Ivy Compton-Burnett - A Heritage and its History

“So Father’s heart was not with us,” said Ralph. “That seems to explain a good deal.”

“What are you whispering?” said Simon. “I suppose you do not say it aloud, in case we should hear. Well, it may be a good reason.”

“Was Father’s personality here as well as his heart?” said Graham. “That was not with us, if this is what it is. No wonder he was glad to return, when so much of him was left behind. It must have been awkward to be without it.”

“Well, we know it was,” said Naomi.

“My Naomi is more herself,” said Simon. “Our home gives its help to all of us.”

“It must give the least to her,” said Ralph.

“You cannot leave it unsaid? Ah, well, you have been through a disturbing time.”

“I thought Father’s personality was leaving us again for the moment,” said Graham. “We are used to being without it, but where would it go? It would hardly pay a visit to the other house.”

“It was never there,” said Simon, as he overheard. “It never found it a home. It was something torn in two.”

“It is strange that a house should absorb a human being,” said Fanny. “I could have made my home under any roof.”

“If I had not prevented it,” said her husband. “But I could not see you or your children there. To me it was hardly a shelter for you.”

“You saw it as the one we were to have. There was to be no other.”

“I wonder if I did,” said Simon, almost to himself. “Did something tell me that my place was here, that my service to it made it mine?”

“Not until Marcia told you. It is one of the things you learned from her.”

“Walter, you are glad to be here again? It is your home as well as mine?”

“You know I grew up here with you.”

“But I did not,” said Fanny. “The house may be too much for me, as it was for my sister. And as it seems to be to my children.”

“It will be other things,” said Simon. “It is many more.”

“What are they?” said Ralph. “I don’t mean I do not see them. But I like to have things put into words.”

“It is beautiful and complete in itself, and tells of a generous life lived in it for centuries.”

“Lived by whom?” said Naomi.

“By a family who thought of the people about them, and strove to meet their needs.”

“And looked for return in good measure. They arranged for the generous life. They must have approved of it.”

“What do you say, Deakin?” said Walter. “You are the authority here.”

“Well, there was dependence on the large house, sir, when there was such a thing. There was no call on people to be generous. And I would not have applied the term to many.”

“And now they have what they need?”

“Yes, sir, and so the term is not in question.”

“I am glad of that,” said Walter. “I don’t like to think of human generosity. I can imagine what a strain it would be. I have never had anything to spare, and it would be one then. But I fear I am a person who finds it difficult to give.”

“You would not have given your mite, if you had been the widow?” said Graham.

“Not unless I had known the credit I should have. I think the mite did well for her. But I feel I should not have had it.”

“Hamish has not had enough for what he has done,” said Julia.

“If he had, we could not accept it,” said Graham. “And he meant us to do that.”

“Or Marcia did,” said Fanny.

“Well, it was the same thing, Mother.”

“Yes, it had come to be.”

“Hamish likes to be led,” said Walter. “I should like it myself, if anyone would lead me. We need not stress it too much.”

“We are not doing so,” said Fanny. “We are like you, and do not want to think of human generosity.”

“He did not wish for credit,” said Simon. “Should we have in his place?”

“We should not have been in it,” said Naomi. “That shows how we should have wished for it.”

“It would have been my reason for being in it,” said Ralph.

“It was not his,” said Simon.

“It seems odd that he should have the title and not the place. Not even Marcia can help that. And it will go to their descendants.”

“Either his branch or mine will be without a son in the end. The two will be united. I have no fear.”

“I suppose you would be glad, if he had no son?”

“I had not thought of it. I see it would simplify things.”

“Would you like to be Sir Simon?”

“If it fell to me. But it will not. And enough has done so.”

“Father’s imagination has been at work,” said Ralph to his sister.

“Well, why should it be idle? And it has not gone far beyond the truth.”

“It has had no reason to. Mine would have been of little use, if it had done no more.”

“Well, I daresay it has done you good, whatever it has done,” said Simon. “I think being carried beyond ourselves carries ourselves further.”

“This change that has come over Father! How far can we depend on it? Suppose we put it to the test and found it fail! I wonder he does not feel conscious about displaying it.”

“He is too happy to care,” said Naomi.

“And why should I disguise it?” said Simon. “I did not disguise my unhappiness. And one is as natural as the other. I have my home and my family, and little fault to find with either. And they fit each other, as I felt they would.”

“We shall soon have to pay Father a return compliment,” said Ralph. “I cannot be the one to do it. I have not his gift for carrying off a personal change. I cannot be his true son. Well, I have never thought I was. And neither has he.”

“What are you saying about me?”

“That I am not your true son, sir.”

“Well, all we have to do is to be ourselves.”

“This above all—“said Julia. “And we know what follows.”

“Is Father true to himself in this house or the other?” said Graham. “If in this one, it follows that in the other he was false to every man. Though perhaps less to the women.”

“I find I almost like the falseness better,” said Ralph. “So it is true that we can like people for their weaker side.”

“You hardly seemed to,” said Naomi. “And when we do that, it is generally their only side. This case is by itself.”

“Well, I must be one of those people who love the old days. And I did not suspect it.”

“You must remember that my youth in this house is the old time to me,” said Simon.

“And to your mother, my son,” said Julia. “You left your real self behind in it. I waited for it to return, for your children to see it, and could not have waited much longer. But when we found it here, waiting for us, I was not surprised. Your mother had understood.”

“And not my wife?” said Simon.

“Well, you had to suffer the lot that carried your livelihood,” said Fanny. “I could not see you as the martyr it seems you were. If that was failing as a wife, I failed. And if your attitude was failing as a husband, you failed also. Yes, what is it, Deakin?”

“A telegram, ma’am. It has come this moment. The boy is waiting.”

Simon tore open the envelope and read the words.

“‘Hamish ill with heart trouble. Very little hope. Marcia Challoner.’ ”

There was the silence, the grasp of the truth, the effort to rise to suspense. Julia was the first to speak.

“His mother is with him.”

“And his wife,” said Naomi.

“It is all he can have,” said Simon, thinking, as he spoke, that his father was not, and seeing that others thought it.

“Ought we to go to them?” said Fanny. “Would they wish it?”

“We cannot know,” said Graham. “And you might be too late. Other word will follow.”