'IN VISIONS OF THE NIGHT'
Leaving the girls to think over what they had heard, we return to the
heir and his mother. Unlike as they were in appearance and temperament,
a strong affection united them. Mrs. Gregory had her weaknesses--her
tremors, her hesitations, her curious infelicities of speech and
action; but all of these her son tolerated, even, in a sense, loved.
What to him rose grandly above them was the self-forgetting affection
which throughout his life had shone out before him.
She, naturally, adored him. He may not have been altogether what she
would have liked him to be, but he was hers. She had watched him
through his infancy; in his childhood she had made herself a child
again that she might love the things he loved; she had nursed him in
his little sicknesses; she had taught him his catechism, and creed, and
collects, and the beautiful old stories of the Old and New Testaments;
with a full heart and passionate prayers she had sent him out to the
perilous little worlds of school and college; and now it was her chief
interest and delight to provide him with the physical comforts which,
she always maintained, kept the mind serene and the body vigorous.
Sometimes she was dimly conscious, poor soul, that he was moving away
from her spiritually. Having caught scraps of his conversation here
and there, she had begun to feel afraid that his ideas strayed beyond
the limits of the faith she had so patiently taught him. During the
day-time, when he was away, she would take up the book he had been
reading last--a volume of transcendental poetry or a dry philosophical
treatise, and try--oh! so pitifully--to understand what it was in it
that interested him. Her efforts were all in vain. After an hour of
patient effort she would put down the book with a heavy sigh. Her
failure was a measure of the distance that separated them--a proof, if
any were needed, that they moved in different worlds. 'What was the use
of giving him to me,' she would say to herself sometimes with a curious
bitterness, 'if he was only to belong to me in his childhood? He is
very little mine now. He will soon not be mine altogether.'
But these were only moments in her life; moments, indeed, of which Tom
knew nothing; and to say that to any appreciable degree they coloured
the every-day existence of the mother and son would be extravagant. As
a fact they lived together harmoniously and pleasantly, having entire
confidence one in the other.
And so, on this strange evening, when the General had gone and
supper was over, Tom, who was naturally burning to understand his
new position, expected that his mother would sit down in her usual
pleasant, gossipy way and talk it over with him. No such thing. She
annoyed him by bustling about. There was a letter she had forgotten to
answer. Wouldn't it do to-morrow? Certainly not (severely); to-morrow
had its own duties. Then an account to be dotted up. Wouldn't Tom
help her? she said feebly. She had a poor head for figures. While he
was looking over it she slipped away, and half an hour later, when he
went in search of her, he found her in the kitchen overlooking Sarah's
performances. She was so worn out that he simply carried her away with
him by sheer force of will, and laid her down on the conch in the
drawing-room, where she remained with her eyes closed for some minutes.
Unfortunately for herself she was too active and restless to keep up
any longer the feint of repose. She got up for her work, and her son,
seizing his advantage, pursued her with questions. Not one of those
questions would Mrs. Gregory answer directly. When he urged her, saying
he would rather she should answer them than anyone else, she pleaded
that she was as bewildered as he was. He could understand that, he
said, but she must know more. For instance, she had met the rajah--he
had heard her say so to General Elton. What was he like?
'Did I say so?' said Mrs. Gregory.
'Mother dear,' cried the boy, 'do you object to being questioned?'
'Oh no. Why should I?' she said, the colour mounting to her face. 'But
it is so many, many years ago.'
'That you met the rajah?'
'Yes.'
'Still, you remember him.'
'As he was then?'
'Of course, as he was then. Couldn't you give me your impression of
him? That will be some little guide.'
'Why are you so anxious, Tom?'
'Well, mother; but isn't it natural? He has come into my life as a new
power--new to me, although, of course, he must have known of me, and
been thinking of me for a long time.' Then breaking off: 'How pale you
are, dearest; have I said anything to hurt you?'
'No, no, it is nothing. It is only that I see you moving away from
me--so far--so far--and----'
'Mother!'
She came to herself with an effort. 'Forgive me, my son,' she said. 'I
am not very strong, I suppose, and you know'--with a little smile--'a
great change like this always gives one a certain shock.'
'I am tiring you with my silly questions.'
'Not at all; and I don't think they are silly. It is natural you should
wish to know something of the man who has enriched you. But I had
rather, on the whole, you went to Mr. Cherry. The business has been in
his hands for a number of years.'
'It isn't the business, mother----'
'I understand, dear. I understand perfectly. Well!' drawing her lace
shawl about her, 'another day. How curiously chilly it is becoming!
Will you shut the window?'
'Certainly, mother.' He had been sitting close beside her. He now took
a chair at a little distance and took up a book.
Mrs. Gregory watched him with a wistful pain at her heart. She was
conscious to the finger-tips of his disappointment, and she hated
herself for inflicting it; but there was nothing to be done. She could
not speak. She would not if she could. Yet the distance he was putting
between them wounded her intolerably. After she had borne it as long as
she could she called him. He was at her side at once. 'I am afraid I
have disappointed you, dear,' she said. 'Sit down near me again, and we
will talk.'
He obeyed silently. He thought he would give her the initiative this
time, determining, whatever she might say, not to show his feelings
again. By that delicate perception, which was one of heaven's best
gifts to him, he had long since learned to understand and shield his
mother's sensitiveness.
She, poor woman, scarcely knowing what she said, drifted into
mysterious warnings and entreaties. He must be wise; he must do nothing
rashly; he must be guided by Mr. Cherry, who was a good man and a
Christian. Tom gave her the assurances she asked; but they did not
satisfy her; and, I think, it was a relief to them both when, on the
stroke of ten, the little maid of the establishment came in with her
Bible to take part in the pathetic ceremony with which their day always
closed.
When his mother left him Tom sat down and looked round for a few
moments, blankly. He was tired; but he could not rest until he had
thought out this strange thing that had come to him, and here it was
impossible to think. The atmosphere of the room oppressed him. He had
a curious, irritating impression that, though his mother's bodily
presence had gone, her spirit was haunting the place, preventing him
from thinking freely. At last he opened the French window softly, let
himself out into the garden, and, allowing his feet to carry him along
mechanically, found himself presently on the lower lawn, close by the
boat-house and willows. There he stopped and let his eyes wander at
their will. Ah! what a world it was--this soft, mysterious midnight
world of June! Think! How could he think? But, happily, there was no
need yet. The hours of the sweet summer night were before him. With
a deep inspiration, in which he seemed to be throwing off a heavy
burden, he flung himself down on the grass, his face towards the sky,
his feet towards the river, while he gave himself up to the rapturous
sense-impressions of the moment. He saw the upper sky, veiled here
and there with thin, vaporous cloud-wreaths; and it was so near it
seemed to be stooping to embrace him. There was a streak of silver
between the cloud-wreaths. It shone out, disappeared, shone out again,
and the fleece about it was tinged with pale gold. It was a horn of
the young moon--the moon on which Endymion's heavenly love descended,
when on that starry night long ago she kissed his eyes open to behold
her. Through 'the solemn midnight's tingling silentness' he could hear
the swish of the water as it swept over the long grasses and reeds at
his feet. Lovely water! and the fish that swam in it, were they awake
too? Did they go on swimming all the night through? Lovely water! And
lovely, lovely little earth! Ah! how sweet it was to live--only to live
and breathe in her arms on such a night as this!
It might have been a moment, it might have been an hour, that the boy
lay upon the river bank. He could never tell. Of the prick--the tiny
throb of self-consciousness, that called him out suddenly from his Eden
he would often speak later with a smile. He sat up, frowned, drew his
relaxed muscles together. _This_ was not what he had meant when he came
out into the solitude, he said to himself severely. He was a man, not a
thing; it was a weakness, a folly, to allow himself to drift into mere
sensuousness.
Ha! what was that? He turned round suddenly. It was a sound like a
silver bell ringing close beside him. If he had been a child he might
have thought that a fairy in a lily cup was laughing at him; the sound
was so definite, so curiously round and clear.
Giving no attention to it he set himself sternly to his task, and two
or three ideas about the relative values of riches and poverty--ideas
far too fine and exalted to be put down here--followed one another
through his mind. It was a young mind, as we know. Young minds are
superior. If we have ever tried to walk on a tightrope, get up early in
the morning, or take a precipitous hillside at a rush, and succeeded,
we shall know how they feel. It is their newness which we experienced
people should not grudge them. In a little time--we know how very
little--they will find out that there is nothing new under the sun.
Now the young heir, who was exceedingly new, felt a certain throb of
exultation in the circumstance that he was able to feel as a serious
man should when a great change comes into his life. The train of
thought being pleasant he followed it out. I believe he made one or two
correct resolutions. He would not be led away into foolish and selfish
extravagance; he would avoid flatterers; he would do as much good as
he could with his money. Not original. Oh dear no! commonplace, I am
afraid. But goodness is just the one thing that does not require genius
to conceive it. I wonder if that is the reason why it is so often
thought dull? The kind of thinking on which Tom was engaged tends to
restlessness, and hence the downfall which I am about to record.
He got up from the grass, and walking on aimlessly left his mother's
garden, and went on for a few paces down the road. Presently he pulled
up with a smile and a start. He was at the side gate of the Eltons'
garden. An irresistible desire seized him to go in. Trying the latch,
and finding the gate unlocked, he stole in noiselessly. He was in a
narrow path that led through a thick shrubbery. In its midst he paused.
All his wise thoughts, all his correct resolutions, had flown, and
his heart was beating fast and furiously. What was this--what was
this--which was rushing through him, tingling in his veins like wine of
Paradise? 'And a spirit in my feet'--he murmured the words half aloud--
'A spirit in my feet
Hath led me--who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, sweet.'
Slowly he went on along the dark little path. It came out on the
rose-garden, Grace's special pride and care, which was now in its
full glory. By the faint light of the summer dawning, for the night
was already on the turn, he could see the clustered blossoms, crimson
and pink and yellow, hanging from trellises and pillars, and weighing
down the branches of the young standards. But it was not this that
made him pause and catch at a pillar of the verandah for support. Once
already that night the beauty of the earth had touched him. Now it was
something more. As he stood the branch of a tall standard was swept
towards him by the breeze. There were roses on it, opened and half
opened. He caught at it passionately. Ah! how well he knew the touch
of the soft pale petals, the odour they exhaled! It was a La Trance,
Grace's favourite rose. The last time he saw her she had worn one in
her girdle. Scarcely knowing what he did he kissed the sweet flower
that had touched him. But in the next instant the colour had flooded
his face, and he was passing on rapidly to the lawn by the river, for
it was as if he had stolen what he had not won, as if his lips and her
lips had met on the petals of the flower that was her darling.
At the end of the lawn there was a bank crowned with willows, at
whose roots purple loosestrife and rosy willow-herb were growing. He
could see these things dimly as he looked out before him. Under one
of the willows was a rustic seat, where the girls often clustered in
the evening. Tom sat down upon it and gave himself up to the dreams
that were crowding upon him. Dreams! Dreams! In a misty radiance of
lovely shapes they swept by him. What a fool he had been! It was the
beauty of nature; it was love that binds young lives together; it was
passion, whose feet were on earth, and whose soul was in heaven which
was the reality. These other things--reason, philosophy, maxims of
prudence--they were an illusion--webs that the dull of heart weave to
hide their own dullness from themselves. And, after all, why should
a man think; why should a man be serious when happiness such as
this--_this!_ was opening out before him?
He got up and walked on for a few steps. His feet were unsteady, and,
with a smile of self-ridicule, he sat down again. He spread out his
arms with a low cry. 'Grace!' he murmured. 'Grace! do you know that I
love you?'
He paused. The faint, sweet kiss of the pale-petaled rose was lingering
about his lips. He was remembering how, two days ago, only two, when
he and she were together here--here at this very spot, he had longed
to speak but dared not. That rose was in her girdle. His lips had been
open to ask for it. Something had sealed them. He was too young--too
insignificant--his fortunes were too uncertain. For her sweet sake he
had held himself in check.
Now--ah! everything had changed. He was no longer insignificant--he
was the heir of a man of wealth and distinction--his fortunes were
certain--he could make a future for the woman he loved. If, as he had
imagined, dreamed----
But he could go no further. He flung himself on the grass. His
lips were towards the earth, and it was as if he was speaking to
_it_--telling it the secret ecstasy that he had not breathed to any
living soul. 'I could not speak then, but I can now. This wealth has
freed my hand. They will listen to me--they must! And she! Oh, Grace!
oh, my darling! Come to me and I will make the earth a Paradise to you!
Others do not know what love means. They promise and they forget. I
never will. My love! my beautiful love! Come to me, and let me care for
you. I will, I will. Care for you as never woman was cared for before.
Your lightest wish shall be my law. Your very imaginations and dreams
shall come to pass. You and I, Grace, you and I--our two lives shall
flow on together, loving and beloved, until----'
What was this? He pulled up short. It was a pang, sudden and swift,
like a cold hand on his heart. He rose slowly, and found that his limbs
were stiff, and that his clothes were wet with the night dews. Like one
in a maze he went on, for a few steps, blindly. The roots of a willow
stopped him, and he saw that he was on the edge of the sloping bank
that ran down to the river. He stood where he was, gazing out before
him, with eyes that saw nothing. In that little instant all his ecstasy
had gone, to be replaced by a dull misery such as he had never felt
before. Between night and morning there is a moment when life is said
to run sluggishly in the veins of earth's children. It is then that
the long-tortured drop into blissful, if brief unconsciousness; that
watchers nod drowsily; and that the dying fall on the sleep that knows
no waking. That moment had come.
Tom lifted his heavy lids and looked round him. A chill stole through
his frame, penetrating to the very marrow of his bones. He buttoned his
coat up to the chin and turned to leave the garden. But in the next
instant he was transfixed. It was as if a hand of iron was laid upon
his wrist, compelling him to stand where he was.
He passed his hand before his eyes dreamily.
When, after a brief interval, he looked up, it seemed to him that the
colour of the water had changed from the pale crystal of the morning
to deep blood-red. The trees were changing too, taking strange and
undistinguishable shapes, while there came towards him on the breeze a
confused murmur as of a multitude of steps and voices.
Again he closed his eyes; again he strove to shake off the leaden
weights that held his feet in prison; but it was useless. He looked
up to find all the familiar features of the landscape gone. What had
been the river was a zone of burning sand over which hung a sky lurid
and awful; the confused murmur was still in his ears; but it had drawn
nearer, and the crimson cloud that had hung between earth and heaven
seemed to be descending and distributing itself in multitudinous
forms. Then, in a moment or less, the zone of sand is filled with
figures--figures dark of face and threatening of aspect, that brandish
steel-bright swords in their hands.
He looks, but he cannot stir. It seems to him in those awful moments
that there is more to come--that he is waiting for it. Suddenly it
rises--or has it been there all the time and has he not seen it?--the
vision of a woman, in white garments, with golden hair and sad, wild
eyes. _Her_ face--not as he has ever seen it; but hers. A groan breaks
from his lips. 'It is a dream,' he says to himself. 'It is a dream.'
But a sound rises above the fierce cries of the warriors, a sound
piercing and shrill; it is the voice of his love, wild with terror,
calling out upon his name. Passionately he tries to reach her but he
cannot, and all the time, like the wild insulting chorus of fiends, his
own words, 'Come to me, and I will make the world a Paradise to you,'
are running through his brain.
His limbs are trembling now, and the cold drops of anguish stand upon
his brow. 'Oh, God!' he cries, 'I have sinned. Be merciful! I can bear
no more!'
Scarcely are the words out of his lips before the blood-red pavement,
the fierce faces, and the lurid sky have gone. But she--his love--is
still before him, a pale, sweet phantom, with wonder and a wistful
tenderness in its eyes.
In that same instant the chain that had bound his limbs is loosened.
Crying out 'Grace! Grace!' he dashes forward blindly.
In the next instant our dreamer found himself sprawling on his back
upon the grass, two hands of iron holding him down, and a pair of
glittering grey eyes above him.
'No, you don't,' said an irate voice, as he tried to release himself.
'No, you don't, sir. If you must commit suicide I can't help it, of
course, but it shall not be in my compound. Keep, still, I tell you,
madman! I'm not so young as I was, but I'm strong enough to fight you,
and, by Jove, if you attempt to stir, down you go again.'
By the time this harangue was over Tom had recognised the features
of his captor, realised the absurd nature of his position, and was
laughing heartily.
'Is it you, General?' he said.
'You know me, I hope,' said the old soldier sternly.
'Oh yes, perfectly. Would you be kind enough? Thank you,' as the
General, who was reflecting that intending suicides did not generally
preface their last exit with so natural a laugh as this of Tom's,
relaxed his hold. 'Do you know, General, your hands are like iron?' Tom
sprang to his feet as he spoke.
'Like iron are they?' he said. 'Well, they have had to do hard work in
their time. But come, boy--seriously--I should like to know what you
mean by it.'
'By what, General?'
'By being here at this extraordinary hour to begin with. I don't
believe, myself, that you have been in bed all night.'
Tom looked sheepish. It would not quite have done to quote Shelley's
couplet to the General, and there was absolutely no other reason to
give for his presence in the garden save that 'the spirit in his feet
had led him thither.'
'I am really very sorry----,' he began.
'Understand me,' interrupted the General, mollified by his penitence,
but feeling bound to express his displeasure: 'I have no objection to
see you either in the garden or in the house. I have begged you again
and again to come and go as you please. Lady Elton has done the same.
She has a strong regard for you, and so have I. But, sir, when you go
in for extraordinary athletic performances, I must beg you to find
another field than mine for the display of your talent. Also'--and here
his very hair seemed to bristle with indignation--'to find another name
than my daughter's to hang rhapsodies to. A very pretty little story
would have got about if anyone but myself had been here. And,' he
added as he turned away, 'there's too much talking as it is.'
The reddest of Grace's roses was scarcely as red as Tom's face when the
General turned away from him.
'Did I?' he stammered. 'I beg your pardon--hers, I mean. I must have
been dreaming. I couldn't sleep last night, General, and----'
Now, a confession was the very last thing the General desired. He broke
in hastily:
'All right, my dear fellow, all right. I mustn't be too down upon you.
It was a tremendous piece of news that you received last night, quite
enough to set a young man's wits wool-gathering. But take it quietly,
if you can. In six months, if I know human nature, you will be so much
accustomed to it that you will feel as if you had been rich all your
life.'
'But it isn't the riches,' began poor Tom, tremulously. 'It is----'
'Yes, yes. I understand. The change--prodigious, as you say. Now don't
talk any more. Go home like a sensible fellow and have a good sleep.'
'If I might have a little conversation with you first, sir----'
'Impossible, my dear boy. Quite out of the question. Look at
these'--pointing to the pot-plants--roses and geraniums and fuchsias
and lilacs, which Yaseen Khan and the gardener were bringing down in
batches and placing beside the river--'all to be seen to before the sun
rises.'
'I shall not be long. I only want to ask you a single question.'
'But how long will it take to answer? No, no; I am not going to be
betrayed into an argument. It takes all one's wit, I can tell you, to
deal with one's plants.'
As the General talked he worked. He had thrown off his coat and tucked
up his shirt-sleeves, and lighted a small briarwood pipe, and he was
moving about briskly among the plants, watering them, syringing them,
washing blight off their foliage, loosening the earth about their
roots, and drenching them with tobacco-smoke.
Tom meanwhile held his ground, watching him. Whenever there was a
pause he would jump up, as the old man said to himself discontentedly,
'like a Jack-in-the-box.' But he never found an opening for the little
conversation that he so earnestly desired, and finally the flight of
time and the General's perseverance carried the day. In a few moments,
if he remained where he was, a bevy of laughing girls would be down
upon him, pouring out questions which he might find it difficult to
answer.
So he rose regretfully. 'I will come again, when you are not so busy,'
he said.
'Yes, yes; certainly,' said the General, cordially. 'Come again, by all
means. You are always welcome. But if I don't look to the plants early
they suffer. Good rest to you, my boy, and a pleasant awakening.'
When Tom had gone he breathed a deep sigh of relief. But his work
flagged, and in a few moments he left the gardener to finish it, and
went up slowly to the house, to see if 'mother' was awake.
'That's the worst of having girls,' he said to himself discontentedly.
'There is always something brewing. Now, if four of them were boys----'
Ah! but which four? That was the difficulty. It seems unreasonable, but
it is the simple truth: for 'a wilderness of boys,' each of them as
handsome as Tom Gregory, the General would not have given the least of
his little girls.