MOTHER AND UNCLE.
I was glad enough to sink on a clump of white clover. He stretched
himself on the heather, a little way from me. Silence followed. He was
giving me time to recover myself. As soon, therefore, as I was able, it
was my part to speak.
“Where is your horse?” I asked. The first word is generally one hardly
worth saying.
“I left him at a little farmhouse, about a mile from here. I was afraid
to bring him farther, lest my mother should learn where I had been. She
takes pains to know.”
“Then will she not find out?”
“I don't know.”
“Will she not ask you where you were?”
“Perhaps. There's no knowing.”
“You will tell her, of course, if she does?”
“I think not.”
“Oughtn't you?”
“No.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don't mean you will tell her a story?”
“Certainly not.”
“What will you do then?”
“I will tell her that I will not tell her.”
“Would that be right?”
Through the dusk I could see the light of his smile as he answered,
“I think so. I shall not tell her.”
“But,” I began.
He interrupted me.
My heart was sinking within me. Not only had I wanted him to help me to
tell my uncle, but I shuddered at the idea of having with any man a
secret from his mother.
“It must look strange to you,” he said; “but you do not know my mother!”
“I think I do know your mother,” I rejoined. “She saved my poor little
life once.--I am not sure it was your mother, but I think it was.”
“How was that?” he said, much surprised. “When was it?”
“Many years ago--I cannot tell how many,” I answered. “But I remember all
about it well enough. I cannot have been more than eight, I imagine.”
“Could she have been at the manor then?” he said, putting the question to
himself, not me. “How was it? Tell me,” he went on, rising to his feet,
and looking at me with almost a frightened expression.
I told him the incident, and he heard me in absolute silence. When I had
done,--
“It _was_ my mother!” he broke out; “I don't know one other woman who
would have let a child walk like that! Any other would have taken you up,
or put you on the horse and walked beside you!”
“A gentleman would, I know,” I replied. “But it would not be so easy for
a lady!”
_“She_ could have done either well enough. She's as strong as a horse
herself, and rides like an Amazon. But I am not in the least surprised:
it was just like her! You poor little darling! It nearly makes me cry to
think of the tiny feet going tramp, tramp, all that horrible way, and
she high up on her big horse! She always rides the biggest horse she can
get!--And then never to say a word to you after she brought you home, or
see you the next morning!”
“Mr. Day,” I returned, “I would not have told you, had I known it would
give you occasion to speak so naughtily of your mother. You make me
unhappy.”
He was silent. I thought he was ashamed of himself, and was sorry for
him. But my sympathy was wasted. He broke into a murmuring laugh of
merriment.
“When is a mother not a mother?” he said. “--Do you give it up?--When
she's a north wind. When she's a Roman emperor. When she's an iceberg.
When she's a brass tiger.--There! that'll do. Good-bye, mother, for the
present! I mayn't know much, as she's always telling me, but I do know
that a noun is not a thing, nor a name a person!”
I would have expostulated.
“For love's sake, dearest,” he pleaded, “we will not dispute where only
one of us knows! I will tell you all some day--soon, I hope, very soon. I
am angry now!--Poor little tramping child!”
I saw I had been behaving presumptuously: I had wanted to argue while yet
in absolute ignorance of the thing in hand! Had not my uncle taught me
the folly of reasoning from the ideal where I knew nothing of the actual!
The ideal must be our guide how to treat the actual, but the actual must
be there to treat! One thing more I saw--that there could be no likeness
between his mother and my uncle!
“Will you tell me something about yourself, then?” I said.
“That would not be interesting!” he objected.
“Then why are you here?” I returned.
“Can any person without a history be interesting?”
“Yes,” he answered: “a person that was going to have a history might be
interesting.”
“Could a person with a history that was not worth telling, be
interesting? But I know yours will interest me in the hearing, therefore
it ought to interest you in the telling.
“I see,” he rejoined, with his merry laugh, “I shall have to be careful!
My lady will at once pounce upon the weak points of my logic!”
“I am no logician,” I answered; “I only know when I don't know a thing.
My uncle has taught me that wisdom lies in that.”
“Yours must be a very unusual kind of uncle!” he returned.
“If God had made many men like my uncle, I think the world wouldn't be
the same place.”
“I wonder why he didn't!” he said thoughtfully.
“I have wondered much, and cannot tell,” I replied.
“What if it wouldn't be good for the world to have many good men in it
before it was ready to treat them properly?” he suggested.
The words let me know that at least he could think. Hitherto my uncle had
seemed to me the only man that thought. But I had seen very few men.
“Perhaps that is it,” I answered. “I will think about it.--Were you
brought up at Rising? Have you been there all the time? Were you there
that night? I should surely have known had you been in the house!”
He looked at me with a grateful smile.
“I was not brought up there,” he answered. “Rising is mine, however--at
least it will be when I come of age; it was left me some ten years ago by
a great-aunt My father's property will be mine too, of course. My
mother's is in Ireland. She ought to be there, not here; but she likes my
estates better than her own, and makes the most of being my guardian.”
“You would not have her there if she is happier here?”
“All who have land, ought to live on it, or else give it to those who
will. What makes it theirs, if their only connection with it is the money
it brings them? If I let my horse run wild over the country, how could I
claim him, and refuse to pay his damages?”
“I don't quite understand you.”
“I only mean there is no bond where both ends are not tied. My mother has
no sense of obligation, so far as ever I have been able to see. But do
not be afraid: I would as soon take a wife to the house she was in, as I
would ask her to creep with me into the den of a hyena.”
It was too dreadful! I rose. He sprang to his feet.
“You must excuse me, sir!” I said. “With one who can speak so of his
mother, I am where I ought not to be.”
“You have a right to know what my mother is,” he answered--coldly, I
thought; “and I should not be a true man if I spoke of her otherwise than
truly.”
He would pretend nothing to please me! I saw that I was again in the
wrong. Was I so ill read as to imagine that a mother must of necessity be
a good woman? Was he to speak of his mother as he did not believe of her,
or be unfit for my company? Would untruth be a bond between us?
“I beg your pardon,” I said; “I was wrong. But you can hardly wonder I
should be shocked to hear a son speak so of his mother--and to one all
but a stranger!”
“What!” he returned, with a look of surprise; “do you think of me so? I
feel as if I had known you all my life--and before it!”
I felt ashamed, and was silent. If he was such a stranger, why was I
there alone with him?
“You must not think I speak so to any one,” he went on. “Of those who
know my mother, not one has a right to demand of me anything concerning
her. But how could I ask you to see me, and hide from you the truth about
her? Prudence would tell you to have nothing to do with the son of such a
woman: could I be a true man, true to you, and hold my tongue about her?
I should be a liar of the worst sort!”
He felt far too strongly, it was plain, to heed a world of commonplaces.
“Forgive me,” I said. “May I sit down again?”
He held out his hand. I took it, and reseated myself on the
clover-hillock. He laid himself again beside me, and after a little
silence began to relate what occurred to him of his external history,
while all the time I was watching for hints as to how he had come to be
the man he was. It was clear he did not find it easy to talk about
himself. But soon I no longer doubted whether I ought to have met him,
and loved him a great deal more by the time he had done.
I then told him in return what my life had hitherto been; how I knew
nothing of father or mother; how my uncle had been everything to me; how
he had taught me all I knew, had helped me to love what was good and hate
what was evil, had enabled me to value good books, and turn away from
foolish ones. In short, I made him feel that all his mother had not been
to him, my uncle had been to me; and that it would take a long time to
make me as much indebted to a husband as already I was to my uncle. Then
I put the question:
“What would you think of me if I had a secret from an uncle like that?”
“If I had an uncle like that,” he answered, “I would sooner cut my throat
than keep anything from him!”
“I have not told him,” I said, “what happened to-day--or yesterday.”
“But you will tell him?”
“The first moment I can. But I hope you understand it is hard to do. My
love for my uncle makes it hard. It has the look of turning away from him
to love another!”
With that I burst out crying. I could not help it. He let me cry, and did
not interfere. I was grateful for that. When at length I raised my head,
he spoke.
“It has that look,” he said; “but I trust it is only a look. Anyhow, he
knows that such things must be; and the more of a good man and a
gentleman he is, the less will he be pained that we should love one
another!”
“I am sure of that,” I replied. “I am only afraid that he may never have
been in love himself, and does not know how it feels, and may think I
have forsaken him for you.”
“Are you with him _always?_”
“No; I am sometimes a good deal alone. I can be alone as much as I like;
he always gives me perfect liberty. But I never before wanted to be alone
when I could be with him.”
“But he _could_ live without you?”
“Yes, indeed!” I cried. “He would be a poor creature that could not live
without another!”
He said nothing, and I added, “He often goes out alone--sometimes in the
darkest nights.”
“Then be sure he knows what love is.--But, if you would rather, I will
tell him.”
“I could not have any one, even you, tell my uncle about me.”
“You are right. When will you tell him?”
“I cannot be sure. I would go to him to-morrow, but I am afraid they will
not let me until he has got a little over this accident,” I answered--and
told him what had happened. “It is dreadful to think how he must have
suffered,” I said, “and how much more I should have thought about it but
for you! It tears my heart. Why wasn't it made bigger?”
“Perhaps that is just what is now being done with it!” he answered.
“I hope it may be!” I returned. “--But it is time I went in.”
“Shall I not see you again to-morrow evening?” he asked.
“No,” I answered. “I must not see you again till I have told my uncle
everything.”
“You do not mean for weeks and weeks--till he is well enough to come
home? How _am_ I to live till then!”
“As I shall have to live. But I hope it will be but for a few days at
most. Only, then, it will depend on what my uncle thinks of the thing.”
“Will he decide for you what you are to do?”
“Yes--I think so. Perhaps if he were--” I was on the point of saying,
“like your mother,” but I stopped in time--or hardly, for I think he saw
what I just saved myself from. It was but the other morning I made the
discovery that, all our life together, John has never once pressed me to
complete a sentence I broke off.
He looked so sorrowful that I was driven to add something.
“I don't think there is much good,” I said, “in resolving what you will
or will not do, before the occasion appears, for it may have something in
it you never reckoned on. All I can say is, I will try to do what is
right. I cannot promise anything without knowing what my uncle thinks.”
We rose; he took me in his arms for just an instant; and we parted with
the understanding that I was to write to him as soon as I had spoken with
my uncle.