“Jack, dearest, how long will you be with me? How long is the leave?”
He raised his eyes then and looked at her; a curious look. Something in
it blurred her mind with a sense of some other sort of fear.
“Only till to-night,” he said.
It seemed confusion rather than pain that she felt. “Only till to-night,
Jack? But Richard Crawley has been back for three days already. I
thought they gave you longer?”
“I know, mummy.” His eyes were dropped again and his hand at the
button--did it tremble?--twisted and untwisted. “I’ve been back for
three days already.--I’ve been in London.”
“In London?” Her breath failed her. The sense of alien fear became a
fog, horrible, suffocating. “But--Jack--why?”
“I didn’t wire, mummy, because I knew I’d have to be there for most of
my time. I felt I couldn’t wire and tell you. I felt I had to see you
when I told you. Mother--I’m married.--I came back to get married.--I
was married this morning.--Oh, mother, can you ever forgive me?”
His shaking hands held her and his eyes could not meet hers.
She felt the blood rush, as if her heart had been divided with a sword,
to her throat, to her eyes, choking her, burning her; and as if from
far away she heard her own voice saying, after a little time had passed,
“There’s nothing I couldn’t forgive you, Jack. Tell me. Don’t be afraid
of hurting me.”
He held her tightly, still looking down as he said, "She is a dancer,
mother, a little dancer. It was in London, last summer. A lot of us came
up from Aldershot together. She was in the chorus of one of those
musical comedies. Mother, you can never understand. But it wasn’t just
low and vulgar. She was so lovely,--so very young,--with the most
wonderful golden hair and the sweetest eyes.--I don’t know.--I simply
went off my head when I saw her. We all had supper together afterwards.
Toppie knew one of the other girls, and Dollie was there. That’s her
name--Dollie Vaughan--her stage name. Her real name was Watson. Her
people, I think, were little tradespeople, and she’d lost her father and
mother, and an aunt had been very unkind. She told me all about it that
night. Mother, please believe just this: it wasn’t only the obvious
thing.--I know I can’t explain. But you remember, when we read _War and
Peace_"--his broken voice groped for the analogy--“You remember Natacha,
when she falls in love with Anatole, and nothing that was real before
seems real, and she is ready for anything.--It was like that. It was all
fairyland, like that. No one thought it wrong. It didn’t seem wrong.
Everything went together.”
She had gathered his hand closely in hers and she sat there, quiet,
looking at her hopes lying slain before her. Her Jack. The wife who was,
perhaps, to have been his. The children that she, perhaps, should have
seen. All dead. The future blotted out. Only this wraith-like present;
only this moment of decision; Jack and his desperate need the only real
things left.
And after a moment, for his labouring breath had failed, she said, “Yes,
dear?” and smiled at him.
He covered his face with his hands. “Mother, I’ve ruined your life.”
He had, of course, in ruining his own; yet even at that moment of
wreckage she was able to remember, if not to feel, that life could mend
from terrible wounds, could marvellously grow from compromises and
defeats. “No, dearest, no,” she said. “While I have you, nothing is
ruined. We shall see what can be done. Go on. Tell me the rest.”
He put out his hand to hers again and sat now a little turned away from
her, speaking on in his deadened, bitter voice.
“There wasn’t any glamour after that first time. I only saw her once or
twice again. I was awfully sorry and ashamed over the whole thing. Her
company left London, on tour, and then the war came, and I simply forgot
all about her. And the other day, over there, I had a letter from her.
She was in terrible trouble. She was ill and had no money, and no work.
And she was going to have a child--my child; and she begged me to send
her a little money to help her through, or she didn’t know what would
become of her.”
The fog, the horrible confusion, even the despair, had passed now. The
sense of ruin, of wreckage almost irreparable, was there; yet with it,
too, was the strangest sense of gladness. He was her own Jack,
completely hers, for she saw now why he had done it; she could be glad
that he had done it. “Go on, dear,” she said. “I understand; I
understand perfectly.”
“O mother, bless you!” He put her hand to his lips, bowing his head upon
it for a moment. “I was afraid you couldn’t. I was afraid you couldn’t
forgive me. But I had to do it. I thought it all over--out there.
Everything had become so different after what one had been through. One
saw everything differently. Some things didn’t matter at all, and other
things mattered tremendously. This was one of them. I knew I couldn’t
just send her money. I knew I couldn’t bear to have the poor child born
without a name and with only that foolish little mother to take care of
it. And when I found I could get this leave, I knew I must marry her.
That was why I didn’t wire. I thought I might not have time to come to
you at all.”
“Where is she, Jack?” Her voice, her eyes, her smile at him, showed him
that, indeed, she understood perfectly.
“In lodgings that I found for her; nice and quiet, with a kind landlady.
She was in such an awful place in Ealing. She is so changed, poor little
thing. I should hardly have known her. Mother, darling, I wonder, could
you just go and see her once or twice? She’s frightfully lonely; and so
very young.--If you could.--If you would just help things along a little
till the baby comes, I should be so grateful. And, then, if I don’t come
back, will you, for my sake, see that they are safe?”
“But, Jack,” she said, smiling at him, “she is coming here, of course. I
shall go and get her to-morrow.”
He stared at her and his colour rose. “Get her? Bring her here, to
stay?”
“Of course, darling. And if you don’t come back, I will take care of
them, always.”
“But, mother,” said Jack, and there were tears in his eyes, “you don’t
know, you don’t realize. I mean--she’s; a dear little thing--but you
couldn’t be happy with her. She’d get most frightfully on your nerves.
She’s just--just a silly little dancer who has got into trouble.”
Jack was clear-sighted. Every vestige of fairyland had vanished. And she
was deeply thankful that they should see alike, while she answered,
“It’s not exactly a time for considering one’s nerves, is it, Jack? I
hope I shan’t get on hers. I must just try and make her as happy as I
can.”
She made it all seem natural and almost sweet. The tears were in his
eyes, yet he had to smile back at her when she said, “You know that I am
good at managing people. I’ll manage her. And perhaps when you come
back, my darling, she won’t be a silly little dancer.”
They sat now for a little while in silence. While they had talked, a
golden sunset, slowly, had illuminated the western sky. The river below
them was golden, and the wintry woodlands bathed in light. Jack held her
hands and gazed at her. Love could say no more than his eyes, in their
trust and sorrow, said to her; she could never more completely possess
her son. Sitting there with him, hand in hand, while the light slowly
ebbed and twilight fell about them, she felt it to be, in its accepted
sorrow, the culminating and transfiguring moment of her maternity.
When they at last rose to go it was the hour for Jack’s departure, and
it had become almost dark. Far away, through the trees, they could see
the lighted windows of the house that waited for them, but to which she
must return alone. With his arms around her shoulders, Jack paused a
moment, looking about him. “Do you remember that day--when we first came
here, mummy?” he asked.
She felt in him suddenly a sadness deeper than any he had yet shown her.
The burden of the past she had lifted from him; but he must bear now the
burden of what he had done to her, to their life, to all the future.
And, protesting against his pain, her mother’s heart strove still to
shelter him while she answered, as if she did not feel his sadness,
“Yes, dear, and do you remember the hepaticas on that day?”
“Like you,” said Jack in a gentle voice. “I can hardly see the plants.
Are they all right?”
“They are doing beautifully.”
“I wish the flowers were out,” said Jack. “I wish it were the time for
the flowers to be out, so that I could have seen you and them together,
like that first day.” And then, putting his head down on her shoulder,
he murmured, “It will never be the same again. I’ve spoiled everything
for you.”
But he was not to go from her uncomforted. She found the firmest voice
in which to answer him, stroking his hair and pressing him to her with
the full reassurance of her resolution. “Nothing is spoiled, Jack,
nothing. You have never been so near me--so how can anything be spoiled?
And when you come back, darling, you’ll find your son, perhaps; and the
hepaticas may be in flower, waiting for you.”