Daughters and sons, p.21
Daughters and Sons, page 21
“It is blessed to give,” repeated Sabine.
“It seems so,” said Edith, “as the person has done it twice.”
“The person!” said Sabine in a tender tone, taking up the paper.
“I never knew people so calm over such an event,” said Hetta, looking from one to another.
“They say it is easy to get used to pleasant things,” said Edith, “and a thousand pounds is so very pleasant.”
“It is, my dear, it is,” said Sabine, looking up over her glasses. “But it is blessed to give.”
“It is blessed to receive as much as this,” said John, with his forced liveliness. “It is blessed to see the obstacles rolling away and the future clear.”
“Yes, yes, we know, my son,” said Sabine. “There is no need to say it. We know, all of us who need to.” She rose to leave the room, and on passing Edith, laid a hand on her shoulder and at once withdrew it. “We do not need to be told.”
Hetta observed the instinctive action, and saw a sudden wave of comprehension surge over Edith’s face. She waited for her brother and his wife to leave her, and sat alone with her thoughts. She saw that light had come to Edith on the matter of the gifts to her husband; she thought of the words and action which had shed the light. She had not sorted the letters without doing so as her mother’s daughter, though Hetta never broke the accepted code. She knew that Edith heard from a publisher, and, struck by a thought, she rose and found a paper. She saw by an advertisement that the same firm had issued the book by Edith’s namesake, which had won the prize. The amount of the prize was that of the sums which had come to her brother. Many things rose up before her and fell into place. The scene when she surprised her mother tampering with the letters; her mother’s subsequent willingness that Edith should marry her son; Edith’s willingness to marry him; her mother’s feeling to Edith—it all stood in relation and made a whole.
Later in the day she drove to the town on some regular errand, and obtained the book by Edith’s namesake, or, as she now believed, by Edith. She read it in her room, assigning it to her brother’s wife, but found that the book was based on the play which France had written and which they all had seen. Her mind was swift, and the lines of the truth were clear. She saw her mother’s mistake, the cover which her niece had taken, Edith’s belief that John had married her without ulterior motive; saw how her own life was altered by the blind and blindly crossing forces.
When she met her family, she felt an urge to probe the hidden danger.
“I have mapped out the uses for the thousand pounds. It has been even easier the second time. The point of the sum seems to be that it should fall in regularly.”
“Twice is the right number of times,” said Chilton. “It would not do to form the habit. Our benefactor has naturally broken it.”
“What is the good of postponing what will be the worse for the postponement?”
“You have found what good it is,” said Clare, “and found it, as you say, easily, and would choose to continue to do so.”
“You seem up in arms for the benefactor, as you call him,” said Hetta, smiling.
“It is natural to be prejudiced in his favour.”
“If you mean things like economies and discomforts,” said Chilton, “they are far from being worse for postponement.”
“I hope you will find that is so,” said Sabine. “We must remember your view. It is the right one, but you must hold to it.”
“Postponement of something may mean avoidance of it,” said John. “And it must mean the hope of it, and hope is sweet.”
“What do you think, France?” said Hetta. “You are not often so silent.”
“I think with Father and Grandma and Clare and Chilton. It hardly needed saying again.”
“I wonder if we shall discover the benefactor. I should like to pry and probe and bring him to light.”
“Surely you would not,” said Chilton, “when you have used the money, and the condition of doing so was ignorance.”
“What a proper young man!” laughed his aunt. “I have not used the money for myself. It would make no difference to me, if it was forfeited.”
“Your aunt said she would like to discover, Chilton,” said Alfred. “She did not say she thought of doing so. We are all in her place.”
“They cannot understand anything that is said to them,” said Hetta. “It must be heavy work to teach them. I would rather do everything else, as I do.”
“People have to do what they can, Miss Ponsonby. I could not do everything else.”
“Well, let us return to the subject. Has anyone any suspicion? Have you, Edith?”
“No, do not let us return to it,” said Clare. “Let us by all means avoid it. We see the result of not doing so.”
“Our suspicions could only be of the pleasantest,” said John, “but we are not allowed to have them.”
“The subject seems to trouble you all,” said Hetta. “Surely Edith has something to say?”
“It does not trouble me,” said John. “It fills me with relief and thankfulness. I do not wish for more congenial feelings.”
“Let Edith speak,” said Hetta.
But someone else wished to do this.
“Can I speak to you, Mrs. Ponsonby?” said Miss Blake at the door.
“Why, yes, of course, Miss Blake. I hope nothing is amiss. Is it Muriel?”
“No, indeed it is not. It is something else, someone else. I would rather not speak of it; I hardly know what I can do.”
“I hardly know either,” murmured Chilton.
“I have no choice but to say something. I must ask to leave at once. I do not know how I sound.”
“We do not know either, Miss Blake,” said Hetta. “Can you not be a little clearer?”
“I cannot; I must ask indulgence; I do ask it. There is not only myself involved.”
“You cannot go like that, when we have come to know you,” said John. “Neither of the boys has annoyed you?”
“No, indeed not. I really cannot explain.”
“It was gallant to attempt the impossible,” said France. “So Muriel is again at the beginning.”
“Has anyone been in the house but ourselves?” said Sabine, with weary shrewdness.
“I am glad Victor is here,” said Chilton, “or suspicion might have fallen on him.”
“The man came about the roof,” said Hetta, “and I saw him myself, as usual. The woman came about the carpets, and I saw her. Dr. Chaucer was coming to bring some books, and I suppose I shall see him. I know no more.”
“And you now see Victor,” said Chilton. “My brother is cleared—cleared!”
“Let me go and talk to Miss Blake,” said Edith. “I must have the most understanding of her problems.”
“That is no good,” said Hetta, looking after them. “I had better have gone on managing the matter, as I manage everything. It is the only thing that works.”
“But you were not managing it,” said John. “It was baffling you, as it was baffling us all.”
“Do you suppose Edith is doing any more?”
“She cannot be doing less, and Miss Blake seemed willing to go with her.”
“Well, if Miss Blake does leave, either Clare or France will teach Muriel. I will not have another stranger in the house; I have made up my mind.”
“It seems she is leaving,” said Chilton. “That did emerge.”
Edith and Miss Blake had reached the schoolroom.
“Is it Dr. Chaucer?” said Edith.
Miss Blake stared at her in silence.
“Did he do anything worse than propose? That is said to be the greatest honour a man can do a woman, so you should not resent it too much.”
“He came up here—”
“Of course. That was the place to find you. But did he do worse than propose?”
“No—yes—well, yes, he did worse. He went too far, considering I had not accepted him, that he did not wait—”
“Of course he should have waited. It was worse than proposing, not to wait. It must have been trying.”
“Yes, it was trying,” said Miss Blake with her normal terseness.
“How did he do when you refused him?”
“He did fairly well,” said Miss Blake in a low, quick tone, dropping her eyes. “And he had offered me all he had; I must remember it; I will remember it.”
“I should forget it. It is what he would like, and I see you want to consider him. It is not as good as it sounds, to be offered all a person has.”
“Did he ever propose to you?” said Miss Blake.
“It is odd it should be so awkward to admit that someone has offered you everything. It doesn’t sound anything to be ashamed of.”
“One feels ashamed,” said Miss Blake very low. “One wonders if one has done anything—but no.”
“It is odd too that it should be awkward to tell anyone he is not all the world to you. It is really a great deal to expect.”
“Does he always propose to the governess?” said Miss Blake in a lightened spirit. “Does it throw light on the changes?”
“I have only met Miss Bunyan, and she is his niece and can be his housekeeper anyhow.”
“Well, I shall not supplant her.”
“It would be unfair to her to accept him. It is a pity we did not think of that reason.”
“I have only had one proposal in the house. You fared twice as badly. I have nothing to make a fuss about; I am ashamed of making a fuss. But I think I must go; I should have to meet him; I feel I have given him away; and your telling me what you have, does not make it better.”
“No. One’s being the one woman in the world to him would have been his excuse. And it was not his excuse. I wonder where we come on the list. I hope we were fairly high.”
“You are one in advance of me. But it was hardly fair, your being here first.”
“If he gets so much worse every time, think what our successors will suffer! You won’t stay for their sakes?”
“No,” said Miss Blake, in her normal low, terse tones, “I could not do it. Perhaps a better woman could; I cannot. I am doing the second-rate thing and running away. Perhaps I could not be behaving worse.”
“It sounds as if you could be easily replaced, but you know it is not the case.”
“And there are other reasons; I did not tell Mrs. Ponsonby.”
“Oh, of course, the post is not possible. I did not know you saw it as it was. If your eyes are open, of course you cannot stay. I don’t see how Muriel can have any education. What reason shall I give for your going? Is Dr. Chaucer to have his due?”
“He may have his due,” said Miss Blake after a moment, shaking Edith’s hand and going with an air of knowing what she did, out of the room and out of her life.
Edith went down to the family.
“Miss Blake is going as suddenly as Miss Bunyan. But Dr. Chaucer is playing a different part. He offered her a home before she decided to go, and not after.”
There was a pause.
“Proposed to her?” said Clare.
“Yes, and she did not like the manner of his doing it, and will not be where she may meet him.”
“Proposed!” said Sabine, her voice dying away after its first sharpness, as if the scene were coming before her eyes.
“What utter nonsense!” said Hetta, who was standing against the chimney-piece, looking cold and aloof. “What silly trumpery! You did not believe it? Why does she not say she wants to leave, without putting it on to a false, romantic footing? I would soon have had some truth out of her, if I had dealt with it.”
“You would,” said Edith. “The truth soon came out.”
“Surely truth is what we have from Miss Blake,” said Victor.
“I am going to have this from her; truth or not,” said Chilton. “I am enchanted by the scene which is brought before my eyes.”
“Is it brought before your eyes?” said France. “You are fortunate. I cannot imagine it.”
“How absurd of her!” said Sabine, who saw the whole thing as it was, and impatiently excused Chaucer and more impatiently condemned Miss Blake. “Refusing one provision for herself is not a reason for giving up another.”
“Oh, enough of it,” said Hetta. “She has her reasons for leaving, and if anyone wants to know them, I will find them out. But it is not worth while; I do not wish her to stay; I don’t want fibbings and falseness in my house. It is not fair to our friends to have cock-and-bull stories made about them out of nothing. She must be a woman who thinks a man is proposing to her, if he is polite in passing on the stairs.”
“I hardly think it happened on the stairs,” said Clare.
“It quite well may have. Dr. Chaucer was bringing some books, and would not have met her anywhere else. But why be so literal? If you would be less so, and Miss Blake more, I should have an easier house.”
“You seem in an odd mood, Hetta,” said John. “Don’t you feel yourself?”
“Of course I feel myself. If I did not, things would soon show it. But I do not know how I can manage, if I am to be confronted by things done behind my back. I did not want Miss Blake to go at the moment; I am not prepared for another stranger.”
“It is no good to have someone who is unsettled.”
“She would not have been unsettled, if I had dealt with her.”
“She was clearly unsettled when she appeared at the door,” said Victor. “It is the word for her state.”
“Oh, my dear boy, if you don’t know what I mean, you don’t. I won’t try to teach you.”
“You could have interviewed Miss Blake yourself,” said John. “You did not suggest it.”
“How could I suggest it, when there was not a moment? The two of them disappeared”—Hetta gave a laugh, as if recalling the scene—“before anyone could get in a word. Not that Edith did not mean to help; she did not understand the workings of the house; that is all. A house is a complicated organism and needs understanding.”
“I don’t know why our house is so much more complicated than other houses.”
“Think of it, and you will know.”
“Why not go after Miss Blake and see what you can do now?”
“Oh, Edith has surely not done her work with as little thoroughness as that!”
“Perhaps the work I could do with most success,” said Edith, “would be to take Muriel beyond the beginning.”
“That would be a real help,” said Hetta. “It is something no one else could do. I should be sorry to attempt it.”
“Edith may be sorry to attempt it too,” said Clare.
“It would be kind of you, my dear,” said Sabine.
“Now why so kind?” said Hetta. “Am I so kind to organise everything for everyone, and do the thousand and one things which come to my hand every day?”
“I hardly think you are,” said her brother, in the cool, drawling tone which marked his rare loss of temper. “You want recognition to an extent which constitutes a reward.”
“Why should I not have reward?” said Hetta, in an easy tone with another note underneath. “Why should you want people to work without it? You want reward yourself for what you do; I never knew anyone want more: and you will go to any length to get it too.” Her tone became ruminative and she gave a slow smile. “I don’t know nothing about you. Why should your sister be so different? Why should you want her to be?”
“Edith and Clare and France will take your duties off you, if you wish. It would be nothing for the three.”
“Nothing for the three!” said Hetta with almost a scream in her voice, though she hardly raised it. “Nothing for the three! Of course it would be nothing. How could it be anything, when it is generally done by one? You show what you think of it. That is not the way to prove it does not count. Though why you should want to prove it, I do not know. I have never tried to prove that your work does not count, or done anything but help you with it.”
She ended with tears in her voice, and Sabine kept her eyes from her face, as if she could not bear the sight.
“I do not want a third part of Aunt Hetta’s duty,” said France. “It would not be nothing to me. I did not know duty was ever nothing, and a third is a large proportion.”
Sabine turned on France a look almost of gratitude.
“You know a woman’s work is the highest in the world, Father,” said Chilton. “You have said it in your books, in the hope that it may be immortal. You must not be too different in your books from your life.”
“He thinks the work should be divided by three, anyhow,” said Hetta. “That is a better summing up of it than any in his books, I think.” She drew in her brows, as if recalling the passages.
The door opened and Miss Blake stood just within it, and spoke swiftly, deep and low.
“I have come to say goodbye. To thank you for your kindness. For your friendship. To ask you to let me hear of Muriel. I thank you for that and all other kindness; I say goodbye and thank you.”
The door closed.
“Will she want the trap?” said Sabine, breaking the tension and showing she had not suffered from it.
“Grandma has freed our tongues,” said Chilton. “It is a pity she did not do it a minute earlier.”
“I hope the silence was eloquent,” said France. “I should think it was.”
“Ought we to send Muriel to help her to pack?” said Clare. “It seems an accomplishment which comes in useful.”
“It is only unpacking she has been taught,” said Chilton. “When the time comes to pack, things have become strangely different.”
“Muriel, here is a chance to learn to pack,” said Victor. “It is a rarer opportunity.”
“And Grandma would wish you to make the most of Miss Blake until the last,” said Clare.
“Would you like to go and help Miss Blake, Muriel?”
“No, thank you, Grandma.”
“Are you sorry she is going?”
“I don’t mind, Grandma.”
“She has been very kind to you, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“Do you feel you have learnt anything from her?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
“What have you learnt?”
Muriel paused, burst into laughter and struggled into speech.
