CHAPTER VI
"Is that you, Cousin John?" said Lady Mary. "Is Sir Timothy gone? Ihave not been away more than a few minutes, have I?"
She spoke quite brightly. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyeswere sparkling with excitement.
John looked at her, and found himself wishing that her soft, brownhair were not strained so tightly from her forehead, nor brushed soclosely to her head; the fashion would have been trying to a youngerface, and fatal to features less regularly delicate and correct. Healso wished she were not dressed like a Quaker's wife. The stiff, greypoplin fitted like a glove the pretty curves of Lady Mary's slenderfigure, but it lacked distinction, and appropriateness, to John'sfastidious eye. Then he reproached himself vehemently for allowing histhoughts to dwell on such trifles at such a moment.
"Will you forgive me for going away the very day you come?" said LadyMary.
How quickly, how surprisingly, she recovered her spirits! She hadlooked so weary and sad as she came down the stairs an hour ago. Nowshe was almost gay. A feverish and unnatural gaiety, no doubt; butthose flushed cheeks, and glittering blue eyes--how they restored theyouthful loveliness of the face he had once thought the most beautifulhe ever saw!
"I am going to see the last of my boy. You'll understand, won't you?You were an only son too. And your mother would have gone to the endsof the earth to look upon your face once more, wouldn't she? Mothersare made like that."
"Some mothers," said John; and he turned away his head.
"Not yours? I'm sorry," said Lady Mary, simply.
"Oh, well--you know, she was a good deal--in the world," he said,repenting himself.
"I use to wish so much to live in the world too," said LadyMary, dreamily; "but ever since I was fifteen I've lived in thisout-of-the-way place."
"Don't be too sorry for that," said John; "you don't know what arevelation this out-of-the-way place may be to a tired worker like me,who lives always amid the unlovely sights and sounds of a city."
"Ah! but that's just it," she said quickly. "You see I'm nottired--yet; and I've done no work."
"That is why it's such a rest to look at you," said John, smiling."Flowers have their place in creation as vegetables have theirs. Butwe only ask the flowers to bloom peacefully in sheltered gardens;we don't insist on popping them into the soup with the onions andcarrots."
Lady Mary laughed as though she had not a care in the world.
"It is quite refreshing to find that a big-wig like you can talk justas much nonsense as a little-wig like me," she said; "but you don'tknow, for all that, what the silence and monotony of life here _can_be. The very voice of a stranger falls like music on one's ears. I wasso glad to see you, and you were so kind and sympathetic about--myboy. And then, all in a moment, my joy was turned into mourning,wasn't it? And Peter is going to the war, and it's all like a dreadfuldream; except that I know I shall wake up every morning only torealize more strongly that it's true."
John remembered that he was dallying with his mission, instead offulfilling it.
"Sir Timothy cannot go to see his son off? That must be a grief tohim," he said.
"No; he isn't coming. He has business, I believe," said Lady Mary, alittle coldly. "There has been a dispute over some Crown lands, whichmarch with ours. Officials are often very dilatory and difficult todeal with. Probably, however, you know more about it than I do. I amgoing alone. I have just been giving the necessary orders. I shalltake a servant with me, as well as my maid, for I am such aninexperienced traveller--though it seems absurd, at my age--that I amquite frightened of getting into the wrong trains. I dread a journeyby myself. Even such a little journey as that. But, of course, nothingwould keep me at home."
"Only one thing," said John, in a low voice, "if I have judged yourcharacter rightly in so short a time."
"What is that?"
"Duty."
She looked at him with sweet, puzzled eyes, like a child.
"Are you pleading Sir Timothy's cause, Cousin John?" she said, with alittle touch of offence in her tone that was only charming.
"I am pleading Sir Timothy's cause," said John, seriously.
"Love is stronger than duty, isn't it?" said Lady Mary.
"I hope not," said John, very simply.
"You mean my husband doesn't wish me to go?"
"Don't think me too presuming," he said pleadingly.
"I couldn't," said Lady Mary, naively. "You are older than I am, youknow," she laughed, "and a Q.C. And you know you would be my trusteeand my boy's guardian if anything ever happened to Sir Timothy. Hetold me so long ago. And he reminded me of it to-day most solemnly. Isuppose he was afraid I shouldn't treat you with proper respect."
"He has honoured me very highly," said John. "In that case, it wouldbe almost my--my duty to advise you in any difficulty that mightarise, wouldn't it?"
"That means you want to advise me now?"
"Frankly, it does."
"And are _you_ going to tell me that I ought to stay at home, and letmy only boy leave England without bidding him God-speed?" said LadyMary incredulously. "If so, I warn you that you will never convince meof that, argue as you may."
"No one is ever convinced by argument," said John. "But stern factssometimes command even a woman's attention."
"When backed by such powers of persuasion as yours, perhaps."
She faced him with sparkling eyes. Lady Mary was timid and gentle bynature, but Peter's mother knew no fear. Yet she realized that ifJohn Crewys were moved to put forth his full powers, he might be adifficult man to oppose. She met his glance, and observed that heperfectly understood the spirit which animated her, and that it wasnot opposition that shone from his bright hazel eyes, as he regardedher steadily through his pince-nez.
"I am going to deal with a hard fact, which your husband is afraid totell you," said John, "because, in his tenderness for your womanlyweakness, he underrates, as I venture to think, your womanly courage.Sir Timothy wants you to be with him here to-morrow because he hasto--to fight an unequal battle--"
"With the Crown?"
"With Death."
"What do you mean?" said Lady Mary.
"He has been silently combating a mortal disease for many monthspast," said John, "and to-morrow morning the issue is to be decided.Every day, every hour of delay, increases the danger. The greatsurgeon, Dr. Herslett, will be here at eleven o'clock, and on thesuccess of the operation he will perform, hangs the thread of yourhusband's life."
Lady Mary put up a little trembling hand entreatingly, and John'sgreat heart throbbed with pity. He had chosen his words deliberatelyto startle her from her absorption in her son; but she looked sofragile, so white, so imploring, that his courage almost failed him.He came to her side, and took the little hand reassuringly in hisstrong, warm clasp.
"Be brave, my dear," he said, with faltering voice, "and put aside,if you can, the thought of your bitter, terrible disappointment. Only_you_ can cheer, and inspire, and aid your husband to maintain thecalmness of spirit which is of such vital importance to his chance ofrecovery. You can't leave him against his wish at such a moment;not if you are the--the angel I believe you to be," said John, withemotion.
There was a pause, and though he looked away from her, he knew thatshe was crying.
John released the little hand gently, and walked to the fireplace togive her time to recover herself. Perhaps his eye-glasses were dimmed;he polished them very carefully.
Lady Mary dashed away her tears, and spoke in a hard voice he scarcelyrecognized as hers.
"I might be all--you think me, John," she said, "if--"
"Ah! don't let there be an _if_," said John.
"But--"
"Or a _but_."
"It is that you don't understand the situation," she said; "youtalk as though Sir Timothy and I were an ordinary husband and wife,entirely dependent on one another's love and sympathy. Don't you know_he_ stands alone--above all the human follies and weaknesses of amere woman? Can't you guess," said Lady
Mary, passionately, "that it'smy boy, my poor faulty, undutiful boy--oh, that I should call himso!--who needs me? that it's his voice that would be calling in myheart whilst I awaited Sir Timothy's pleasure to-morrow?"
"His _pleasure_?" said John, sternly.
"I am shocking you, and I didn't want to shock you," she cried, almostwildly. "But you don't suppose he needs _me_--me myself? He only wantsto be sure I'm doing the right thing. He wants to give people nochance of saying that Lady Mary Crewys rushed off to see her spoiltboy whilst her husband hovered between life and death. A lay figurewould do just as well; if it would only sit in an armchair and holdits handkerchief to its eyes; and if the neighbours, and his sisters,and the servants could be persuaded to think it was I."
"Hush, hush!" said John.
"Do let me speak out; pray let me speak out," she said, breathless andimploring, "and you can think what you like of me afterwards, when Iam gone, if only you won't scold now. I am so sick of being scolded,"said Lady Mary. "Am I to be a child for ever--I, that am so old, andhave lost my boy?"
He thought there was something in her of the child that never growsup; the guilelessness, the charm, the ready tears and smiles, thequick changes of mood.
He rolled an elbow-chair forward, and put her into it tenderly.
"Say what you will," said John.
"This is comfortable," she said, leaning her head wearily on her hand;"to talk to a--a friend who understands, and who will not scold.But you can't understand unless I tell you everything; and Timothyhimself, after all, would be the first to explain to you that it isn'tmy tears nor my kisses, nor my consolation he wants. You didn't thinkso _really_, did you?"
John hesitated, remembering Sir Timothy's words, but she did not waitfor an answer.
"Yes," she said calmly, "he wishes me to be in my proper place. Itwould be a scandal if I did such a remarkable thing as to leavehome on any pretext at such a moment. Only by being extraordinarilyrespectable and dignified can we live down the memory of his father'sunconventional behaviour. I must remember my position. I must smellmy salts, and put my feet up on the sofa, and be moderately overcomeduring the crisis, and moderately thankful to the Almighty when it'sover, so that every one may hear how admirably dear Lady Mary behaved.And when I am reading the _Times_ to him during his convalescence,"she cried, wringing her hands, "Peter--Peter will be thousands ofmiles away, marching over the veldt to his death."
"You make very sure of Peter's death," said John, quietly.
"Oh yes," said Lady Mary, listlessly. "He's an only son. It's alwaysthe only sons who die. I've remarked that."
"You make very sure of Sir Timothy's recovery."
"Oh yes," Lady Mary said again. "He's a very strong man."
Something ominous in John's face and voice attracted her attention.
"Why do you look like that?"
"Because," said John, slowly--"you understand I'm treating you as awoman of courage--Dr. Blundell told me just now that--the odds areagainst him."
She uttered a little cry.
The doctor's voice at the end of the hall made them both start.
"Lady Mary," he said, "you will forgive my interruption. Sir Timothydesired me to join you. He feared this double blow might prove toomuch for your strength."
"I am quite strong," said Lady Mary.
"He wished me to deliver a message," said the doctor.
"Yes."
"On reflection, Sir Timothy believes that he may be partly influencedby a selfish desire for the consolation of your presence in wishingyou to remain with him to-morrow. He was struck, I believe, withsomething Mr. Crewys said--on this point."
"God bless you, John!" said Lady Mary.
"Hush!" said John, shaking his head.
Dr. Blundell's voice sounded, John thought, as though he were puttingforce upon himself to speak calmly and steadily. His eyes were bent onthe floor, and he never once looked at Lady Mary.
"Sir Timothy desires, consequently," he said, "that you will consideryourself free to follow your own wishes in the matter; being guided,as far as possible, by the advice of Mr. Crewys. He is afraid offurther agitation, and therefore asks you to convey to him, as quicklyas possible, your final decision. As his physician, may I beg you notto keep him waiting?"
He left them, and returned to the study.
Though it was only a short silence that followed his departure, Johnhad time to learn by heart the aspect of the half-lighted, shadowyhall.
There are some pauses which are illustrated to the day of a man'sdeath, by a vivid impression on his memory of the surroundings.
The heavy, painted beams crossing and re-crossing the lofty roof; theblack staircase lighted with wax candles, that made a brilliancy whichthrew into deeper relief the darkness of every recess and corner; thefull-length, Early Victorian portraits of men and women of his ownrace--inartistic daubs, that were yet horribly lifelike in thesemi-illumination; the uncurtained mullioned windows,--all formed abackground for the central figure in his thoughts; the slender womanlyform in the armchair; the little brown head supported on the whitehand; the delicate face, robbed of its youthful freshness, and yet solovely still.
"John," said Lady Mary, in a voice from which all passion and strengthhad died away, "tell me what I ought to do."
"Remain with your husband."
"And let my boy go?" said Lady Mary, weeping. "I had thought, whenhe was leaving me, perhaps for ever, that--that his heart would betouched--that I should get a glimpse once more of the Peter he used tobe. Oh, can't you understand? He--he's a little--hard and cold to mesometimes--God forgive me for saying so!--but you--you've been a youngman too."
"Yes," John said, rather sadly, "I've been young too."
"It's only his age, you know," she said. "He couldn't always be asgentle and loving as when he was a child. A young man would think thatso babyish. He wants, as he says, to be independent, and not tied to awoman's apron-string. But in his heart of hearts he loves me best inthe whole world, and he wouldn't have been ashamed to let me see itat such a moment. And I should have had a precious memory of him forever. You shake your head. Don't you understand me? I thought youseemed to understand," she said wistfully.
"Peter is a boy," said John, "and life is just opening for him. It isa hard saying to _you_, but his thoughts are full of the world heis entering. There is no room in them just now for the home he isleaving. That is human nature. If he be sick or sorry later on--as Iknow your loving fancy pictures him--his heart would turn even then,not to the mother he saw waving and weeping on the quay, amid all theconfusion of departure, but to the mother of his childhood, of hishappy days of long ago. It may be "--John hesitated, and spoke verytenderly--"it may be that his heart will be all the softer then,because he was denied the parting interview he never sought. The youngare strangely wayward and impatient. They regret what might have been.They do not, like the old, dwell fondly upon what the gods actuallygranted them. It is _you_ who will suffer from this sacrifice, notPeter; that will be some consolation to you, I suppose, even if it bealso a disappointment."
"Ah, how you understand!" said Peter's mother, sadly.
"Perhaps because, as you said just now, I have been a young man too,"he said, forcing a smile. "Oh, forgive me, but let me save you; for Ibelieve that if you deserted your husband to-day, you would sorrow forit to the end of your life."
"And Peter--" she murmured.
He came to her side, and straightened himself, and spoke hopefully.
"Give me your last words and your last gifts--and a letter--for Peter,and send me in your stead to-night. I will deliver them faithfully. Iwill tell him--for he should be told--of the sore straits in which youfind yourself. Set him this noble example of duty, and believe me, itwill touch his heart more nearly than even that sacred parting whichyou desire."
Lady Mary held out her hand to him.
"Tell Sir Timothy that I will stay," she whispered.
John bent down and kissed the little hand in silence, and withpro
found respect.
Then he went to the study without looking back.
When he was gone, Lady Mary laid her face upon the badly paintedminiature of Peter, and cried as one who had lost all hope in life.
Peter's Mother Page 7
