Ivy Compton-Burnett - A God and His Gifts

“Yes, and an old friend. I sometimes see her.”

“Why does she send the rent through you? She must know that Salomon does the accounts.”

“Must she? I don’t know how or why. I have not told her.”

“You must talk about something when you are with her.”

“That is true. But there are other topics. We should not be at a loss for them.”

“No. There would be many. You must both remember the past.”

“What do you mean? Oh, the book that was in the hall! You saw it and read the poem? Well, it did me no discredit. Or none on moral grounds.”

“I suppose the relation is now a formal one?”

“No, its roots are too deep. It dates from before my marriage.”

“I wonder it did not end in it.”

“Some people thought it would. For a time I was one of them.”

“Why did you not propose to her? You had the matter in your hands.”

“I took it into them. But it was also in hers.”

There was a pause.

“I suppose I should be grateful to her. So she determined the course of my life.”

“There is no need. She had no thought of it.”

“And you turned to the second best. I wonder if I have realised it. I think in a way I have.”

“Ada, I have not regretted it. I hope on the whole you have not.”

“I wonder you charge her any rent, when there is that between you. Oh, I daresay you don’t. Do you provide it yourself?”

“You seem to have your thoughts on the matter. You can decide.”

“Is the rent paid by cheque, Salomon?”

“No, I think it comes in money.”

“Then your father does provide it. Only cottagers pay in coin. Does it always come in that way?”

“You are talking to my father, Mother. I hardly remember how everything comes.”

“You remember how this does. Well, there is no reason why he should not help someone who needs it.”

“None,” said her husband. “I have never seen any. If I had, my life would have been different. And not only mine. I am as I am. That is why you and your sons are as you are. I need not say it again. You know the truth.”

“Oh, I do, Hereward. You have not hidden it. It is not the kind of thing you hide.”

“No, do not say it again,” said Alfred. “You are as you are, and it is why my daughter and her sons are as they are. Yes, we know the truth. I need not say it again either. I shall never say it again. I will say nothing more to-day. We will have a word with your mother and take our leave.”

Hereward gave no sign and accompanied them to the hall. And at first his family were silent.

“It is not strange that Father admires himself through everything,” said Merton. “It is what most of us do. It is strange that he does it openly. Most of us would not dare.”

“It shows we don’t really admire ourselves,” said Salomon. “He has the courage of conviction.”

“I don’t think I admire myself at all,” said Ada. “Perhaps not even as much as I might.”

“I don’t think I even might,” said Trissie, who had been silent.

“I daresay there is not much to admire. But I doubt if most people have much more.”

“I think they have less,” said Trissie.

“So do I,” said the three brothers.

“Oh, how worth while you make it seem! How worth while you make it in itself! I would not go back and unlive it. The good has outweighed the bad.”

“I felt it would,” said Hereward, in a quiet tone, as he returned. “I meant it should. I look back without regret. I do not see myself as a god.”

“Then how does he see himself?” murmured Salomon. “None but a god could be as he is, and remain exalted in all our eyes. Literature and legend prove it. And feeling for children is known to go with divine powers. Here is someone who illustrates it.”

“Raining,” said Henry, in an incidental tone, as he entered the room.

“We had only gone a few steps when it began,” said Nurse.

“Not a few,” said Henry, looking down at his feet, as if in concern for them.

“Anyhow you did not get wet.”

“He did,” said Henry, passing his hands down his coat.

“Only a few drops,” said Nurse.

“No, not a few.”

“So you don’t like the rain,” said Ada.

“Yes, he does. Very nice rain. Henry heard it.”

“But you did not have your walk.”

“No, it rained,” said Henry, contentedly.

“Come and tell Father about it,” said Hereward.

Henry went towards him, glanced at Joanna as he passed, and came to a pause.

“Poor Grandma very tired this morning.”

“Yes, she is. You must not trouble her.”

“Play game,” said Henry, observing the size of the gathering, and suggesting a beneficial course.

“No, we want to be quiet to-day.”

“Grandpa play,” said Henry, looking round the room.

“No, Grandpa is not here this morning.”

“Grandma want him,” said Henry, in a tone of remonstrance.

“Yes, she does. But he cannot come to her. He has been too ill.”

“Henry read to him. Then quite well again,” said Henry, ending on a rising note.

“Yes, he liked you to read,” said Hereward. “You will always be able to remember it.”

“Yes, Father play,” said Henry, finding the attitude amenable.

“No, we are not thinking of games to-day.”

“Not a nice day?” suggested Henry, seeking a reason for the blankness.

“Come and let us tell you about Maud,” said Merton.

“Very good girl. Not stamp and cry. Not at all spoilt,” said Henry, openly fore-stalling information.

“What shall we tell her about you?” said Hetty.

“Send her his love,” said Henry, in a tone of ending the matter.

“A letter, my lady,” said Galleon, offering a salver to Ada.

“Grandma my lady,” said Henry looking at them.

“And one for you, Sir Hereward.”

“One for you, sir, ” corrected Henry.

“He does not miss much,” said Galleon.

“Oh, yes, he knows everything,” said Henry.

“I think they have had enough of you,” said Nurse.

Henry turned to Hereward and climbed on his knee.

“Whom do you love?” said Hereward.

“Galleon,” said Henry, with feeling. “And dear Grandpa best.”

“You will not see Grandpa again,” said Hereward, in a quiet tone.

“Oh, no,” said Henry, easily.

“You will not forget him, will you?”

“See him tomorrow. Not forget.”

“It is no good, Sir Hereward,” said Nurse. “He is too young to understand.”

“Only say sir ”, said Henry, with some impatience.

“He likes the old order,” said Hereward.

“He is wise,” said Salomon. “There seems little to be said for the end of it.”

“Ah, my dear father! We saw things and thought of them differently. But at heart we were at one. A part of myself and my life is torn away.”

“Poor Father!” said Henry, looking up at him.

“Yes, poor Father! But it is poor Grandma most of all.”

Henry got down and went to Joanna, patted her knee and looked up into her face, doing what he could to compensate her.

“Grandma better now?” he suggested, hardly confident of his success.

“Yes, you have made me feel better.”

“But not well; no. Henry tell her something.”

“What have you to tell me?”

“Once upon a time there was a little boy,” said Henry, after a pause.

“And is that the whole of the story?”

“Yes. Not any more.”

“Well, now we can go upstairs,” said Nurse.

“No. Show her the picture. Quite safe in your bag. Draw it himself.”

“Oh, yes, in my reticule,” said Nurse, accustomed to interpreting primitive speech. “Yes, I will leave you to show it to your grandmamma.”