers.”
“When the young ones see her entertaining her friends, the thought may come that they might have been entertaining theirs.”
“It is better not to talk about thoughts that may come. It would never do to begin it. It is odd that Hetta should be simple; you would think it would be her last quality.”
“I don’t mind if it is her first, as it is most people’s. I don’t blame her for being simple. But she might have been the death of Sabine.”
“It is nice of you to blame her for that, Stephen. And if she had been, the young ones might have been entertaining their friends indeed. It is only fair to them to give a dinner. Better than their giving one themselves, in case they have not any friends. This is the Seymours’ carriage. Let us stop and gossip on the steps. To share a friend who has almost been driven to her death, is a full excuse.”
“Well, this is good,” said Rowland. “It will be good to be all together.”
“Yes, it is good that Hetta is not dead,” said Miss Marcon, “or we couldn’t have been all together. It is so nice to feel really glad about it. It is such a dreadful saying that it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good. It is shocking that it should not blow harm to everybody.”
“Yes, yes, it was an ill wind. It changed its course just in time.”
“It never had that course,” said Stephen.
“It must be awkward for them to meet us all!” said Jane. “I don’t think I could face it in their place. I suppose that is why we are asked together, to give the safety of numbers! Well, I hope we shall be equal to the demand on our tact.”
“People are always equal to demands on tact,” said Stephen.
“I shall just be myself,” said Evelyn, “as that is the truest tact. And I think it must be more awkward for them to be alone. To give people a lesson and live with them afterwards must be very awkward. And to have had a lesson must be awkward too.”
“I hope they have not learned the lesson,” said Stephen. “That is the great mistake.”
“It would never do to reward people for causing us discomfort,” said his sister, “and that is what a lesson always is.”
“Suffering may be wholesome,” said Jane, “but we should not cause it to each other.”
“Why is it wholesome?” said Stephen. “And, if it is, why should we not cause it?”
“We generally do, so it is all right, dear,” said his sister.
“I have never known anyone improved by it,” said Rowland, as if with a thought of his own past.
“I have no capacity for suffering,” said Evelyn. “That is why I shall never marry. I should be afraid to meet any deep experience: I don’t want to prove how shallow I am. I do not like people in sickness and health, only in health.”
“Poor Alfred must have had a time!” said Jane. “And not to be able to get away from it! To be tied there by duty!”
“Has anyone rung the bell?” said her brother.
“No, don’t let us ring it,” said Evelyn. “It is so nice here.”
“Here is Gertrude coming. She has seen us through the door.”
“I wish it did not say a great deal for people to keep their servants,” said Evelyn. “I don’t want a great deal to be said for the Ponsonbys. I want to think how shocking it has all been of them. And I suppose, if everything were so bad, Gertrude would have left.”
“Good evening, Gertrude,” said Jane. “You have been through a sad time!”
“All’s well that ends well,” said Rowland.
“I do hope all is not well,” whispered Evelyn. “I do want to see just a little result. If there is not any, I shall stop blaming Hetta, and no one will like that. Then I shall feel I have somehow got my revenge.”
“Now this is good,” said John. “This is what we want. It is a long time since we have been together, and a time we are going to forget.”
“Forget,” murmured Evelyn. “That is too bad, and dishonest as well.”
“Oh, how do you do?” said Hetta, turning round as if she had just seen them, and coming forward with something in her hand which had occupied her. “So the two families arrive together.”
“How are you both?” said Alfred to his uncle and aunt. “I hardly feel I belong to your household now. I belong to this one.”
“Anyone would, who could just now,” said Evelyn. “What a time you have had!”
“A bad time, Evelyn, and it is not over. We are anxious about Mrs. Ponsonby. It is hard to picture the house without her. You may make light of it, but she will leave a blank.”
“Of course I do not make light of it. It is a heavy matter. But why picture the house without her? Why not make the most of it, as it is? She is not leaving a blank yet.”
“Coming events cast their shadows before them.”
“I see they do; I see you are shadowed. But it is your duty to brighten her last days.”
“It is difficult to brighten days that are shadowed,” said Edith.
Sabine was sitting upright, talking with her first strength. Hetta leant easily against her chair. Chaucer came in and walked up to Hetta, and, standing with her hand in his, spoke very low.
“To say that I am glad to see you, Miss Hetta, would be a case of mere words indeed.”
“I hope we have not all said it,” said Miss Marcon. “Stephen has not, because he has not said anything. He is very good about mere words. Dr. Chaucer could hardly speak, and Stephen could not speak at all. It is a triumph for Stephen.”
“Do pray look a little more cheerful, some of you,” said Sabine. “You might be at a funeral instead of entertaining your friends.”
“We became rather used to feeling at a funeral,” said Chilton.
“As we have never become to the alternative,” said Clare.
“I have not made the effort, to be rewarded like this. I felt as if it would be the death of me; I feel it may be yet.”
“And you recommend us to be cheerful,” said Clare. “You have lost yourself in the occasion.”
“We may in effect be at a funeral after all,” said France.
“It is hard for these poor children to live on the brink of so many graves,” said Miss Marcon.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven women!” said Sabine. “And five of them in my family! And there would be eight, if Muriel were grown up. I hope I shall not live to see it.”
“She will not, if her death is to be this evening,” said France.
“As Grandma is seventy three years older than Muriel, they may not long be women together,” said Victor.
“Shall we talk of something besides death?” said Edith.
“What a thing to say, Mater!” said Hetta. “There are eight men. Victor cannot have a partner for dinner.”
“I was not counting Chilton and Victor. I do not reckon boys.”
“You are a woman yourself, and you have never thought less of yourself for it.”
“I have always thought less of myself, and so have other people. A woman takes the second place.”
“To whom has Grandma come second?” said Chilton. “This new light on her is rather late.”
“So obviously to no one, that she is safe in saying what she did,” said Chaucer. “I think women are generally safe in making such statements, or I make bold to believe they would not make them.”
“I came second to my husband, and was content to do so.”
“John, have you ever known Mater come second to anyone?”
“Never. And she is wise not to attempt it. She would not do it well.”
“I wish you would not all contradict me, and join together against me. I cannot stand against you all. My husband would not have let me stand alone against so many.” Sabine had begun to talk of her husband, as if there would not long be a barrier between them.
“People at the head of things are always alone,” said Rowland.
“Mater is not equal to being hostess to-night,” said John.
“No, I am not equal to it,” said Sabine. “But I shall do it: I shall not give up. Edith would have to be hostess if I were not, and then what about your sister? I don’t know what will happen to Hetta when I am gone; I don’t know what will happen to my daughter.”
“Grandma has chosen a bad occasion for embarking upon her second childhood,” said Victor.
“She and Muriel are on a level before she expected,” said Clare. “Only six women after all.”
“I should like it well enough if Edith were hostess,” said Hetta. “It is she who would not. She does not take to the duties of the place.”
“Women are too fond of duties,” said Sabine. “I have never let people think I would wait on them.”
“Never, Mrs. Ponsonby, never,” said Alfred, stooping to her chair. “You have let them think the opposite and act on it, and very good it has been for them and for you.”
“The people are all here,” said Sabine, in a suddenly normal manner. “Stand further apart. Do not all huddle together round my chair; I want nothing from you. Move about among your guests.”
“Grandma is restored,” said Victor, “and in the nick of time.”
“Her authentic note,” said Clare, “but does it fit her any better for a hostess?”
“It almost seems a pity there has to be a hostess,” said Edith.
“Did you feel on the brink of a volcano?” said Jane, rubbing her hands with the suggestion of a shiver. “I did. I kept trembling lest it should erupt!”
“What did you do when it did erupt?” said Stephen.
“I don’t dare to go near Mrs. Ponsonby,” said Evelyn, “for fear she may tell me honestly what she thinks of me.”
“She may not think of you,” said Alfred.
“So I will not put the subject into her head.”
“I am to take her in to dinner,” said Rowland. “I have to face the risk. Yes, it is a pleasure, an honour; it may be the last time. I hope I shall have the honour many times.”
“There is no risk for you, Father. You are the only one who would not mind anyone’s looking into his hidden depths.”
“Isn’t it wonderful that they are hidden?” said Miss Marcon. “We really don’t deserve it.”
“Why should Mrs. Ponsonby be able to see them?” said Jane. “Especially as her powers are failing.”
“I think a great many people can see them,” said Evelyn. “But Mrs. Ponsonby may speak of them. Her powers are failing in their own way.”
“Will you take my sister in to dinner, Chaucer?” said John.
“I take that as a rhetorical question, Ponsonby. It does not require an answer.”
Hetta had prepared the list of couples, and her brother was acting on it. He found Edith assigned to one of his sons; and as her due was a grown man and a guest, he made an adjustment and sent her in with Stephen. Hetta noticed the change as they sat down.
“John has muddled up the couples. And I made it all quite clear. Well, it can’t be helped.”
“I am sure there is nothing that any man would have changed,” said Chaucer. “I cannot speak for their partners.”
“Neither can I,” said Hetta, laughing and looking round. “It was the women I was thinking of. Well, it is done now.”
“I have only made one change,” said her brother, “and that is an improvement.”
“More than one couple are different.”
“One change involves others.”
“You should not have asked me to make the list.”
“I will not another time.”
“Of course Hetta pretended to be dead,” said Miss Marcon to Evelyn. “A great many creatures do that when they are in danger.”
“It was an outrageous thing to do.”
“Well, revenge is outrageous. Or what would be the good of it?”
“Has this been any good? What would you do if Stephen married? You would not pretend to be dead?”
“No, no, I should pretend to be very alive and joyful at being free. That would be a better revenge on Stephen.”
“And it would not be outrageous.”
“Oh, yes, it would,” said Miss Marcon. “It is dreadful to put any alloy into people’s happiness. It must be because we do that, that happiness is never without alloy.”
“I wonder what Aunt Jane would do if Father married.”
“What?” said Jane, looking round. “What should I do if Rowland married? I should not do anything; there would not be anything to do. He would not do anything if I married. And I should still be myself: I think that is such a consolation in the vicissitudes of life, that one is always oneself! And I never feel that running my brother’s house is such a great thing! It is necessary and useful and reasonably pleasant; that is what it is. And as for being a mother to Evelyn, I am nothing of the sort. I am his opinionated maiden aunt, rejoicing in her own cynical, open, perhaps regrettable personality!”
“Does not Muriel have a governess now?” said Evelyn, breaking off as he recalled that a governess in the house might not mean one at the table.
“Yes, she does in a way,” said Hetta, as Chaucer looked in front of him with eyes held stiffly open. “Edith has gone back to her duty, and the problem is solved.”
“Only for the moment,” said John.
“Well, sufficient unto the day—”
“Edith cannot go on teaching the child. I shall make too much demand upon her time.”
“You will live very differently then.”
“Perhaps I am going to live differently.”
“Hetta will pretend to be dead,” said Miss Marcon. “I am sure I would in her place.”
“What would my sister do in your place?” said Stephen to Edith.
“Perhaps she would really be dead. I am sure I could understand it. No one could live for long as I am living.”
“My dear children, don’t keep talking to one another across other people,” said Hetta. “What is the good of my training?”
“Training of that kind does not alter people,” said Clare.
“It hides them, shall we say?” said Hetta easily. “So that it seems to alter them.”
“I don’t want my children changed,” said John.
“They are changed,” said his sister, laughing. “So how do you know what you want?”
“The real self looks through the disguise,” said Clare, “when it is obtained like that.”
“Don’t throw off the disguise, my dear,” said her aunt, “or it really may look through.”
“My disguise is always complete and perfect,” said Evelyn. “My real self is always hidden.”
“I believe my real self shows all the time,” said Alfred, in a plaintive tone, looking at Sabine. “And I can think of so many nicer selves which I ought to cultivate. I believe most people simply choose a self and cultivate it.”
“I believe they do!” said Jane, pausing as if wishing to continue, but not finding her words.
“Wait until I am dead,” said Sabine to Alfred. “I find no fault with your present self. I am too old for change.”
“My real self, Mrs. Ponsonby. That is very nice and kind. So I can be perfectly at ease before you.”
“I am glad it might have been kinder,” said Evelyn.
“He is also at ease before other people,” said Stephen. “I can but admire him.”
“You evidently can’t do that,” said Edith.
“I am afraid my real self is always exposed!” said Jane. “I daresay it ought not to be, that I ought to make an effort to disguise its many individualities, but I fear so it is.”
“I suppose we go through the party, hearing they do not disguise themselves,” said Stephen.
“We have done several,” said his sister. “I hope there are the easier ones left.”
“Evelyn does not have to be done,” said Rowland. “He owns to a disguise.”
“Well, no one could be like me in himself,” said his son, “always easy and amusing and considerate in all those small ways which make up life.”
“Other people are nearer to nature, are they?” said Alfred.
“Much nearer. They keep explaining that they have not left nature at all.”
“I do not know whether I am supposed to contribute my quota of self-description,” said Chaucer. “But I am not conscious of assuming any disguise.”
“Another one done,” said Stephen. “And an easy one.”
“I suppose the difference in people is really a difference in taking disguise,” said Chilton.
“Be careful,” said Stephen, “or we shall go through the company again, hearing about their disguises, as we have heard about their freedom from them.”
“Hetta, must you keep looking round at the servants?” said John. “They are not going to commit any crime. Do take your eyes off them. They are equal to what they have to do.”
“They are, if I do look round on them. If I did not, they would commit some crime. But I will take my eyes off them, if you wish. It is the easiest thing, and what the others do. In future I can do it.”
“If you would be as the others are, the home would be a different place.”
“It would,” said Hetta with her little laugh. “It would cease to be a home.”
“I think we few of us realise,” said Chaucer, seeming to address no one in particular, “how much our lives depend upon the constant and unseen effort of those who ask no recognition. If we did realise it, I think we should hardly dare to live and breathe and have our being.”
“If we did realise it, they would have recognition,” said France.
“We do hardly dare to,” said Clare, “we who are made to realise it.”
“Is Chaucer thinking of Miss Bunyan?” said Chilton. “No, he would not voice the thought. He is thinking of Aunt Hetta, and she is not a good example.”
“Why should she be?” said France. “And we don’t want that in addition to our other grounds for guilt. It would be a real ground for it.”
“You and I should not be sitting together, Hetta,” said John. “Why did you make such an odd arrangement? Your plan of the table was not a success.”
“We both have partners. There is no reason why we should talk to each other. It is difficult to make arrangements for a family reinforced by the tutor and the governess. People don’t like sitting by them, and there you are. It makes awkwardness.”
“What nonsense! And if that is the case, you and I should go in with them.”
“My dear, you could not go in with your wife, if you take exception to sitting by your sister. And you have two daughters and a mother at the table. It is not worth while to worry about separating you from your relations. What does it matter where you sit?”
“I am thankful we have Alfred with us. I don’t know what Mater would have done without him.”
“And you are not thankful we have Edith? You could do without her? Well, I knew it would come to that.”
“I am thankful Mater has someone to take her thoughts off you, Hetta; and I should think you are too.”
“I have not thought about it. And I am not thankful about people’s thoughts; I never see anything in them to be thankful about; and I am very good at reading them. That is why I try to put a disguise on your children. And it is a good thing I have done so. Seeing you without yours makes me see that. There is a great deal of you in all of them.”
“I wish you would resume your own, Hetta.”
Hetta gave a shrill laugh, which echoed down the table, and her brother spoke with his eyes on his guests.
“My sister is laughing me to scorn over something I said in all innocence.”
“Not in innocence,” said Miss Marcon to Evelyn. “I heard; I listened.”
“I can’t think how you dare to listen. You might hear anything.”
“I shall not dare any more; I did hear it. It is terrible, the lack of innocence.”
“We have to thank you, Ponsonby,” said Chaucer, “for that peal of mirth which trilled across the room.”
“I do not thank him for it,” said Edith.
“There seems to be a threat in the air,” said France. “Why did we have this dinner? With Grandma’s death approaching, and Aunt Hetta’s barely averted, it does not seem the moment in our family life, when so many have been passed over.”
“Aunt Hetta’s death has not been averted any more than ours,” said Victor. “I can’t think how we believed in it. Perhaps the idea of freedom was father to the thought.”
“Aunt Hetta’s letter was father to the thought,” said Chilton, “and Aunt Hetta herself. There was no reason not to believe it.”
“Why are you three talking to each other?” said Hetta. “You should be making the most of the company of your guests.”
“We are placed so that it hardly affects us,” said France. “Our conversation is supposed to be only fit for each other.”
“And that is very true,” said Edith. “It is hardly fit for that. They are much too young to hear it.”
“It is a mercy Stephen and I are separated,” said Miss Marcon. “And to put Hetta and John by each other is a risk that may end anywhere. I think it is doing so. Customs are said to be based on something deep in human nature, and it is true.”
“You should not talk only to me, John,” said Hetta in a clear tone. “You should think of your partner. She is being patient with you.”
“Oh, I have enjoyed listening!” said Jane. “I think nothing is so amusing as family conversation! I have been regarding it as carried on for my express entertainment.”
“It has no doubt had that result,” said Victor.
“You should take your words to yourself, Hetta,” said John. “Dr. Chaucer is being patient with you.”
“I, like Miss Jane, have enjoyed listening, Ponsonby.”
“This is dreadful,” said France. “Of course they have enjoyed it. But if people must listen, they are the best people. Suppose it were Miss Marcon and Evelyn!”
“It is Miss Marcon and Evelyn,” said Edith. “Look at the direction of their eyes. No, never mind. The direction has changed.”
“I shan’t have many more opportunities of being with my friends like this,” said Sabine to Stephen.
“How awkward for Stephen!” said Miss Marcon. “I suppose she will not. And it is for him to see that she does.”
“I feel each one may be my last.”
“So it may,” said Stephen to Edith on his other hand. “Considering how rare these occasions are, it probably will.”
“I must not complain,” said Sabine. “I have had my share.”
“Grandma is being heroic,” said Victor.
“Well, it is heroic to face death,” said France.
“Fearing it would make it seem to be true,” said Chilton. “People don’t think it is. I don’t think it can be in this case.”
“I have got much older lately,” said Sabine.
“She means she has got much feebler,” said Victor. “She has got a little older.”
“Time counts a lot at my age.”
“She is determined to have some praise,” said Miss Marcon. “People always want it for youth and age. It would seem more sensible to have it for the prime of life, but nobody expects it for that.”
“They are ashamed of losing their youth,” said Alfred. “I am getting to that stage. In some people it is shameful.”
“I am not talking about losing youth,” said Sabine.
“You are wonderful, Mrs. Ponsonby!” almost called Jane from the other end of the table.
“A very old woman is less wonderful than she has ever been,” said Sabine, bending forward in open weariness.
“Grandma has given her praise to herself, as no one else would do it,” said France.
“Shall you be sorry when Mrs. Ponsonby dies?” said Stephen to Edith, too low for Sabine.
“Let me lean across the table,” said Miss Marcon. “When people forget they are guests, I like to listen.”
“Yes, in a way. The house will be very different. And she has shown me only kindness.”
“I suppose I hardly know what I had half hoped to hear,” said Miss Marcon.
“Grandma is not less wonderful than she has ever been,” said Victor. “She could not have done that once.”
“Been kind to the governess? I suppose she could not,” said Hetta with a casual laugh, hardly looking at her nephew. “It was not in her line.”
“Let us talk about something which is not to do with ourselves,” said John.
“Let us have silence,” quavered his mother.
“Stay, Ponsonby,” said Chaucer, raising his hand, “nothing else could so interest us.”
“I am sure that is true,” said Edith. “We can only feel we deserve it.”
Rowland put his hand to his mouth and gave a slight yawn.
“Gapy-face,” murmured Sabine, moving her bent head to and fro.
“They need not be embarrassed,” said Miss Marcon to Evelyn. “We did not hear. We all showed we did not.”
“Somehow I can’t get used to it,” said France. “You are supposed to get used to anything, but it is not the case.”
“Hetta has come home,” said Sabine, looking up, “so there is no need for all this talk. We can be at peace.”
John sat up and spoke sharply.
“This cannot go on. Hetta, can’t you do something?”
“Why should I? You behave as if I were in need of your criticism on every point, and then appeal to me in the first trouble. That does not work. Of course I will do nothing. You can ask Edith.”
“Edith, can’t you do something?” said John at once.
“Could Alfred go and sit by your mother? He can do the most.”
“She is exhausted; that is all,” said Stephen.
“But that is dreadful surely,” said his sister. “I do hope Alfred can alter it.”
“I will not be left out of things,” said Sabine, looking round almost with a scowl. “This house is mine, and I will know everything in it. I will not have talk going on that I do not share.”
“Of course you will not,” said Alfred, coming to her side, while Rowland moved to his seat by Clare. “You have always known everything and taught it to other people.”
“That was well thought of, Edith,” said John.
“It is a good idea, is it, to put it all on to the outsiders?” said Hetta. “Does it lessen the general embarrassment or add to it?”
“It lessens it,” said Chilton. “We are at ease.”
“Or do we look more ridiculous?”
“That does not matter,” said her brother, “if our guests are saved from discomfort.”
“But are they saved from it? Or do they feel more discomfort in being rescued from their hostess by Edith and Alfred, as if we employed a man and woman for the purpose?”
John gave his sister a look and turned away, and she suddenly rose and spoke in harsh, stumbling voice, in tense, stumbling sentences, which seemed to be torn from some depth within her below the level of speech.
“So Edith is everything, is she? Edith, whom you married because you thought she had given you money and would give you more! Edith, whom you married for the paltry sums you thought she would earn and go on giving you! You did not want her for herself! You did not want to earn for your wife! She was to earn for you. And the plan was an empty one after all. It is France who earned the money, France who gave it to you, France who wrote the book that won it! She hid behind Edith’s name, because you were jealous of her, jealous of your daughter! She had to hide because she was afraid of your jealousy! Oh, I know it; I know it all. I know how Mater thought she found out; I saw her tamper with the letters; I saw her read the one addressed to Edith, which was meant for France. I know when she told you; I know when you talked about it; I know how you told each other that Edith would have other money in the end. And Edith knows why you married her. She found it out and did not dare to tell you. She did not dare to tell her husband that for the time she had only herself to give! She was afraid of the power of your feelings. Oh, people are afraid of you, though you think they are only afraid of me. It is not only of women that people are afraid. What a welter of deceit I have found in my family! What a moral mess I have stumbled on unawares, stumbled on because it was everywhere. First Mater must deceive us all; then she deceived you; then you deceived Edith. Now Edith has begun to deceive you, though I admit she was afraid. France had already deceived you, though I admit she was afraid. Think of the feeling she had for you, when she wanted to save you the humiliation of not being able to earn; and did not dare to face your jealousy, and so took refuge behind that letter from a stranger! She knew what you wanted; she knew you. And I know you now; I know you. I am not going to do anything more; I am not going to serve you. I am going to live for myself, as you do. You have taught me how to do it, and I have learned. You tell me you have learned the lessons I have taught, and I can tell you the same. It is Edith who will have to serve you, because she cannot work, cannot earn the petty sums that mean so much to you. They are so paltry, these sums of money that mould your life.”
Hetta’s words were more fluent as they went on, but her voice broke on its straining note, and the last words came without a sound. She seemed to stagger and looked round for her seat; and Chaucer rose and came towards her, holding out his arms, his face in a glow of pity, admiration and rising hope. She turned towards him, half lifting her arms to his, and he put his arms about her, and, stooping over her, led her aside.
“We will take this meal in silence,” muttered Victor. “Grandma need not say it.”
“If only we had had silence when she said!” said Miss Marcon.
Eyes did not turn to Sabine; they were still on her daughter; no one saw that she could not say it.
“We are supposed to be entertaining our friends,” said Clare. “It is probably more the case than usual.”
France and Chilton turned to each other and broke into low, rapid talk. Victor leaned over them and joined. Stephen looked from face to face and relaxed, as if clear about the truth. Edith sat as if she were alone.
“We have had much to enjoy,” said Rowland, stumbling as he realised what might be read into his words. “And our evening is not over. We know you have had some troubled days, and troubles must have their echoes. The circles in the water spread, but that helps them to fade away.”
“So this had to happen to bring the best out of Rowland,” said Miss Marcon. “We can’t be sorry about it.”
“We can’t,” said Jane in a guilty aside. “We should have known much less, if it had not happened. I don’t quite grasp the truth even now. Even my rapacious mind cannot seize the whole of it.”
“Is anything justified which increases human knowledge?” said Evelyn.
“I don’t think this was justified,” said Chilton.
“It had to come to it,” said Stephen. “Where they are unfortunate, is that it happened in public.”
“Why did it,” said his sister, “when they have had so many occasions by themselves?”
“That is the reason. When people shut themselves up, they cease to separate occasions.”
“Alfred, had you any private knowledge which sealed your lips?”
“None, Aunt Charity, and I have no knowledge now. I don’t like too much knowledge. Life has to have its undercurrents, or it would not be life.”
“I think it is beautiful, the way people speak,” said Miss Marcon. “So we shall see that something which is in every one, being brought out. It would be such a pity for it to be always hidden. But it is dreadful that life has to be life; I hardly knew it had to be until to-night, but I see it does have to.”
“I don’t think undercurrent is the word for what has happened,” said France. “I wish it were.”
“I hardly understand all of it,” said Evelyn. “Do you all grasp as much as it seems?”
“You cannot possibly ask, my dear,” said Miss Marcon.
“No one can look anyone else in the face,” said Victor. “So we are all equal.”
“Like all men,” said Evelyn. “You can feel you are quite ordinary.”
“So France is exposed,” said Chilton in a clear tone. “And it is time. She stands revealed as writer and family benefactor. And it is not a shameful position.”
“But people are always ashamed of their hidden kindnesses,” said Miss Marcon. “If they are not, why do they hide them?”
“The risk of it is, that they might not always come out,” said Jane, in a just audible murmur.
John had sat with his eyes on each speaker in turn, holding to an appearance of simple desire for the truth. He now rose and looked at France, and held out his arms, and after their embrace went on to his wife and stood with his hand on her shoulder.
“If one good in my life helped me at all to another, I am the more grateful. If it put a truth into my mind, it was none the less the truth. And I am glad I am led to the full truth. The full truth is always good. My sister did not mean me to be grateful to her, but I can be grateful.”
“If there is a dry eye in the room,” said Evelyn, “it is very unfeeling.”
“There can’t be among the men,” said Miss Marcon. “They are always found to be less hard than women.”
“I think only strong men,” said Alfred, “and they are only less hard than good women.”
“I fear I am not a good woman!” said Jane. “I have never conformed to the regulations! I fear I have no hard core of righteousness within me! I am simply my independent cynical self. But it may be less annoying for other people.”
“There is not a strong man in the room,” said Miss Marcon, “though Victor may grow up into one. And Hetta is the only good woman.”
“They ought not to leave out strong women, ought they, Mrs. Ponsonby?” said Alfred, turning to Sabine, and breaking off suddenly, and sharply bending towards her. “Mrs. Ponsonby is ill!” He stood up and faced his friends. “I don’t think she is conscious; I don’t think she can hear what you say.”
Sabine was sunk into her chair, with her hands resting on its arms, and somehow having the same stillness as they, her head drooping forward and her face just hidden enough to hide that her eyes were also still.
Stephen went up to her and turned away, his lifted hand falling to his side.
“Look at Grandma!” said Victor, and did not look again.
There was a hush, a stir, the thought of what they had not seen.
Sabine had met Hetta’s outbreak with a start which shook her frame, and then sat still, braced from head to foot to meet it, her face responding to every change on her daughter’s. When Chaucer went to Hetta, she thrust her face forward with a sharp, uncertain light upon it, as if she looked on something which both seared and satisfied her soul, and then, with a sound almost of a satisfied sigh, relapsed with a single shudder and remained as she was seen.
Hetta never knew at which moment her mother had died, at which moment she had last looked on herself.
The guests made a movement to go, but were checked by John. They left the room, that Sabine might be carried away, carried from the room where she had been young and old, carried out of their life. It seemed that they had seen her for some time as at the point of her death. Her son and daughter, rising in their minds as her successors, seemed weak figures, dim and uncertain by Sabine. The house seemed to have a future, dim, flat, smooth, without extremes.
Stephen followed them, at ease, as usual, dealing with the death of an old woman come to her time to die, showing them for a moment their own deaths as natural and destined to be accepted thus. Hetta moved from one room to another as mistress of the house. She gave directions, easily, certainly, keeping her eyes from the rest, as if she felt that her self-exposure was lost in what had followed it. She went upstairs on some natural pretext, and did not at once return. Chaucer followed her, as if it was his right, John and Edith as if it was their duty.
The group in the drawing-room seemed without authority without the representatives of Sabine.
“We ought to congratulate France,” said Stephen.
“Congratulate?” said his sister. “That is clever of you, Stephen. We might not have thought of congratulation.”
“Congratulate?” said Jane, raising her eyes and her voice. “Why France more than anyone else? Oh, of course, because of her book! Oh, yes, of course.”
“We ought to congratulate Chaucer,” said Evelyn in a low tone. “Who feels he can do it?”
“How do we know that France wrote the book?” said Stephen, keeping his mouth grave. “Does she now acknowledge it?”
“France did write it,” said Chilton. “I don’t know how Aunt Hetta knew.”
“Ought we to talk about what Aunt Hetta knew?” said France. “Where shall we end?”
“She knew a great deal,” said Jane to Miss Marcon, her head again bent; “and we know it now.”
“Don’t we forget what is spoken in haste? Isn’t it as if it had not been said? I begin to think this can’t have been said.”
“Then you are successful in following the rule. I am afraid my mind is too firm in its grasp of things to conform to it.”
“I think I shall recall it,” said Evelyn, “when the first sharpness of memory is past.”
“Aunt Hetta may have spoken evil of the dead,” said Victor, with his father’s consciousness. “We don’t know at what moment Grandma died.”
“We know she spoke of her as living,” said Rowland.
“I hope no one will say it is better for her,” said Miss Marcon. “Of course it is not. It would have been better for her to renew her strength.”
“I feel sorry for Hetta,” said Jane, looking round to see if she had any following. “I don’t think she is necessarily a villainess. Feelings may become too much and break their bounds. Some people never have a real flood of feeling. Personally I must admit that I can imagine myself in her position.”
“We must not pity her,” said Miss Marcon. “I am sure she would not accept pity. I don’t know how people ever manage to give pity, when people never accept it.”
“Oh, how will you like Dr. Chaucer for an uncle?” said Jane to the young people.
“We have no experience of the relation,” said Chilton. “We come to it unprejudiced.”
“Will you call him Uncle Herbert?”
“I cannot say; Aunt Hetta’s wish will be law.”
“Aunt Hetta should be safe with him,” said France. “He admired her most at her worst moment. It was not until then that his feelings overcame him.”
“Grandma foretold that this party would be the death of her,” said Clare.
“Old people are fortunate,” said Evelyn. “Their speeches of that kind have so much chance of coming true; and it must be a pleasure to make them.”
“I think they are unfortunate,” said France. “To think of making such a speech, and then feeling that perhaps you have spoken the truth!”
“It is Hetta’s speech I am thinking of,” said Jane in an audible undertone.
“So are we all,” said France. “If it had not caused Grandma’s death, or rather been the last event in her life, what should we be doing about it?”
“Do look at Alfred,” said Miss Marcon to Stephen. “He is standing aloof, pale and grave. He thinks it is a solemn occasion: I do not know why it is not.”
Somehow it was not. The outbreak of Hetta overshadowed the death of someone known to be approaching death. The knowledge of all that was hidden in the house filled every mind. It was a relief when John and Chaucer returned, followed by the two women.
“Here are the three elder Ponsonbys, or rather the four,” said Evelyn, “for Chaucer is a Ponsonby now.”
“We are free to spend an hour with our friends,” said John. “You will forgive our going away. You see it had to be. It is a relief that my mother died without pain, and a regret that it has shocked and shadowed your time with us. I hold a strong brief for sudden death, and hope we may all do as well.”
“Shocked and shadowed our time with them,” said Miss Marcon. “Of course it has. And Alfred knows it.”
“How did Hetta know that France had written the book?” said Stephen, in a simply interested tone. “It was time we all knew it.”
“How did you know, Hetta?” said Chaucer, bending over Hetta and turning her face to the company.
“The book was based on the play, which France wrote and which we all saw acted,” said Hetta in a half exasperated tone, as if she thought everyone should have known it. “Of course I did not believe in the other Edith Hallam; and I read the book, thinking Edith had written it, and was shy about it, as authors are. Though why they are shy, I don’t know, for no one gives a thought to them. I can’t think how people can be so incurious and uninterested. We ought to read the books which attract attention in our own time. The fact that a book is being widely read should be enough.” Hetta’s voice had a rapid tonelessness, as if she did not wish to pause.
“Of course we ought,” said Miss Marcon at once. “And I am the worst. I expect people to read my books, for, if not, why do I write them? And then I do not read theirs, though I can’t have read them in other books, as they can have read mine. And so many of us have not read it. We are keeping down the sales. Hetta is much the best of us.”
“Much the best,” said Evelyn.
“We have not ever competed with her,” said his father.
“Do not praise her too much,” said Edith in a low tone, “or you will defeat your own ends.”
“I suppose you are feeling Aunt Hetta is a noble figure, France?” said Victor.
“I am rather. She shows great spirit in coming back.”
“She knew the best thing for her reputation.”
“If we all lived up to that, we should do well,” said Edith.
“Are we all to congratulate Hetta on her speech?” said Jane, keeping her mouth open after her words.
“I think we have all done so,” said Stephen.
“I have not quite got to that,” said Jane, with a slight twist of her lips.
“Aunt Jane gave a wry smile,” said Evelyn.
“And I notice her brother has not.”
“He has done so behind the scenes,” said Stephen, “or they would not have come back together.”
“It took their mother’s death to reconcile them, did it?”
“Well, Mrs. Ponsonby would not have died in vain,” said Miss Marcon.
“A noble cause is the right thing,” said Evelyn.
“We all seem entirely satisfied with what has happened!” said Jane.
“Yes,” said Miss Marcon, “I have spoken of that. It is only Alfred who knows about the shadow on us.”
“Do you think it was the shock of Hetta’s speech, that killed Mrs. Ponsonby?” said Jane to Stephen, going to extremes.
“I do not know. It would only have taken a slight thing to kill her.”
“Then it was not Hetta’s speech,” said Miss Marcon. “That was not a slight thing.”
“It does not seem to have had any effect on anyone!” said Jane. “I seem to be an exceptionally sensitive, shrinking creature. And we have not poured out enough congratulation on France. She is a most distinguished person for us to have in our midst.”
“We cannot pour it out,” said Chilton. “It would be emphasising Aunt Hetta’s speech. And Father would seem to be proving he was not jealous; Aunt Hetta would feel she might have done it before; and Grandma is dead.”
“Such good reasons,” said Miss Marcon.
“All our capacity for facing discomfiture has been used up by Grandma,” said Victor. “We have none over for this final and extreme occasion.”
“Though we appear to be gifted in that line,” said Clare.
“I think you are managing wonderfully!” said Jane. “I have been watching you with incredulous admiration.”
“We had better go,” said Rowland.
“In order that our gifts may not be put to too severe a test,” said Clare.
“My dear, they would not fail. It is the memory of them that will remain with us.”
“I like that way of putting it,” said Miss Marcon.
“But I was the one who thought of saying it,” said Jane. “It is absurd to go on taking in the situation, and not thinking of what they are going through. It is so unimaginative! It is better to put it in any way one can, than not at all. That is just thinking of oneself instead of them.”
“But so many things are that,” said Miss Marcon. “I think everything is; I think this is.” She ended too low to be heard and rose.
“It is time for us to go. We have had a lovely evening; I mean, we have enjoyed it all so much; I mean, we have been so glad to be at your side through everything. And of course there has been nothing. Except, of course, that Mrs. Ponsonby’s death has been everything. Stephen, it is a time for you to speak. People of rare words always do the best. It is like rare smiles.”
“I am glad I was here,” said her brother.
“It was indeed a good thing,” said John.
“I do not think it sounded so much better, and it is the kind of word that ought to be rare.”
“I am sure you must be longing to see the last of us!” said Jane. “Most people would hang about and think they were doing something, but we are clearer-sighted and do not deceive ourselves.”
“I think perhaps I will deceive myself,” said Miss Marcon, hesitating.
“You feel you can do something by your mere presence!” said Jane, turning her head in raillery, as she went to the door.
“I cannot say what I think I can do with my presence,” said Evelyn. “I will just come back in the morning and do it.”
“So will I, if I am welcome,” said his father.
“I wonder what Alfred thinks he is doing with his presence,” said Stephen to his sister. “He is doing nothing with anything else.”
“We must respect grief, dear, though it is known to be easy to be irritated by it.”
“I do not claim to do much by my presence,” said Chaucer, “but I may make another claim. I claim the right to stay as a potential member of the family.”
“I wish some other man had found Aunt Hetta irresistible at that moment,” said Clare.
“Would any man have done for her?” said Victor.
“I suppose so, if Dr. Chaucer did.”
“We are fortunate that any man found her irresistible. It was really not likely.”
“He has always found her so,” said Edith. “Her weak moment gave him confidence.”
“Something has evidently given it to him,” said France. “The pity is, that he seems to keep it.”
“So you will be mistress here,” said Miss Marcon to Edith. “You will have Mrs. Ponsonby’s place and Hetta’s: mistress will be the term. And you and I can have our life-long friendship. Do you remember that we began it on the day you came? I will even share Stephen with you, and I would do that for no one else.”
“You will forgive our seeming preoccupied,” said Hetta. “You see it cannot he helped.”
“Plain dismissal,” said Stephen, “and it had to be plain.”
“I see there is nothing Hetta cannot do,” said Miss Marcon. “I admire her more than I ever did.”
“Ah, Charity, rightly named!” said Rowland, half to himself, as he disappeared.
“The tears have started to my eyes,” said Miss Marcon. “I am weaker than you would think; it is absurd in a woman of my appearance. And really I am glad that Mrs. Ponsonby is taken and I am left.”
“I am glad I am left,” said France.
When the guests had gone, Hetta began at once to move about and give, directions. She had a hurried, absent manner and avoided meeting people’s eyes. There was enough to be done to maintain the appearance, and she held to it until they went to bed. Chaucer remained at her side, and she seemed to assume that her new situation counteracted the remembered scene.
The next day Muriel came downstairs, unaware of the changes in the house.
“Where is Grandma?” she said, when her father had read prayers, and Hetta had taken Sabine’s seat.
“She is gone, my child,” said John, taking the line of simple directness. “We shall not see her again.”
“Is she dead, Father? Is Grandma dead?”
“She died last night, with all of us round her, simply sitting in her chair. She had no pain and did not even know she was dying. It was the best way to die.”
The words, as they called up the scene, seemed to have no reason to call it up.
“Shan’t we ever see her again?”
“No, we shall not. But she had lived longer than most people, and had more in her life. So we must not grieve.”
“But I want to see her, Father; I want to see Grandma again.”
“Yes, of course you do. So do we all. But we can only think and talk of her.”
There was a pause.
“She was very old, wasn’t she?” said Muriel in a different tone. “Do people who are quite so old, want to live?”
“They do not mind dying as much as younger people.”
“But they do mind it a little, Father? Grandma did mind a little?”
“I think she did not. She did not even know about it.”
“No one else will die for a long time, will they?”
“I should think not; it is likely that no one will.”
“Then we shall all be the same, except for not having Grandma?”
“Yes, but we shall not feel it the same.”
“No, it will be quite different,” said Muriel, and was silent.
“And except for not having Aunt Hetta,” said Clare. “She is going to marry Dr. Chaucer, and go to live in his house.”
“Is she? Then does she like Dr. Chaucer?”
“Yes, of course she does, and he particularly likes her.”
“Well, he always looks at her, doesn’t he?”
“That will do, miss,” said Hetta with a laugh.
“Then won’t Aunt Hetta be in the house any more?”
“Not in the house, but she will come to see you, and you will go to see her.”
“Who will sit in Aunt Hetta’s place?”
“Edith.”
“And who will sit in Grandma’s?”
“I shall,” said John. “It is time I grew up and was the head of my own house.”
“Then it wasn’t Aunt Hetta’s house and Grandma’s?”
“It was. But now it is Edith’s and mine.”
“Is that better?” said Muriel.
“No, but we shall try to make it as good as we can.”
“Well, houses generally belong to a husband and wife, don’t they? Dr. Chaucer’s house will now, won’t it?”
“This is full power of speech,” said Victor. “Grandma has not lived and striven in vain.”
“It has come too late, in the established manner,” said France.
“I always talk—” Muriel broke off.
“What a prospect for the future!”
“The speech is cast in the forbidden form of question,” said Edith.
“Here is a thing that Muriel can do for Grandma,” said Chilton. “To learn the art of statement.”
“Will Aunt Hetta look after Dr. Chaucer’s house?” said Muriel, resuming the art at her disposal.
“Yes. It will be her house as well.”
“Then what will happen to Miss Bunyan?”
“We must ask her to come back and look after you,” said John in jest.
“There is something in the idea,” said Hetta in a serious tone. “Edith cannot go on teaching when I am gone. She will hardly have the time. She does not want to do too much.” Her concerned, almost propitiatory tone revealed her mind.
“I don’t remember why she left,” said John, “though I am naturally glad she cleared the way.”
“I remember,” said Clare.
“So do I,” said Chilton, “though I did not know how far the memory would lose its sting.”
Muriel gave a laugh.
“Muriel has stated that she remembers, in what way she can,” said France.
“There was some scene with Mater, which meant nothing, but had that result at the time,” said Hetta, implying that scenes might easily be of this kind.
“Wouldn’t it be all right for her to come back, now that Grandma will not be here?” said Muriel.
“Well, it was your grandmother who did not care for her,” said John.
“Will the house be just Father and Edith and Miss Bunyan and us?” said Muriel, leaning towards Clare and using an anticipatory whisper.