From this time forward Austin seemed to live a double life. Perhaps it
would be more accurate to say that he inhabited two worlds. Around him
the flowers bloomed in the garden, Lubin worked and whistled, Aunt
Charlotte bustled about her duties, and everything went on as usual.
But beyond and behind all this there was something else. The dreams
and reveries that had hitherto invaded him became felt realities; he
no longer had any doubt that he was encircled by beings whom he could
not see, but who were none the less actual for that. And the curious
feature of the case was that it all seemed perfectly natural to him,
and so far from feeling frightened, or suffering from any sense of
being haunted, he experienced a sort of pleasure in it, a grateful
consciousness of friendly though unseen companionship that heightened
his joy in life. Who these invisible guardians could be, of course he
had no idea; it was enough for him just then to know that they were
there, and that, by their timely intervention on no fewer than three
ocasions, they had given ample proof that they both loved and trusted
him.
Aunt Charlotte, on her side, could not but acknowledge that there must
be "something in it," as she said; it could not all be nothing but
Austin's fancy. She remembered that people who wrote hymns and poems
talked sometimes of guardian angels, and it was possible that a belief
in guardian angels might be orthodox. It was even conceivable that it
was a benevolent functionary of this class who had let St Peter out of
prison; and if the institution had existed then, why, there was
nothing unreasonable in the conclusion that it might possibly exist
now. She revolved these questionings in her mind during her journey up
to town the day after Austin's escapade, when, as she told herself,
she would be perfectly safe from accident; for it was not in the
nature of things that two collisions should happen so close together.
And she had reason to be glad she went, seeing that her bankers
received her with perfect cordiality, and convinced her that she would
certainly lose all her money if she insisted on investing it in any
such wild-cat scheme as the one she had set her heart upon. They
suggested, instead, certain foreign bonds on which she would receive a
perfectly safe four-and-a-half per cent.; and so pleased was she at
having been preserved from risking her two thousand pounds that she
not only indulged in a modest half-bottle of Beaune with her lunch,
but bought a pretty pencil-case for Austin. She determined at the same
time to let the vicar know what her bankers had said about the
investment he had urged upon her, and promised herself that she would
take the opportunity--of course without mentioning names--of
consulting him about the orthodoxy of guardian angels. He might be
expected to prove a safer guide in such a matter as that than in
questions of high finance.
A few days afterwards, Austin went to call upon his friend St Aubyn.
He longed to see the beautiful gardens at the Court again, now that he
had obtained a glimpse into the mystic side of garden-craft through
the writings of Sir Thomas Browne; he felt intensely curious to pay
another visit to the haunted Banqueting Hall, which had a special
fascination for him since his own abnormal experiences; and he felt
that a confidential talk with Mr St Aubyn himself would do him no end
of good. _There_ was a man, at anyrate, to whom he could open his
heart; a man of high culture, wide sympathies, and great knowledge of
life. He was shown into the big, dim drawing-room, where a faint
perfume of lavender seemed to hang about, imparting to him a sense of
quiet and repose that was very soothing; through the half-closed
shutters the colours of the garden again gleamed brilliantly in the
sunshine, and there was heard a faint liquid sound, as of the plashing
of an adjacent fountain. St Aubyn entered in a few minutes, and
greeted him very cordially.
"Well, and what have you been about?" he said, after a few
preliminaries had been exchanged. "Reading and dreaming, I suppose, as
usual?"
"I'm afraid I've done both, and very little else to speak of," replied
Austin, laughing. "I'm always reading, off and on, without much
system, you know. But if I'm rather desultory I always enjoy reading,
because books give me so many new ideas, and it's delightful to have
always something fresh to think about."
"Yes, yes," rejoined St Aubyn. "I don't know what you read, of course,
but it's clear you don't read many novels."
"Novels!" exclaimed Austin scornfully. "How _can_ people read novels,
when there are so many other books in the world?"
"Well, what have you been reading, then?" enquired St Aubyn, lighting
a cigarette.
"I've been dipping into one of the most puzzling, fascinating,
bothering books I ever came across," replied Austin, following his
example. "I mean 'The Garden of Cyrus,' by Sir Thomas Browne. I can't
follow him a bit, and yet, somehow, he drags me along with him. All
that about the quincunx is most baffling. He seems to begin with the
arrangement of a garden, and then to lead one on through a maze of
arithmetical progressions till one finds oneself landed in a mystical
philosophy of life and creation, and I don't know what all. If I could
only understand him better I should probably enjoy him more."
St Aubyn smiled. "Well, of course, it all sounds very fanciful," he
said. "One must read him as one reads all those curious old mediæval
authors, who are full of pseudo-science and theories based on fables.
His great charm to me is his style, which is singularly rich and
chaste. But I've no doubt whatever, myself, that a great deal of this
ancient lore, which we have been accustomed to regard as so much
sciolism, not to say pure nonsense, had a germ of truth in it, and
that truth I believe we are gradually beginning to re-discover. You
see, one mustn't always take the formulas employed by these old
writers in their literal sense. Many were purely symbolic, and
concealed occult meanings. Now the philosopher's stone, to take a
familiar example, was not a stone at all. The word was no more than a
symbol, and covered a search for one of the great secrets--the origin
of life, or the nature of matter, or the attainment of immortality.
They seem to us to have taken a very roundabout route in their
investigations, but their object was often very much the same as that
of every chemist and biologist of the present day. Take alchemy,
again, which is supposed by people generally to have been nothing but
an attempt to turn the baser metals into gold. According to the
Rosicrucians, who may be supposed to have known something about it,
alchemy was the science of guiding the invisible processes of life for
the purpose of attaining certain results in both the physical and
spiritual spheres. Chemistry deals with inanimate substances, alchemy
with the principle of life itself. The highest aim of the alchemist
was the evolution of a divine and immortal being out of a mortal and
semi-animal man; the development, in short, of all those hidden
properties which lie latent in man's nature."
"That is a very valuable thing to know," observed Austin, greatly
interested. "Every day I live, the more I realise the truth that
everything we see is on the surface, and that there's a whole world of
machinery--I can't think of a better term--working at the back of it.
It's like a clock. The face and the hands are all we see, but it's the
works inside that we can't see that make it go."
"Excellently put," returned St Aubyn. "There are influences and forces
all round us of which we only notice the effects, and how far these
forces are intelligent is a very curious question. I see nothing
unscientific myself in the hypothesis that they may be."
"I wonder!" exclaimed Austin. "Do you know--I have had some very funny
experiences myself lately, that can't be explained on any other ground
that I can think of. The first occurred the very day that I was here
first. Would you mind if I told you about them? Would it bother you
very much?"
"On the contrary! I shall listen with the greatest interest, I assure
you," replied St Aubyn, with a smile.
So Austin began at the beginning, and gave his friend a clear, full,
circumstantial account of the three occurrences which had made so deep
an impression on his mind. The story of the bricks riveted the
attention of his hearer, who questioned him closely about a number of
significant details; then he went on to the incident of Aunt
Charlotte's proposed journey, the mysterious warning he had received,
and the desperate measures to which he had been driven to keep her
from going out. St Aubyn shouted with laughter as Austin gravely
described how he had locked her up in her bedroom, and how lustily she
had banged and screamed to be released before it was too late to catch
the train. The sequel seemed to astonish him, and he fell into a
musing silence.
"You tell your story remarkably well," he said at last, "and I don't
mind confessing that the abnormal character of the whole thing strikes
me as beyond question. Any attempt to explain such sequences by the
worn-out old theory of imagination or coincidence would be manifestly
futile. Such coincidences, like miracles, do not happen. Many things
have happened that people call miracles, by which they mean a sort of
divine conjuring-trick that is performed or brought about by violating
or annihilating natural laws. That, of course, is absurd. Nothing
happens but in virtue of natural laws, laws just as natural and
inherent in the universal scheme of things as gravitation or the
precession of the equinoxes, _only_ outside our extremely limited
knowledge of the universe. That, under certain conditions, such
interpositions affecting physical organisms may be produced by
invisible agencies is, in my view, eminently conceivable. It is purely
a question of evidence."
"I am so glad you think so," replied Austin. "It makes things so much
easier. And then it's so pleasant to think that one is really
surrounded by unseen friends who are looking after one. I was never a
bit afraid of ghosts, and _my_ ghosts are apparently a charming set of
people. I wonder who they are?"
"Ah, that is more than I can tell you," answered the other, laughing.
"I'm not so favoured as you appear to be. But come, let's have a
stroll round the garden. You don't mind the sun, I know."
"And the Banqueting Hall! I insist on the Banqueting Hall," added
Austin, who now began to feel quite at home with his genial host. "I
long to be in there again. I'm sure it's full of wonders, if one only
had eyes to see."
"By all means," smiled St Aubyn, as they went out. "You shall take
your fill of them, never fear. Don't forget your hat--the sun's pretty
powerful to-day. Doesn't the lawn look well?"
"Lovely," assented Austin, admiringly. "Like a great green velvet
carpet. How do you manage to keep it in such good condition?"
"By plenty of rolling and watering. That's the only secret. Let's walk
this way, down to the pool where the lilies are. There'll be plenty of
shade under the trees. Do you see that old statue, just over there by
the wall? That's a great favourite of mine. It always looks to me like
a petrified youth, a being that will never grow old in soul although
its form has existed for centuries, and the stone it's made of for
thousands of thousands of years. That's an illustration of the saying
that whom the gods love die young. Not that they die in youth, but
that they never really grow old, let them live for eighty years or
more, as we count time. They remain always young in soul, however long
their bodies last. Perhaps that's what Isaiah had in his mind when he
talked about a child dying at a hundred. _You'll_ never grow old, you
know."
"Shan't I? How nice," exclaimed Austin, brightly. "I certainly can't
fancy myself old a bit. How funny it would be if one always preserved
one's youthful shape and features, while one's skin got all cracked
and rough and wrinkled like that old youth over there! The effect
would be rather ghastly. But I don't want to grow old in any sense. I
should like to remain a boy all my life. I suppose that in the other
world people may live a thousand years and always remain eighteen. I'm
nearly eighteen myself."
St Aubyn could not help casting a glance of keen interest at the boy
as he said this. A presentiment shot through him that that might
actually be the destiny of the pure-souled, enthusiastic young
creature who had just uttered the suggestive words. Austin's long,
pale face, slender form, and bright, far-away expression carried with
them the idea that perhaps he might not stay very long where he was. A
sudden pang made itself felt as the possibility occurred to him, and
he rapidly changed the subject.
"I don't think I'd let my thoughts run too much on mystical questions
if I were you, Austin," he said. "I mean in connection with these
curious experiences you've been having. You have enough joy in life,
joy from the world around you, to dispense with speculations about the
unseen. All that sort of thing is premature, and if it takes too great
a hold upon you its tendency will be to make you morbid."
"It hasn't done so yet," replied Austin. "As far as I can judge of the
other world, it seems quite as joyous and lively as this one, and in
reality I expect it's a good deal more so. I don't hanker after
experiences, as you call them, but hitherto whenever they've come
they've always been helpful and agreeable--never terrifying or ghastly
in the very least. And I don't lay myself out for them, you know. I
just feel that there _is_ something near me that I can't see, and that
it's pleasant and friendly. The thought is a happy one, and makes me
enjoy the world I live in all the more."
"Well, then, let us enjoy it together, and talk about orchids and
tulips, and things we can see and handle," said St Aubyn, cheerfully.
"How's Aunt Charlotte, for instance? Has she quite forgiven you for
having saved her life?"
"Oh, quite, I think," replied Austin, his eyes twinkling. "I believe
she's almost grateful, for when she came back from town she presented
me with a gold pencil-case. She doesn't often do that sort of thing,
poor dear, and I'm sure she meant it as a sign of reconciliation. It's
pretty, isn't it?" he added, taking it out of his pocket.
"Charming," assented St Aubyn. "That bit of lapis lazuli at the top,
with a curious design upon it, is by way of being an amulet, I
suppose?"
"H'm! I don't believe in amulets, you know," said Austin, nodding
sagely. "I consider that all nonsense."
"Yet there's no doubt that some amulets have influence," remarked St
Aubyn. "If a piece of amber, for example, has been highly magnetised
by a 'sensitive,' as very psychic persons are called, it is quite
possible that, worn next the skin, a certain amount of magnetic fluid
may be transmitted to the wearer, producing a distinct effect upon his
vitality. There's nothing occult about that. The most thoroughgoing
materialist might acknowledge it. But when it comes to spells, and all
that gibberish, there, of course, I part company. The magical power of
certain precious stones may be a fact of nature, but I see no proof
of its truth, and therefore I don't believe in it."
"And now may we go and look at the flowers?" suggested Austin.
"Come along," returned St Aubyn. "What a boy you are for flowers! Do
you know much of botany?"
"No--yes, a little--but not nearly as much as I ought," said Austin,
as they strolled through the blaze of colour. "I love flowers for
their beauty and suggestiveness, irrespective of the classifications
to which they may happen to belong. A garden is to me the most
beautiful thing in the world. There's something sacred about it.
Everything that's beautiful is good, and if it isn't beautiful it
can't be good, and when one realises beauty one is happy. That's why I
feel so much happier in gardens than in church."
"Why, aren't you fond of church?" asked St Aubyn, amused.
"A garden makes me happier," said Austin. "Religion seems to encourage
pain, and ugliness, and mourning. I don't know why it should, but
nearly all the very religious people I know are solemn and melancholy,
as though they hadn't wits enough to be anything else. They only
understand what is uncomfortable, just as beasts of burden only
understand threats and beatings. I suppose it's a question of culture.
Now I learn more of what _I_ call religion from fields, and trees, and
flowers than from anything else. I don't believe that if the world had
consisted of nothing but cities any real religion would ever have been
evolved at all."
"Crude, my dear Austin, very crude!" remarked St Aubyn, patting his
shoulder as they walked. "There's more in religion than that, a great
deal. Beware of generalising too widely, and don't forget the personal
equation. Now, come and have a look at the orchids. I've got one or
two rather fine ones that you haven't seen."
He led the way towards the orchid-houses. Here they spent a delightful
quarter of an hour, and it was only the thought of his visit to the
Banqueting Hall that reconciled Austin to tearing himself away. St
Aubyn seemed much diverted at his insistence, and asked him whether he
expected to find the figures on the tapestry endowed with life and
disporting themselves about the room for his entertainment.
"I wish they would!" laughed Austin. "What fun it would be. I'm sure
they'd enjoy it too. How old is the tapestry, by the way?"
"It's fifteenth century work, I believe," replied St Aubyn. "Here we
are. It really is very good of its kind, and the colours are
wonderfully preserved."
"It's lovely!" sighed Austin, as he walked slowly up the hall,
feasting his eyes once more on the beautiful fabrics. "What a thing to
live with! Just think of having all these charming people as one's
daily companions. I shouldn't want them to come to life, I like them
just as they are. If they moved or spoke the charm would be broken.
Why don't you spend hours every day in this wonderful place?"
"My dear boy, I haven't such an imagination as you have," answered St
Aubyn, laughing. "But as a mere artist, of course I appreciate them as
much as anyone, just as I appreciate statuary or pictures. And I prize
them for their historical value too."
Austin made no reply. He began to look abstracted, as though listening
to something else. The sun had begun to sink on the other side of the
house, leaving the hall itself in comparative shadow.
"Don't you feel anything?" he said at last, in an undertone.
"Nothing whatever," replied St Aubyn. "Do you?"
"Yes. Hush! No--it was nothing. But I feel it--all round me. The most
curious sensation. The room's full. Some of them are behind me. Don't
you feel a wind?"
"Indeed I don't," said St Aubyn. "There's not a breath stirring
anywhere."
They were standing side by side. Austin gently put out his right hand
and grasped St Aubyn's left.
"_Now_ don't you feel anything?" he asked.
"Yes--a sort of thrill. A tingling in my arm," replied St Aubyn.
"That's rather strange. But it comes from you, not from----" He
paused.
"It comes _through_ me," said Austin.
They stood for a few seconds in unbroken silence. Then St Aubyn
suddenly withdrew his hand. "This is unhealthy!" he said, with a touch
of abruptness. "You must be highly magnetic. Your organism is
'sensitive,' and that's why you experience things that I don't."
"Oh, why did you break the spell?" cried Austin, regretfully. "What
harm could it have done you? You said yourself just now that nothing
happens that isn't natural. And this is natural enough, if one could
only understand the way it works."
"Many things are natural that are not desirable," returned St Aubyn,
walking up and down. "It's quite natural for people to go to sea, but
it makes some of them sea-sick, nevertheless, and they had better stay
on shore. It's all a matter of temperament, I suppose, and what is
pleasant for you is something that my own instincts warn me very
carefully to avoid."
Austin drew his handkerchief across his eyes, as though beginning to
come back to the realities of life. "I daresay," he said, vaguely.
"But it's very restful here. The air seems to make me sleepy. I almost
think--"
At this point a servant appeared at the other end of the hall, and St
Aubyn went to see what he wanted. The next moment he returned, with
quickened steps.
"Come away with you--you and your spooks!" he cried, cheerfully,
taking Austin by the arm. "Here's an old aunt of mine suddenly dropped
from the skies, and clamouring for a cup of tea. We must go in and
entertain her. She's all by herself in the library."
"I shall be very glad," said Austin. "You go on first, and I'll be
with you in two minutes."
So St Aubyn strode off to welcome his elderly relative, and when
Austin came into the room he found his friend stooping over a very
small, very dowdy old lady dressed in rusty black silk, with a large
bonnet rather on one side, who was standing on tiptoe, the better to
peck at St Aubyn's cheek by way of a salute. She had small, twinkling
eyes, a wrinkled face, and the very honestest wig that Austin had ever
seen; and yet there was an air and a style about the old body which
somehow belied her quaint appearance, and suggested the idea that she
was something more than the insignificant little creature that she
looked at first sight. And so in fact she was, being no less a
personage than the Dowager-Countess of Merthyr Tydvil, and a very
great lady indeed.
"But, my dear aunt, why did you never let me know that I might expect
you?" St Aubyn was saying as Austin entered. "I might have been miles
away, and you'd have had all your journey for nothing."
"My dear, I'm staying with the people at Cleeve Castle, and I thought
I'd just give 'em the slip for an hour or two and take you by
surprise," answered the old lady as she sat down. "No, you needn't
ring--I ordered tea as soon as I came in. They just bore me out of my
life, you see, and they've got a pack o' riffraff staying with 'em
that I don't know how to sit in the same room with. But who's your
young friend over there? Why don't you introduce him?"
"I beg your pardon!" said St Aubyn. "Mr Austin Trevor, a near
neighbour of mine. Austin, my aunt, Lady Merthyr Tydvil."
"Why, of course I know now," said the old lady, nodding briskly. "So
you're Austin, are you? Roger was telling me about you not three weeks
ago. Well, Austin, I like the looks of you, and that's more than I can
say of most people, I can tell you. How long have you been living
hereabouts?"
"Ever since I can remember," Austin said.
"Roger, do touch the bell, there's a good creature," said Lady Merthyr
Tydvil. "That man of yours must be growing the tea-plants, I should
think. Ah, here he is. I'm gasping for something to drink. Did the
water boil, Richards? You're sure? How many spoonfuls of tea did you
put in? H'm! Well, never mind now. I shall be better directly. What
are those? Oh--Nebuchadnezzar sandwiches. Very good. That's all we
want, I think."
She dismissed the man with a gesture as though the house belonged to
her, while St Aubyn looked on, amused.
"I thought I should never get here," she continued. "The driver was a
perfect imbecile, my dear--didn't know the country a bit. And it's not
more than seven miles, you know, if it's as much. I was sure the
wretch was going wrong, and if I hadn't insisted on pulling him up and
asking a respectable-looking body where the house was I believe we
should have been wandering about the next shire at this moment. I've
no patience with such fools."
"And how long are you staying at Cleeve?" asked St Aubyn, supplying
her with sandwiches.
"I've been there nearly a week already, and the trouble lasts three
days more," replied his aunt, as she munched away. "The Duke's a fool,
and she's worse. Haven't the ghost of an idea, either of 'em, how to
mix people, you know. And what with their horrible charades, and their
nonsensical round games, and their everlasting bridge, I'm pretty well
at the end of my tether. Never was among such a beef-witted set of
addlepates since I was born. The only man among 'em who isn't a
hopeless booby's a Socialist, and he's been twice in gaol for inciting
honest folks not to pay their taxes. Oh, they're a precious lot, I
promise you. I don't know what we're coming to, I'm sure."
"But it's so easy not to do things," observed St Aubyn, lazily. "Why
on earth do you go there? I wouldn't, I know that."
"Why does anybody do anything?" retorted the old lady. "We can't all
stay at home and write books that nobody reads, as you do."
Austin looked up enquiringly. He had no idea that St Aubyn was an
author, and said so.
"What, you didn't know that Roger wrote books?" said the old lady,
turning to him. "Oh yes, he does, my dear, and very fine books
too--only they're miles above the comprehension of stupid old women
like me. Probably you've not a notion what a learned person he really
is. I don't even know the names of the things he writes of."
"And you never told me!" said Austin to his friend. "But you'll have
to lend me some of your books now, you know. I'm dying to know what
they're all about."
"They're chiefly about antiquities," responded St Aubyn; "early
Peruvian, Mexican, Egyptian, and so on. You're perfectly welcome to
read them all if you care to. They're not at all deep, whatever my
aunt may say."
During this brief interchange of remarks, Lady Merthyr Tydvil had been
gazing rather fixedly at Austin, with her head on one side like an
enquiring old bird, and a puzzled expression on her face.
"The most curious likeness!" she exclaimed. "Now, how is it that your
face seems so familiar to me, I wonder? I've certainly never seen you
anywhere before, and yet--and yet--who _is_ it you remind me of, for
goodness' sake?"
"I wish I could tell you," replied Austin, laughing. "Likenesses are
often quite accidental, and it may be----"
"Stuff and nonsense, my dear," interrupted the old lady, brusquely.
"There's nothing accidental about this. You're the living image of
somebody, but who it is I can't for the life of me imagine. What do
you say your name is?"
"My surname, you mean?--Trevor," replied Austin, beginning to be
rather interested.
"Trevor!" cried Lady Merthyr Tydvil, her voice rising almost to a
squeak. "No relation to Geoffrey Trevor who was in the 16th Lancers?"
"He was my father," said Austin, much surprised.
"Why, my dear, my dear, he was a _great_ friend of mine!" exclaimed
the old lady, raising both her hands. "I knew him twenty years ago and
more, and was fonder of him than I ever let out to anybody. Of course
it doesn't matter a bit now, but I always told him that if I'd been a
single woman, and a quarter of a century younger, I'd have married him
out of hand. That was a standing joke between us, for I was old enough
to be his mother, and he was already engaged--ah, and a sweet pretty
creature she was, too, and I don't wonder he fell in love with her. So
you are Geoffrey's son! I can scarcely believe it, even now. But it's
your mother you take after, not Geoffrey. She was a Miss--Miss----"
"Her maiden name was Waterfield," interpolated Austin.
"So it was, so it was!" assented the old lady, eagerly. "What a memory
you've got, to be sure. One of Sir Philip Waterfield's daughters, down
in Leicestershire. And her other name was Dorothea. Why, I remember it
all now as though it had happened yesterday. Your father made me his
confidante all through; such a state as he was in you never saw,
wondering whether she'd have him, never able to screw up his courage
to ask her, now all down in the dumps and the next day halfway up to
the moon. Well, of course they were married at last, and then I
somehow lost sight of them. They went abroad, I think, and when they
came back they settled in some place on the other side of nowhere and
I never saw them again. And you are their son Austin!"
Interested as he was in these reminiscences, Austin could not help
being struck with the wonderful grace of this curious old lady's
gestures. In spite of her skimpy dress and antiquated bonnet, she was,
he thought, the most exquisitely-bred old woman he had ever seen.
Every movement was a charm, and he watched her, as she spoke, with
growing fascination and delight.
"It is quite marvellous to think you knew my parents," he said in
reply, "while I have no recollection of either of them. My mother died
when I was born, and my father a year or two later. What was my mother
like? Did you know her well?"
"She was a delicate-looking creature, with a pale face and dark-grey
eyes," answered the old lady, "and you put me in mind of her very
strongly. I didn't know her very well, but I remember your father
bringing her to call on me when they were first engaged, and a
wonderfully handsome couple they were. No doubt they were very happy,
but their lives were cut short, as so often happens, leaving a lot of
stupid people alive that the world could well dispense with. But I see
you've lost one of your legs! How did that come about, I should like
to know?"
"Oh--something went wrong with the bone, and it had to be cut off,"
said Austin, rather vaguely.
"Dear, dear, what a pity," was the old lady's comment. "And are you
very sorry for yourself?"
"Not in the least," said Austin, smiling brightly. "I've got quite
fond of my new one."
"You're quite a philosopher, I see," said the old lady, nodding; "as
great a philosopher as the fox who couldn't reach the grapes, and he
was one of the wisest who ever lived. And now I think I'll have
another cup of tea, Roger, if there's any left. Give me two lumps of
sugar, and just enough cream to swear by."
The conversation now became more general, and Austin, thinking that
the countess would like to be alone with her nephew for a few minutes
before returning to the Castle, watched for an opportunity of taking
leave. He soon rose, and said he must be going home. The old lady
shook hands with him in the most cordial manner, telling him that in
no case must he ever forget his mother--oblivious, apparently, of the
fact that by no earthly possibility could he remember her; and St
Aubyn accompanied him to the door. "You've quite won her heart," he
said, laughingly, as he bade the boy farewell. "If she was ever in
love with your father, she seems to have transferred her affections to
you. Good-bye--and don't let it be too long before you come again."
Austin brandished his leg with more than usual haughtiness as he
thudded his way home along the road. He always gave it a sort of
additional swing when he was excited or pleased, and on this
particular occasion his gait was almost defiant. It must be confessed
that, never having known either of his parents, he had not hitherto
thought much about them. There was one small and much-faded photograph
of his father, which Aunt Charlotte kept locked up in a drawer, but
of his mother there was no likeness at all, and he had no idea
whatever of her appearance. But now he began to feel more interest in
them, and a sense of longing, not unmixed with curiosity, took
possession of him. What sort of a woman, he wondered, could that
unknown mother have been? Well, physically he was himself like her--so
Lady Merthyr Tydvil had said; and so much like her that it was through
that very resemblance that all these interesting discoveries had been
made. Then his thoughts reverted to what Aunt Charlotte had told him
about his mother's dying words, and how bitterly she had grieved at
not living to bring him up herself. And yet she was still
alive--somewhere--though in a world removed. Of course he couldn't
remember her, having never seen her, _but she had not forgotten
him_--of that he felt convinced. That was a curious reflection. His
mother was alive, and mindful of him. He could not prove it,
naturally, but he knew it all the same. He realised it as though by
instinct. And who could tell how near she might be to him? Distance,
after all, is not necessarily a matter of miles. One may be only a few
inches from another person, and yet if those inches are occupied by an
impenetrable wall of solid steel, the two will be as much separated
as though an ocean rolled between them. On the other hand, Austin had
read of cases in which two friends were actually on the opposite sides
of an ocean, and yet, through some mysterious channel, were sometimes
conscious, in a sub-conscious way, of each other's thoughts and
circumstances. Perhaps his mother could even see him, although he
could not see her. It was all a very fascinating puzzle, but there was
some truth underlying it somewhere, if he could only find it out.