The Last and the First (6 page)

“Then it does what people are not able to.”

“Amy, you are not so stupid,” said Jocasta. “Why are your reports so poor? Perhaps Miss Heriot will alter them. Though I suppose it would mean altering
you.
”

“I am not one of the things she wants to alter.”

“Education ought to have some result. Or why does everyone have it? What do you think about it, Hollander? Do you feel it did anything for you?”

“It may have, ma'am, in proportion to what it was.”

“You have managed well. You can feel you have had success.”

“Well, ma'am, if you would apply the term.”

“You have light work and earn a good living,” said Jocasta, suggesting that she would.

“It is honest employment, ma'am. And a living as an adjunct can hardly be dispensed with.”

“Well, it is not,” said Jocasta, as if it was far from being so. “You can have very little to complain of.”

“Well, ma'am, it might be a case of nothing or everything.”

There was a pause.

“You mean you would choose to do different work?” said Jocasta.

“Well, if there was choice, ma'am, it would hardly fall on the manual. I am not ashamed of a taste for leisure.”

“So I have seen,” said Jocasta, offering no support to pride in it. “So surely this work is right for you. It is less arduous than most.”

“And accorded less esteem, ma'am. I admit I don't concede it myself.”

“To what kind of work do you concede it?”

“To that which is done at a desk, ma'am, and nearly approaches leisure. I had no chance of the line myself, and so remain what you see.”

Jocasta made no comment on what she saw.

“I find myself in a state of trepidation, Mamma. I regret my rashness in imposing my presence on this company. It seems to offer me but a dubious welcome.”

“They will be glad to see you. They like to have some men. And I don't want to be alone in this atmosphere. It is more forbidding than I thought.”

“Than your memory of it,” said a soft, flat voice. “Yes, a memory remains itself. We find it has travelled with us. We are in the power of the past. How do you do, Mrs. Grimshaw? Tell me of yourself.”

“Grimstone. No wonder you forget. We have not met for so long. I felt such a stranger here, that I took a moment to recover. It means I should come more often.”

Miss Murdoch stood with her eyes on Jocasta's, as if to hold them. She was a small, spare, elderly woman with a deep, grey gaze produced from a plain, lined face, and a suggestion about her that nothing mattered much.

“Ah yes, our paths lie apart. It is when they cross that we see how far apart they lie. And mine is dedicated and yours is free. And that does not draw them closer.”

“We should be grateful for the dedication. Nothing else has the same results.”

“Results? Are we to think of them? Or to keep our minds from them as points of danger? What do you feel about it? Tell me your thoughts.”

“It is best to have good ones in anything we undertake. Or why do we undertake it?”

“And what would good ones be? What do we mean by
them? What do you mean? By good ones you mean the most accepted, those that are recognised? That is what you mean?”

“I hope there are some in Amy's case. I would not criticise the kind.”

“Amy? Amy Grimstone would it be? Yes, you would share the name. It quivers like a thread through the years and adds to the bond.”

“You will let me talk of Amy herself. She has been with you for some time. I hope she gains what she should.”

“Gains?” said Miss Murdoch, drawing in her brows. “Gets something for herself to add to her, to be her own? Now, if there is gain, there is giving. We come to what you mean. You mean, do we give her anything? What do we give?”

“Well, perhaps I do. It can be put in that way.”

“Time, interest, effort,” said Miss Murdoch, looking before her. “They are in our gift. And our hope and thought, our sufferance, if need be. She must gain something I think. Do you not think with me?”

“Well, I hope she must. If so we should see it before long. This is my son, Amy's uncle. You know she has no parents.”

“Do I know? Should I have known? Well, it must sometimes be. We take what comes of it. Something must come. We accept it when it is there.”

“What would you say it is in Amy's case? It seems that I should know.”

“Does it? Or would you look aside? Let others deal with the innocent need, the lack of the natural basis, the want in a young life. It may give its strength. It has been known to give it. I have seen something of difference, a vein of independent thought. Have you seen it?”

“I can't imagine it in Amy's case,” said Jocasta, as if
this would prevent it, as it was probable that it would. “She and her brother and sister are the children of the son I lost. I am a widow with a life behind me. I give them what I can.”

“What you have left. What you have to give. You give it and can give no more.” Miss Murdoch lifted a hand and moved with a muted step towards sounds that heralded the concert. “And it does what it can. It is theirs as it was yours. It is given.”

“I fear to take a place from someone with a claim to it,” said Hamilton, looking round. “An unbidden guest should remain within his rights.”

“They are glad for the seats to be filled. Why should they want them empty?” said Jocasta, taking the one that suited her, and motioning him to her side. “The state of things is clear.”

“Then I may feel I am accommodating as well as accommodated,” said her son, in an audible tone, looking about him.

“Yes,” said Miss Murdoch, with an open smile. “It is clear, and we do not try to disguise it. We let the truth appear. We let it justify itself. We are not afraid of truth.”

Jocasta glanced about her, as if she did not underestimate this courage, and settled down to show the deportment expected. Her son found the quality of the concert as Amy had foretold, and failed to respect its claims.

“Miss Murdoch's talk might be designed to obscure her meaning rather than convey it.”

“It might be and is. But leave it for the moment. She notices more than appears.”

“Is that Miss Heriot at the side? The tall, dark, upright woman standing by herself? It seems it must be.”

“I think it is. But that is enough. The interval will come.”

It came, and Jocasta rose and moved to Hermia, with no thought of disguising the purpose of her presence.

“I think you are Miss Murdoch's partner? I am glad to meet you. I hope you can give me a moment?”

“As many moments as you please. They are all my own. Too many to have any meaning. A partner is what I am supposed to be. I hardly know what I am. Miss Murdoch is not afraid of the truth. I will not be either.”

“It is not as you thought it would be? Perhaps you put your hopes too high. It took strong reasons on both sides to lead to a scheme like this.”

“There was the need of the school for material help. And my father met it. But the reason for me was my own. I was to put the whole thing on another basis, to save its future. I could do it. I see how it could be done. But my help is not wanted or welcome. I am to make no change. And there can't be progress without it.”

“It must come to all things in the end. Amy told us you were trying to make it.”

“Amy? Your daughter, your grand-daughter? Ought I to know her? Which form is she in?”

“I am not sure,” said Jocasta, finding she shared the vagueness concerning Amy that seemed to mark those in charge of her. “The school has a good past. Is there any hope for the future?”

“It depends on the present. And how much hope lies there? Things can't go on as they are. They don't remain at a standstill. Did you notice the standard of the concert? Or pay no attention to it? I hope you closed your ears.”

“I will admit I was alive to it,” said Hamilton, with a smile. “Ungracious though the admission may sound in someone made welcome to it. I am deriving pleasure from it on other grounds.”

“I am deriving it on only one ground. That my family
is not here. It was a struggle to achieve my escape. You would hardly know how great. And a good deal was done for me against the family will. Failure asks more of me than I thought to face.”

“And of your honesty and your courage. But I feel neither will fail. We know that both have been tried.”

Miss Murdoch approached with hand upraised, indicating return to their seats.

“The high water mark of a concert may be the interval,” murmured Hamilton, as they took them. “If it encroached on the time, the gain outweighed the loss.”

After the concert tea was handed by the girls to the guests, who were uncertain whether it was a grave or a festive occasion, and were not helped to a decision. Amy chose an unobtrusive part as members of both her worlds were present, and although possessed of two personalities, she had the use of none. Hamilton provided his mother with a seat, and moved about among the guests.

“Who is the man who is with you, Amy?” said a girl.

“Oh, he is some sort of relation who lives with us,” said Amy, not prepared to go nearer to the truth.

“Why does he live with you?”

“To get rich more quickly,” said Amy, in a confidential manner, dropping her voice. “It saves the expense of a home. Or I believe that is what it is.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“None. He has never done any.”

“We heard you call him ‘Uncle'.”

“Oh, well, we do. He is so much older than we are.”

“And he called your grandmother ‘Mamma'.”

“Oh, he does sometimes. He often does odd things.”

“I wonder what the reason is.”

“Oh, I suppose it satisfies some kind of want in him,” said Amy, lifting her shoulders.

“Perhaps he is illegitimate?”

“No, of course he is not.”

“But how can you tell? You would not be told about it.”

“Oh, I have heard what he is, but I forget,” said Amy, feeling she had better not have done so, and foreseeing problems in the future. “There is no mystery about him, and I daresay he might be worse. I will go and get them some more tea.”

“Do you want us to come and help you?”

“No, my grandmother would like me to do it myself,” said Amy, fearing filial behaviour in Hamilton, and knowing she must always fear it.

“Here is an arresting sight,” he said to his mother, “and I should hazard not a common one. The two headmistresses standing together in conference.”

“This is my little grand-daughter,” said Jocasta, ushering Amy forward, with a feeling that an introduction might be effected, as one seemed to be needed. “I daresay you will find you really know her.”

“No, I shall not. I find I do not,” said Miss Murdoch, smiling at Amy. “Knowledge comes with—what shall I say?—with knowledge. When she reaches my form it will come to us, the knowledge of each other. Meanwhile I will not pretend to it. It is not our custom to pretend.”

Jocasta did not disagree.

“I know her by sight. I see her when I go through the classes,” said Hermia, also smiling at Amy. “I can go so far without pretence.”

“And she has seen you,” said Hamilton. “And given us an impression of you as far as her powers permit.”

“Ah, the powers will grow,” said Miss Murdoch. “They will grow as she does, with her, in her, within her range. We are not afraid there will not be growth. It does not fail us.”

“It would not do so often. And it does its work without help,” said Jocasta, keeping all expression out of her tone.

“Ah, I have said the simple thing. But we do not reject the simple. It is where the truth may lie, and we do not reject the truth.”

“At the risk of being simple myself,” said Hamilton, as if this was a graver hazard, “I will voice a passing thought. What a pleasure to see the young in holiday garb and mood!”

“Ah, fine feathers do their work. And why should they not? It is what they have to do. The reality is underneath. We get to know the reality.”

“And it is a chance to show the feathers,” said Jocasta. “Amy was quite moved by seeing her dress brought out. She had thought and felt about it. And she does not usually care about her clothes.”

Amy looked aside as if she did not hear, and almost succeeded in not allowing herself to do so.

“Ah, but we should care about everything. It all has its interest, and should all be given it. Indifference is not one of the good things. It must not go through her life.”

Amy did not reflect that it need only go through her grandmother's, as the end of the latter receded with every thought of it.

“But the interest will come with time and growth, and the power of choice. This is the stage for simple needs and the simple means to meet them.”

“Yes, Amy's needs are of the simplest,” said Jocasta, meaning to utter an ordinary word, and actually uttering an innocent one. “She has never had any money of her own. She would not understand what to do with it. She hardly knows there is such a thing.”

Amy looked down and rubbed one foot against the
other, using the appearance of a minor discomfort to cover a greater one.

“You might bring your friends to talk to me, Amy. It seems I ought to know them. I never understand why I don't,” said Jocasta, unable to feel the matter had been explained to her.

“Oh, they are busy to-day, Grannie. They all have relations here.”

“Well, so have you. And they are not tied to them any more than you are.”

“Well, some of them seem to be,” said Amy, with a shrug and a sigh.

“I might seek an introduction myself in my avuncular character,” said Hamilton, unaware that it was his no longer.

“Grannie, Miss Murdoch and Miss Heriot are moving away. Do you want to say any more to them?”