THE CHILD
I
It was close on eleven o'clock; the July night was airless, and the lastof that season's great balls was taking place in Grosvenor Square.
Mrs. Elwyn's brougham came to a sudden halt in Green Street. Encompassedbehind and before with close, intricate traffic, the carriage swungstiffly on its old-fashioned springs, responding to every movement ofthe fretted horse.
Hugh Elwyn, sitting by his mother's side, wondered a little impatientlywhy she remained so faithful to the old brougham which he couldremember, or so it seemed to him, all his life. But he did not utter histhoughts aloud; he still went in awe of his mother, and he was proud, ina whimsical way, of her old-fashioned austerity of life, of hernarrowness of vision, of her dislike of modern ways and new fashions.
Mrs. Elwyn after her husband's death had given up the world. This wasthe first time since her widowhood that she and her son had dined outtogether; but then the occasion was a very special one--they had been todinner with the family of Elwyn's fiancee, Winifred Fanshawe.
Hugh Elwyn turned and looked at his mother. As he saw in thehalf-darkness the outlines of the delicately pure profile, framed ingrey bands of hair covering the ears as it had been worn when Mrs. Elwynwas a girl upwards of forty years ago, he felt stirred with an unwontedtenderness, added to the respect with which he habitually regarded her.
Since leaving Cavendish Square they had scarcely spoken the one to theother. The drive home was a short one, for they lived in South Street.It was tiresome that they should be held up in this way within a hundredyards of their own door.
Suddenly the mother spoke. She put out her frail hand and laid it acrossher son's strong brown fingers. She gazed earnestly into thegood-looking face which was not as radiantly glad as she would havewished to see it--as indeed she had once seen her son's face look, andas she could still very vividly remember her own husband's face hadlooked during their short formal engagement nearly fifty years ago. "Icould not be better pleased, Hugh, if I had myself chosen your futurewife."
Elwyn was a little amused as well as touched; he was well aware that hismother, to all intents and purposes, _had_ chosen Winifred. True, shehad been but slightly acquainted with the girl before the engagement,but she had "known all about her," and had been on terms of friendlyacquaintance with Winifred's grandmother all her long life. Elwynremembered how his mother had pressed him to accept an invitation to acountry house where Winifred Fanshawe was to be. But Mrs. Elwyn hadnever spoken to her son of her wishes until the day he had come and toldher that he intended to ask Winifred to marry him, and then herunselfish joy had moved him and brought them very near to one another.
When Hugh Elwyn was in London--he had been a great wanderer over theearth--he lived with his mother, and they were outwardly on the closest,most intimate terms of affection. But then Mrs. Elwyn never interferedwith Hugh, as he understood his friends' mothers so often interferedwith them and with their private affairs. This doubtless was why theywere, and remained, on such ideal terms together.
Suddenly Mrs. Elwyn again spoke, but she did not turn round and looktenderly at her son as she had done when speaking of his futurewife--this time she gazed straight before her: "Is not Winifred a cousinof Mrs. Bellair?"
"Yes, there's some kind of connection between the Fanshawes and theBellairs."
Hugh Elwyn tried to make his voice unconcerned, but he failed, and heknew that he had failed. His mother's question had disturbed him, andtaken him greatly by surprise.
"I wondered whether they are friends?"
"I have never heard Winifred mention her," he said shortly. "Yes, Ihave--I remember now that she told me the Bellairs had sent her apresent the very day after our engagement was in the _Morning Post_."
"Then I suppose you will have to see something of them after yourmarriage?"
"You mean the Bellairs? Yes--no. I don't think that follows, mother."
"Do you see anything of them now?"
"No"--he again hesitated, and again ate his word--"that is--yes. I metthem some weeks ago. But I don't think we are likely to see much of themafter our marriage."
He would have given the world to feel that his voice was betrayingnothing of the discomfort he was feeling.
"I hope not, Hugh. Mrs. Bellair would not be a suitable friend forWinifred--or--or for any young married woman."
"Mother!" Elwyn only uttered the one word, but anger, shame, andself-reproach were struggling in the tone in which he uttered that oneword. "You are wrong, indeed, you are quite wrong--I mean about FannyBellair."
"My dear," she said gently, but her voice quivered, "I do not think I amwrong. Indeed, I know I am right." Neither had ever seen the other somoved. "My dear," again she said the two quiet words that may mean somuch or so little, "you know that I never spoke to you of the matter. Itried never even to think of it, and yet, Hugh, it made me very anxious,very unhappy. But to-night, looking at that sweet girl, I felt I mustspeak."
She waited a moment, and then added in a constrained voice, "I do notjudge you, Hugh."
"No!" he cried, "but you judge her! And it's so unfair, mother--sohorribly unfair!"
He had turned round; he was forcing his mother to look at his now moody,unhappy face.
Mrs. Elwyn shrank back and closed her lips tightly. Her expressionrecalled to her son the look which used to come over her face when, as apetted, over cared-for only child, he asked her for something which shebelieved it would be bad for him to have. From that look there had been,in old days, no appeal. But now he felt that he must say something more.His manhood demanded it of him.
"Mother," he said earnestly, "as you have spoken to me of the matter, Ifeel I must have it out with you! Please believe me when I say that youare being unjust--indeed, cruelly so. I was to blame all through--fromthe very beginning to the very end."
"You must allow me," she said in a low tone, "to be the judge of that,Hugh." She added deprecatingly, "This discussion is painful, and--andvery distasteful to me."
Her son leant back, and choked down the words he was about to utter. Heknew well that nothing he could say would change or even modify hismother's point of view. But oh! why had she done this? Why had shechosen to-night, of all nights, to rend the veil which had always hung,so decently, between them. He had felt happy to-night--not madly,foolishly happy, as so many men feel at such moments, but reasonably,decorously pleased with his present and his future. He was making a_mariage de convenance_, but there had been another man on the lists, ayounger man than himself, and that had added a most pleasing zest to thepursuit. He, aided of course by Winifred Fanshawe's prudent parents, hadwon--won a very pretty, well-bred, well-behaved girl to wife. What morecould a man of forty-one, who had lived every moment of his life, ask ofthat providence which shapes our ends?
The traffic suddenly parted, and the horse leapt forward.
As they reached their own front door, Mrs. Elwyn again spoke: "Perhaps Iought to add," she said hurriedly, "that I know one thing to Mrs.Bellair's credit. I am told that she is a most devoted and carefulmother to that little boy of hers. I heard to-day that the child isseriously ill, and that she and the child's nurse are doing everythingfor him."
Mrs. Elwyn's voice had softened, curiously. She had an old-fashionedprejudice against trained nurses.
Hugh Elwyn helped his mother into the house; then, in the hall, he bentdown and just touched her cheek with his lips.
"Won't you come up into the drawing-room? Just for a few minutes?" sheasked; there was a note of deep, yearning disappointment in her voice,and her face looked grey and tired, very different from the happy,placid air it had worn during the little dinner party.
"No, thank you, mother, I won't come up just now. I think I'll go outagain for half an hour. I haven't walked at all to-day, and it's sohot--I feel I shouldn't sleep if I turn in now."
He was punishing his mother as he had seen other sons punishing theirmothers, but as he himself had never before to-night been tempted topunish his. Nay
, more, as Hugh Elwyn watched her slow ascent up thestaircase, he told himself that she had hurt and angered him past entireforgiveness. He had sometimes suspected that she knew of that fatefulepisode in his past life, but he had never supposed that she would speakof it to him, especially not now, after years had gone by, and when,greatly to please her, he was about to make what is called a "suitable"marriage.
He was just enough to know that his mother had hurt herself by hurtinghim, but that did not modify his feelings of anger and of surprise atwhat she had done. Of course she thought she knew everything there wasto know, but how much there had been that she had never even suspected!
Those words--that admission--as to Fanny Bellair being a good motherwould never have passed Mrs. Elwyn's lips--they would never even havebeen credited by her had she known the truth--the truth, that is, as tothe child to whom Mrs. Bellair was so passionately devoted, and who now,it seemed, was ailing. That secret, and Hugh Elwyn thanked God, notirreverently, that it was so, was only shared by two human beings, thatis by Fanny and himself. And perhaps, Fanny, like himself, had managedby now almost to forget it....
Elwyn swung out of the house, he walked up South Street, and so intoPark Lane and over to the Park railings. There was still a great deal oftraffic in the roadway, but the pavements were deserted.
As he began to walk quickly westward, the past came back and overwhelmedhim as with a great flood of mingled memories. And it was not, as hismother would probably have visioned it, a muddy spate filled withunclean things. Rather was it a flood of exquisite spring waters,instinct with the buoyant head-long rushes of youth, and filled withclear, happy shallows, in which retrospectively he lay and sunnedhimself in the warmth of what had been a great love--love such asWinifred Fanshawe, with her thin, complaisant nature, would neverbestow.
The mother's imprudent words of unnecessary warning had brought back toher son everything she had hoped was now, if not obliterated, thenrepented of; but Elwyn's heart was filled to-night with a vaguetenderness for the half-forgotten woman whom he had loved awhile with sopassionate and absorbing a love, and to whom, under cover of that poorand wilted thing, his conscience, he had ultimately behaved so ill.
Hugh Elwyn's mind travelled back across the years, to the very beginningof his involved account with honour--that account which he believed tobe now straightened out.
Jim Bellair had been Elwyn's friend--first college friend and thenfavourite "pal." When Bellair had fallen head over ears in love with agirl still in the schoolroom, a girl not even pretty, but with wonderfulauburn hair and dark, startled-looking eyes, and had finally persuaded,cajoled, badgered her into saying "Yes," it was Hugh Elwyn who had beenBellair's rather sulky best man. Small wonder that the bridegroom hadhalf-jokingly left his young wife in Elwyn's charge when he had had togo half across the world on business that could not be delayed, whileshe stayed behind to nurse her father who was ill.
It was then, with mysterious, uncanny suddenness, that the mischief hadbegun. There had been something wild and untamed in FannyBellair--something which had roused in Elwyn the hunter's instinct, aninstinct hitherto unslaked by over easy victories. And then Chance, thatgreat, cynical goddess which plays so great a part in civilized life,had flung first one opportunity and then another into his eager,grasping hands.
Fanny's father had died; and she had been lonely and in sorrow. Carelessfriends, however kind, do not care to see much of those who mourn, buthe, Hugh Elwyn, had not been careless, nay, he had been careful to seemore, not less, of his friend's wife in this her first great grief, andshe had been moved to the heart by his sympathy.
It was by Elwyn's advice that Mrs. Bellair had taken a house not farfrom London that lovely summer.
Ah, that little house! Elwyn could remember every bush, almost everyflower that had flowered, in the walled garden during those enchantedweeks. Against the background of his mind every ornament, every oddpiece of furniture in that old cottage, stood out as having been thesilent, it had seemed at the time the kindly, understanding witnesses ofwhat had by then become an exquisite friendship. He, the man, had knownalmost from the first where they too were drifting, but she, the woman,had slipped into love as a wanderer at night slips suddenly into a deepand hidden pool.
In a story book they would both have gone away openly together--butsomehow the thought of doing such a thing never seriously occurred toElwyn. He was far too fond of Bellair--it seemed absurd to say that now,but the truth, especially the truth of what has been, is often absurd.
Elwyn had contented himself with stealing Bellair's wife; he had nodesire to put public shame and ridicule upon his friend. And fortune,favouring him, had prolonged the other man's enforced absence.
And then? And then at last Bellair had come back,--and trouble began. Asto many things, nay, as to most things which have to do with the fleshrather than the spirit, men are more fastidiously delicate than arewomen. There had come months of misery, of revolt, and, on Elwyn's part,of dulling love....
Then, once more, Chance gave him an unlooked-for opportunity--anopportunity of escape from what had become to him an intolerableposition.
The war broke out, and Hugh Elwyn was among the very first of thosegallant fellows who volunteered during the dark November of '99.
By a curious irony of fate, the troopship that bore him to South Africahad Bellair also on board, but owing to Elwyn's secret decision--he wasfar the cleverer man of the two--he and his friend were no longer boundtogether by that wordless intimacy which is the basis of any close tieamong men. By the time the two came back from Africa they had becomelittle more than cordial acquaintances. Marriage, so Bellair sometimestold himself ruefully, generally plays the devil with a man's bachelorfriendships. He was a kindly, generous hearted soul, who found muchcomfort in platitudes....
But that, alas! had not been the end. On Elwyn's return home there hadcome to him a violent, overmastering revival of his passion. Again heand Fanny met--again they loved. Then one terrible day she came and toldhim, with stricken eyes, what he sometimes hoped, even now, had not beentrue--that she was about to have a child, and that it would be hischild. At that moment, as he knew well, Mrs. Bellair had desiredardently to go away with him, openly. But he had drawn back, assuringhimself--and this time honestly--that his shrinking from that course,now surely the only honest course, was not wholly ignoble. Were he to dosuch a thing it would go far to kill his mother--worse, it wouldembitter every moment of the life which remained to her.
For a while Elwyn went in deadly fear lest Fanny should tell her husbandthe truth. But the weeks and months drifted by, and she remained silent.And as he had gone about that year, petted and made much of by hisfriends and acquaintances--for did he not bear on his worn, handsomeface that look which war paints on the face of your sensitive modernman?--he heard whispered the delightful news that after five years ofmarriage kind Jim and dear Fanny Bellair were at last going to be madehappy--happy in the good old way.
Among the other memories of that hateful time, one came back, to-night,with especial vividness. Hurrying home across the park one afternoon,seven years ago now, almost to a day, he had suddenly run up againstBellair.
They had talked for a few moments on indifferent things, and then Jimhad said shyly, awkwardly, but with a beaming look on his face, "Youknow about Fanny? Of course I can't help feeling a bit anxious, butshe's so healthy--not like those women who have always something thematter with them!" And he, Elwyn, had gripped the other man's hand, andmuttered the congratulation which was being asked of him.
That meeting, so full of shameful irony, had occurred about a weekbefore the child's birth. Elwyn had meant to be away from London--butChance, so carelessly kind a friend to him in the past, at last provedcruel, for surely it was Chance and Chance alone that led him, on thevery eve of the day he was starting for Norway, straight across thequiet square, composed of high Georgian houses, where the Bellairs stilllived.
To-night, thanks to his mother, every incident of that long, agon
izingnight came back. He could almost feel the tremor of half fear, halfexcitement, which had possessed him when he had suddenly become awarethat his friends' house was still lit up and astir, and that fresh strawlay heaped up in prodigal profusion in the road where, a little past thedoor, was drawn up a doctor's one-horse brougham. Even then he mighthave taken another way, but something had seemed to drive him on, pastthe house,--and there Elwyn, staying his deadened footsteps, had heardfloat down to him from widely opened windows above, certain sounds,muffled moans, telling of a physical extremity which even now he wincedto remember.
He had waited on and on--longing to escape, and yet prisoned betweenimaginary bounds within which he paced up and down, filled with anobscure desire to share, in the measure that was possible to him, hertorment.
At last, in the orange, dust-laden dawn of a London summer morning, thefront door of the house had opened, and Elwyn had walked forward, everynerve quivering with suspense and fatigue, feeling that he must know....
A great doctor, with whose face he was vaguely acquainted, had steppedout accompanied by Bellair--Bellair with ruffled hair and red-rimmedeyes, but looking if tired then content, even more, triumphant. Elwynhad heard him say the words, "Thanks awfully. I shall never forget howkind you have been, Sir Joseph. Yes, I'll go to bed at once. I know youmust have thought me rather stupid."
And then Bellair had suddenly seen Elwyn standing on the pavement; hehad accepted unquestioningly the halting explanation that he was on hisway home from a late party, and had happened, as it were, that way."It's a boy!" he had said exultantly, although Elwyn had asked him noquestion, and then, "Of course I'm awfully pleased, but I'm dog tired!She's had a bad time, poor girl--but it's all right now, thank God! Comein and have a drink, Hugo."
But Elwyn had shaken his head. Again he had gripped his old friend'shand, as he had done a week before, and again he had muttered thenecessary words of congratulation. Then, turning on his heel, he hadgone home, and spent the rest of the night in desultory packing.
* * * * *
That was just seven years ago, and Elwyn had never seen Fanny's child.He had been away from England for over a year, and when he came back helearned that the Bellairs were away, living in the country, where theyhad taken a house for the sake of their boy.
As time had gone on, Elwyn and his friends had somehow drifted apart, aspeople are apt to drift apart in the busy idleness of the life led bythe fortunate Bellairs and Elwyns of this world. Fanny avoided HughElwyn, and Elwyn avoided Fanny, but they two only were aware of this. Itwas the last of the many secrets which they had once shared. When heand Bellair by chance met alone, all the old cordiality and even the oldaffection seemed to come back, if not to Elwyn then to the other man.
And now the child, to whom it seemed not only Fanny but Jim Bellair alsowas so devoted, was ill, and he, Hugh Elwyn, had been the last to hearof it. He felt vaguely remorseful that this should be so. There had beenyears when nothing that affected Bellair could have left himindifferent, and a time when the slightest misadventure befalling Fannywould have called forth his eager, helpful sympathy.
How strange it would be--he quickened his footsteps--if this child, withwhom he was at once remotely and intimately concerned, were to die! Hecould not help feeling, deep down in his heart, that this would be, if atragic, then a natural solution of a painful and unnatural problem--andthen, quite suddenly, he felt horribly ashamed of having allowed himselfto think this thought, to wish this awful wish.
Why should he not go now, at once, to Manchester Square, and inquire asto the little boy's condition? It was not really late, not yet midnight.He could go and leave a message, perhaps even scribble a line to JimBellair explaining that he had come round as soon as he had heard of thechild's illness.
II
When Hugh Elwyn reached the familiar turning whence he could see theBellairs' high house, time seemed to have slipped back.
The house was all lit up as it had been on that summer night seven yearsago. Everything was the same--even to the heaped-up straw into which hishalf-reluctant feet now sank. There was even a doctor's carriage drawnup a little way from the front door, but this time it was a smartelectric brougham.
He rang the bell, and as the door opened, Jim Bellair suddenly came intothe hall, out of a room which Elwyn knew to be the smoking-room--a roomin which he and Fanny had at one time spent long hours in contented, nayin ecstatic, dual solitude.
"I have come to inquire--I only heard to-night--" he began awkwardly,but the other cut him short, "Yes, yes, I understand--it's awfully goodof you, Elwyn! I'm awfully glad to see you. Come in here--" and perforcehe had to follow. "The doctor's upstairs--I mean Sir Joseph Pixton.Fanny was determined to have him, and he very kindly came, though ofcourse he's not a child's doctor. He's annoyed because Fanny won't havetrained nurses; but I don't suppose anything would make any difference.It's just a fight--a fight for the little chap's life--that's what itis, and we don't know yet who'll win."
He spoke in quick, short sentences, staring with widely open eyes at hiserstwhile friend as he spoke. "Pneumonia--I suppose you don't knowanything about it? I thought children never had such things, especiallynot in hot weather."
"I had a frightful illness when I was about your boy's age," said Elwyneagerly. "It's the first thing I can really remember. They called itinflammation of the lungs. I was awfully bad. My mother talks of it now,sometimes."
"Does she?" Bellair spoke wearily. "If only one could _do_ something,"he went on. "But you see the worst of it is that I can donothing--nothing! Fanny hates my being up there--she thinks it upsetsthe boy. He's such a jolly little chap, Hugo. You know we called himPeter after Fanny's father?"
Elwyn moved towards the door. He felt dreadfully moved by the other'spain. He told himself that after all he could do no good by staying, andhe felt so ashamed, such a cur----
"You don't want to go away yet?" There was sharp chagrin, reproachfuldismay, in Bellair's voice. Elwyn remembered that in old days Jim hadalways hated being alone. "Won't you stay and hear what Pixton says?Or--or are you in a hurry?"
Elwyn turned round. "Of course I'll stay," he said briefly.
Bellair spared him thanks, but he began walking about the roomrestlessly. At last he went to the door and set it ajar. "I want to hearwhen Sir Joseph comes down," he explained, and even as he spoke therecame the sound of heavy, slow footsteps on the staircase.
Bellair went out and brought the great man in.
"I've told Mrs. Bellair that we ought to have Bewdley! He knows a greatdeal more about children than I can pretend to do; and I propose, withyour leave, to go off now, myself, and if possible bring him back." Theold doctor's keen eyes wandered as he spoke from Bellair's fair face toHugh Elwyn's dark one. "Perhaps," he said, "perhaps, Mr. Bellair, youwould get someone to telephone to Dr. Bewdley's house to say that I'mcoming? It might save a few moments."
As Bellair left the room, the doctor turned to Elwyn and said abruptly,"I hope you'll be able to stay with your brother? All this is very hardon him; Mrs. Bellair will scarcely allow him into the child's room, andthough that, of course, is quite right, I'm sorry for the man. He'swrapped up in the child."
And when Bellair came back from accompanying the old doctor to hiscarriage, there was a smile on his face--the first smile which had beenthere for a long time: "Pixton thinks you're my brother! He said, 'Ihope your brother will manage to stay with you for a bit.' Now I'll goup and see Fanny. Pixton is certainly more hopeful than the last man wehad--"
Bellair's voice had a confident ring. Elwyn remembered with a pang thatJim had always been like that--always believed, that is, that the bestwould come to pass.
When left alone, Elwyn began walking restlessly up and down, much as hisfriend had walked up and down a few minutes ago. Something of theexcitement of the fight going on above had entered into him; he nowdesired ardently that the child should live, should emerge victor fromthe grim struggle.
At last Bel
lair came back. "Fanny believes that this is the night ofcrisis," he said slowly. All the buoyancy had left his voice. "But--butElwyn, I hope you won't mind--the fact is she's set her heart on yourseeing him. I told her what you told me about yourself, I mean yourillness as a child, and it's cheered her up amazingly, poor girl!Perhaps you could tell her a little bit more about it, though I like tothink that if the boy gets through it"--his voice broke suddenly--"shewon't remember this--this awful time. But don't let's keep herwaiting--" He took Elwyn's consent for granted, and quickly the two menwalked up the stairs of the high house, on and on and on.
"It's a good way up," whispered Bellair, "but Fanny was told that achild's nursery couldn't be too high. So we had the four rooms at thetop thrown into two."
They were now on the dimly-lighted landing. "Wait one moment--wait onemoment, Hugo." Bellair's voice had dropped to a low, gruff whisper.
Elwyn remained alone. He could hear slight movements going on in theroom into which Bellair had just gone; and then there also fell on hisears the deep, regular sound of snoring. Who could be asleep in thehouse at such a moment? The sound disturbed him; it seemed to add atouch of grotesque horror to the situation.
Suddenly the handle of the door in front of him moved round, and heheard Fanny Bellair's voice, unnaturally controlled and calm. "I sentNanna to bed, Jim. The poor old creature was absolutely worn out. Andthen I would so much rather be alone when Sir Joseph brings back theother doctor. He admits--I mean Sir Joseph does--that to-night _is_ thecrisis."
The door swung widely open, and Elwyn, moving instinctively back,visualized the scene before him very distinctly.
There was a screen on the right hand, a screen covered, as had been theone in his own nursery, with a patchwork of pictures varnished over.
Mrs. Bellair stood between the screen and the pale blue wall. Her slimfigure was clad in some sort of long white garment, and over it she worean apron, which he noticed was far too large for her. Her hair, theauburn hair which had been her greatest beauty, and which he had onceloved to praise and to caress, was fastened back, massed up in as smalla compass as possible. That, and the fact that her face wasexpressionless, so altered her in Elwyn's eyes as to give him an uncannyfeeling that the woman before him was not the woman he had known, hadloved, had left,--but a stranger, only bound to him by the slender linkof a common humanity.
She waited some moments as if listening, then she came out on to thelanding, and shut the door behind her very softly.
The sentence of conventional sympathy half formed on Elwyn's lips diedinto nothingness; as little could he have offered words of cheer to onewho was being tortured; but in the dim light their hands met and claspedtightly.
"Hugo?" she said, "I want to ask you something. You told Jim just nowthat you were once very ill as a child,--ill like this, ill like mychild. I want you to tell me honestly if that is true? I mean, were youvery, very ill?"
He answered her in the same way, without preamble, baldly: "It is quitetrue," he said. "I was very ill--so ill that my mother for one momentthought that I was dead. But remember, Fanny, that in those days theydid not know nearly as much as they do now. Your boy has two chances forevery one that I had then."
"Would you mind coming in and seeing him?" Her voice faltered, it hadbecome more human, more conventional, in quality.
"Of course I will see him," he said. "I want to see him,--dear." Shehad suddenly become to him once more the thing nearest his heart; oncemore the link between them became of the closest, most intimate nature,and yet, or perhaps because of its intensity, the sense of nearnesswhich had sprung at her touch into being was passionless.
The face which had been drained of all expression quickened intoagonized feeling. She tried to withdraw her hand from his, but he heldit firmly, and it was hand in hand that together they walked into theroom.
As they came round the screen behind which lay the sick child, Bellairwent over to the farthest of the three windows and stood there withcrossed arms staring out into the night.
The little boy lay on his right side, and as they moved round to theedge of the large cot, Elwyn, with a sudden tightening of the throat,became aware that the child was neither asleep nor, as he in hisignorance had expected to find him, sunk in stupor or delirium. But thesmall, dark face, framed by the white pillow, was set in lines of deep,unchildlike gravity, and in the eyes which now gazed incuriously atElwyn there was a strange, watchful light which seemed to illumine thatwhich was within rather than that which was without.
As is always the case with a living creature near to death, littlePeter Bellair looked very lonely.
Then Elwyn, moving nearer still, seemed--or so at least Fanny Bellairwill ever believe--to take possession of the moribund child, yieldinghim as he did so something of his own strength to help him through thecrisis then imminent. And indeed the little creature whose forehead,whose clenched left hand lying on the sheet were beginning to glistenwith sweat, appeared to become merged in some strange way with himself.Merged, not with the man he was to-day, but with the Hugh Elwyn ofthirty years back, who, as a lonely only child, had lived so intenselysecret, imaginative a life, peopling the prim alleys of Hyde Park withfairies, imps, tricksy hobgoblins in whom he more than half believed,and longing even then, as ever after, for the unattainable, nevercarelessly happy as his father and mother believed him to be....
Hugh Elwyn stayed with the Bellairs all that night. He shared the sicksuspense the hour of the crisis brought, and he was present when thespecialist said the fateful words, "I think, under God, this child willlive."
When at last Elwyn left the house, clad in an old light coat ofBellair's in order that the folk early astir should not see that he waswearing evening clothes, he felt happier, more light-hearted, than hehad done for years.
His life had been like a crowded lumber-room, full of useless andworn-out things he had accounted precious, while he had ignored the onepossession that really mattered and that linked him, not only with thefuture, but with the greatest reality of his past.
The inevitable pain which this suddenly discovered treasure was to bringwas mercifully concealed from him, as also the sombre fact that he wouldhenceforth go lonely all his life, perforce obliged to content himselfwith the crumbs of another man's feast. For Peter Bellair, high-strung,imaginative, as he will ever be, will worship the strong, kindly, simpleman he believes to be his father, but to that dear father's friend hewill only yield the careless affection born of gratitude for muchkindness.
* * * * *
In the matter of the broken engagement, Hugh Elwyn was more fairlytreated by the men and women whom the matter concerned, or who thoughtit concerned them, than are the majority of recusant lovers.
"Hugh Elwyn has never been quite the same since the war, and you knowWinifred Fanshawe really liked the other man the best," so said thosewho spent an idle moment in discussing the matter, and they generallyadded, "It's a good thing that he's spending the summer with his oldfriends, the Bellairs. They're living very quietly just now, for theirlittle boy has been dreadfully ill, so it's just the place for poor oldHugo to get over it all!"
Studies in love and in terror Page 2
