The Last and the First (10 page)

“I shall,” said his sister. “But I hope it will go no further. We shall do our best to keep apart.”

“And that is how you work together for its good?” said Eliza. “She could see no difference between success and failure. And it seems to be true of you both.”

“ Well, I am alone,” said Jocasta. “The saddest thing of all to be. My sons are gone and have no more troubles for themselves. It is I who have them, I who am old and unfit for them. Life can bear hardly on us. Death is the easier thing. Some are marked out for sorrow, and I am one of them.”

“For other things too,” said Erica. “For freedom and place and power. And the length of days that most of us would choose. Your sons might have put your fate before their own.”

“Ah, they would, my sons, the boys who made my youth. They have had too little, torn from me, unwilling to go. Your father was called a failure, but he had much that you had not. It has not been nothing to have you, but it has been nothing compared to having him. I have carried the want of him with me, I shall carry it to the grave. And now the first of them, my Hamilton, the support of my age, cut off by sickness in his prime! Yes, it happens to many, but why to him? Why to him, so content with his own kind of success? It will benefit others and not himself. They will be grateful, but not grateful enough. They will forget who gave them what they have, and take it as their right. I know it; I foresee it. There is nothing I don't know and see. So I will go and be alone. It is what I am. To appear to be anything else is to act a lie. You will be with each other, and I will be with no one. There is no one with whom I can be.”

She left them and left a silence, and her grandson broke it.

“We must hope that Grannie will outlive us. Her opinion of people only improves with their death. Few opinions improve much until then, and hers does not improve at all.”

“Sometimes she forgets they are dead,” said Amy. “And goes back to what she thinks of them.”

“It may have been so in Father's case. But it hardly will in Uncle Hamilton's. He leaves her what is his, instead of causing inroads in what is hers. And that will make a difference.”

“What will make a difference?” said Jocasta's voice. “I find I cannot be alone. I must be with you who do not want me, and whom I should not have to want. I can't have nothing and no one. I take what is left. That is what my life will be. What will make a difference, Amy?”

“Oh, Uncle's leaving you his money instead of taking yours, Grannie.”

“Oh, that is what it is. That is your thought, when he is dead, and my world is dark. Your world is not dark I see, it has a fresh light. When I said I was alone, my word was true. Yes, your uncle leaves what he had. And you will have it in the end. He wanted nothing. It will be for you who want so much, for you who have no right to it. I see it in your faces, the eagerness and the desire. I see it in your eyes.”

“No, you don't,” said Erica. “It is not there for you to see. It is to you that Uncle leaves what he had. It will belong to you, not to us. We could look in your eyes for the things you imagine in ours. We might say you have told us what they are.”

“The money will be mine. But it will not be spent on me. When do I spend money on myself? It will be used
for your good or to help your future. And you know it. And the knowledge set your thoughts and feelings working on it. I should like to meet other things in you, but I take you as you are. You have to take me as I am. And I know I am less than I was.”

“Can it be true?” murmured Osbert. “Could she ever have been more than this?”

“What was it, Amy? What did you say, Osbert? Something your sister can't repeat. And at this time in our lives! You don't seem to know what time it is. And it would not be fit for me to tell you. I had no thought of the money myself. It is a strange subject for the moment.”

“No, it is a natural one,” said Erica. “Death must bring money adjustment. It comes, laden with changes, and that is one of them.”

Jocasta threw searching eyes over her grand-children's faces.

“There is something I will ask you all. And you will give me true answers. I will begin with you, Osbert. How much do you feel your uncle's death?”

“About as much as he would have felt mine, Grannie. You know what his feeling would have been.”

“And you, Erica. How much do you feel it?”

“Perhaps less than he would have felt mine. But that may not be against me. I see it is sad that he is dead.”

“And you, Amy. Look at me and tell me the truth.”

Amy looked at the ground and told herself the truth, that her uncle would never be seen at school again.

“Oh, I don't know, Grannie; I am not sure. I think I feel as Erica does. It is sad that he is dead.”

“It is sad that he is dead,” said Jocasta, almost in mimicry. “It is sad that they are both dead, my sons who seemed so apart from each other, and were both so near
to me. They had different qualities, perhaps the opposite ones, but their mother understood them and valued them for what they were.”

“And knew what they were not,” murmured Osbert. “She saw their feet were of clay. And sometimes perceived it in other parts of them.”

“What did you say, Osbert? What was it, Amy? Answer me at once when I speak.”

“Oh—that you saw their feet were of clay, Grannie; and saw it—perceived it in other parts of them.”

“So, Osbert, that is what it was. That is how you talk to your sisters of men who were wiser than you, and are not able to answer. So I saw their feet were of clay? Do you ever turn your eyes on yourself?”

“No, I never do, Grannie. I am made entirely of clay. I ought not to have been made at all. I might see myself as others see me.”

“Well, cease to mutter to yourself. Hear yourself as others hear you. If you are ashamed of what you have to say, ask yourself why you say it. Look into your own heart and recognise what you see. There is something different about you all to-day. And it is not a day for betraying the hidden side of yourselves.”

“Which days are the ones for that?” said Erica. “I have never known them.”

“They say that sorrow is ennobling,” said Osbert. “So I suppose Grannie is ennobled. That is why her standard is so high.”

“Well, it is my own, and different from yours, perhaps different from everyone's. It is one of the things I have to accept. I must face them and go forward. To fail would be to fail myself. Well, Hollander, you have a sad old woman for a mistress.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Hollander, in sympathetic agreement.
“When my uncle died my grandmother was never to lift her head again.”

“Well, I must try to do a little better than that.”

“If you are able to, ma'am. In the other case no hope was entertained,” said Hollander with a faint sound of shock in his tone.

“I must think of my grand-children as well as of myself.”

“Well, youth has its eyes on the future, ma'am. My grandmother observed it in her dry vein.”

“And you don't connect me with the future?”

“No, ma'am,” said Hollander, smiling at the idea.

“I may have a little of it.”

“Yes, ma'am, with every hour of it an hour too much.”

“We should give ourselves to life as long as we have it.”

“Yes, ma'am, with thoughts on something very different.”

“Perhaps we should not dwell on our own state.”

“There would be reminders, ma'am, that would not escape you.”

“You think I can turn a clear eye on myself?”

“Yes, ma'am, when that is the direction. Otherwise I think few of us elude it.”

“Perhaps I see and feel too much for my time of life.”

“Well, ma'am, it is a case of now or never. When you can attend to it, ma'am, a registered packet has come for you. I hope I did right in signing the receipt. The postman was pressed for time.”

“It is from the lawyers. Some sort of document,” said Osbert. “What are you engaged in, Grannie?”

“In nothing. It is a copy of your uncle's will. They wrote that they were sending it. There won't be anything to say about it. I know very much what it must be.”

“It will only affect yourself,” said Erica. “But there may be some minor legacies that will have a human interest.”

“It will be short and clear,” said Jocasta, as she broke the seal. “There can be no question about it. ‘This is the last will and testament of me, Hamilton Grimstone, bachelor, of Egdon House, Egdon, Somerset.' Then some legal formalities and what you call minor legacies to servants and other dependants. And now the gist of the will. ‘I give and bequeath to my mother, Jocasta Grimstone, widow, all of which I die possessed in the aforesaid house which she owns and at present occupies. And all else of which I die possessed, namely my investments, securities and moneys at the bank, I give and bequeath absolutely to Hermia Heriot, spinster, of Egdon Hall, Egdon, Somerset, whom I wished to make my wife—' Hermia Heriot! The Heriots' eldest daughter! The mistress of the school! What does it mean? It can't mean what it says. It can't be meant as it stands.”

There was a pause. Hollander vanished from the room as if feeling his presence an intrusion, allowing his demeanour to change at the door to one of eager purpose.

“It does mean what it says,” said Osbert. “All wills are meant as they stand. And this one stands like this. There is something we have not known. Did Uncle see much of Miss Heriot?”

“He saw her at the school when he went there with Amy and me. He showed an interest in her both before and after they met. Both before and after; that tells its tale; the feeling was half imaginary. It can't have meant anything. He would not have kept it from his mother. What are we to do about it? It is clear that something should be done.”

“It seems she must have refused him,” said Erica.
“Of course she knew him very little. She may not want to take the money. It seems possible that she will not.”

“Most people want to take money,” said Osbert. “It gives them so much else that they want. This is an unusual case, but it follows the usual line. There is no other for it to follow.”

“It is too unusual to be accepted,” said his grandmother. “He must have made the will in a mood of emotion, and then omitted to alter it. It is a trouble to change a will. My poor boy, he went through that alone. But it could not have gone deep.”

“He may have wished it did,” said Erica. “Perhaps he wanted an outlet for feelings he liked to imagine. And he could not know that he was going to die, and that the will would take effect.”

“That is another way of saying it means nothing. That is, in itself. Of course it has its legal meaning.”

“It has,” said Osbert. “And it is the whole of its actual meaning. The money belongs to Hermia Heriot, as his other possessions belong to you. That is how he has apportioned his effects. Is the money very much? Have you any idea of the amount?”

“No definite idea. He inherited a fortune and added to it. He was reticent about the figures, but they were on an unusual scale. If Miss Heriot had known it, and known him better, we can't say what the result would have been.”

“But she would not have accepted him,” said Amy, unthinkingly, or rather saying what she thought.

“We shall never know what she would have done if she had seen more of him.”

Amy was silent on the probable result of this.

“We know nothing,” said Erica, “except how he felt to her or wished to feel.”

“It is true, poor boy! Oh, Hollander, you are there. You come and go without a sound.”

Hollander just smiled and inclined his head, and resumed the occupation he had left.

“How much have you heard of this matter? I suppose you know the whole?”

“It is chiefly snatches that reach me, ma'am,” said Hollander, not denying that he was receptive to these.

“We don't want it gossiped about behind the scenes.”

Hollander's smile deepened. “No ma'am. If gossip is in question, I am hardly the person to be cited.”

“Remember not to mention it. Or have you already done so?”

“No, ma'am, unless an incidental word may have passed my lips,” said Hollander, in a tone so incidental that it was hardly articulate.

“It will be all round the neighbourhood. But nothing could prevent it. There are things that can't remain a secret.”

“Yes, ma'am. It will not be the word to be applied.”

“We need not be conscious about it. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No, indeed, ma'am, that feeling is not on your side. The slur of being supplanted should rest on the person who causes it.”

“We have no grievance. People can do as they will with their own.”

“Yes, ma'am, it seems to be the case. But the word is hardly a misnomer.”

“Shall we be much poorer?” said Osbert. “Did Uncle contribute much to the household?”

Hollander continued his movements, but his eyes were still.

“We will talk about all of it presently,” said Jocasta, using a weary tone.

Hollander turned as if at dismissal, left the room and closed the door.

“Hollander has had a treat,” said Osbert. “A thing that can't be said of anyone else.”

“It does seem that Miss Heriot may waive her claim,” said Jocasta. “I feel I should in her place.”

“Why must we have places of our own?” said Erica. “We should do so well in other people's, so much better than they do themselves.”

“There is no reason in her inheriting anything. She can regard nothing as hers.”

“People do regard what they inherit as theirs. That is the meaning of inheritance.”

“As she did not accept your uncle, she has no moral claim.”

“Perhaps she knew she would have it anyhow,” said Amy, “and so didn't have to accept him.”