Lady Mary, coming from the library with the letter in her hand, met
her husband in the hall.
"Timothy!"
She looked at him wistfully. Her face was very pale as she gave him
the letter. Sir Timothy took out his glasses, wiped them deliberately,
and put them on.
"Never mind reading it. I can tell you in one word," she said,
trembling with impatience. "My boy is sailing for South Africa
to-morrow morning."
"I prefer," said Sir Timothy, "to read the letter for myself."
"Oh, do be quick!" she said, half under her breath.
But he read it slowly twice, and folded it. He was really
thunderstruck. Peter was accustomed to write polite platitudes to his
parent, and had presumably not intended that his letter to the canon
should be actually read by Sir Timothy, when he had asked that the
contents of it should be broken to him.
"Selfish, disobedient, headstrong, deceitful boy!" said Sir Timothy.
Lady Mary started. "How can you talk so!" Her gentle voice sounded
almost fierce. "At least he has proved himself a man.' And he is
right. It was a shame and a disgrace for him to stay at home, whilst
his comrades did their duty. I say it a thousand times, though I am
his mother."
Then she broke down. "Oh, Peter, my boy, my boy, how could you leave
me without a word!"
"Perhaps this step was taken with your connivance after all?" said Sir
Timothy, suspiciously. He could not follow her rapid changes of mood,
and had listened resentfully to her defence of her son.
"Timothy!" said Lady Mary, trembling, "when have I ever been disloyal
to you in word or deed?"
"Never, I hope," said Sir Timothy. His voice shook a little. "I do
not doubt you for a moment, Mary. But you spoke with such strange
vehemence, so unlike your usual propriety of manner."
She broke into a wild laugh which pained and astonished him.
"Did I? I must have forgotten myself for a moment."
"You must, indeed. Pray be calm. I understand that this must be a
terrible shock to you."
"It is not a shock," said Lady Mary, defiantly. "I glory in it. I--I
_wish_ him to go. Oh, Peter, my darling!"
She hid her face in her hands.
"It would be more to the purpose," said Sir Timothy, "to consider what
is to be done."
"Could we stop him?" she cried eagerly, and then changed once more.
"No, no; I wouldn't if I could. He would never forgive me."
"Of course, we cannot stop him," said Sir Timothy. He raised his voice
as he was wont when he was angry. Canon Birch, in the drawing-room,
heard the loud threatening tones, and was thankful for the door which
shut him from Sir Timothy's presence. "He has laid his plans for
thwarting my known wishes too well. I do not know what might be said
if we stopped him. I--I won't have my name made a laughing-stock. I am
a Crewys, and the honour of the family lies in my hands. I can't give
the world a right to suspect a Crewys of cowardice, by preventing
his departure on active service. We have fought before--in a better
cause."
"We won't discuss the cause," said Lady Mary, gently. When Sir Timothy
began to shout, she always grew calm. "Then you will not telegraph to
my cousin Ferries?"
"Ferries ought to have written to _me_, and not taken the word of a
mere boy, like Peter," stormed Sir Timothy. "But the fact is, I never
flattered Ferries as he expected; it is not my way to natter any one;
and consequently he took a dislike to me. He must have known what my
views are. I am sure he did it on purpose."
"It was natural he should believe Peter, and I don't think he knows
you well enough to dislike you," said Lady Mary, simply. "He has only
seen you twice, Timothy."
"That was evidently sufficient," said Sir Timothy, meaning to be
ironical, and unaware that he was stating a plain fact. "I shall
certainly not telegraph to tell him that my son has lied to him, well
as Peter deserves that I should do so."
"Oh, don't, don't; you are so hard!" she said piteously. "If you'd
only listened to him when he implored you to let him go, we could have
made his last days at home all they should be. He's been hiding in
London, poor Peter; getting his outfit by stealth, ashamed, whilst
other boys are being _fêted_ and praised by their people, proud of
earning so early their right to be considered men. And--and he's
only a boy. And he said himself, all's fair in love and war. Indeed,
Timothy, it is an exceptional case."
"Mary, your weakness is painful, and your idolatry of Peter will bring
its own punishment. The part of his deception that should pain you
most is the want of heart he has displayed," said Sir Timothy,
bitterly.
"And doesn't it?" she said, with a pathetic smile. "But one oughtn't
to expect too much heart from a boy, ought one? It's--it's not a
healthy sign. You said once you were glad he wasn't sentimental, like
me."
"I should have wished him to exhibit proper feeling on proper
occasions. His present triumph over my authority involves his
departure to certain danger and possible death, without even affording
us the opportunity of bidding him farewell. He is ready and willing to
leave us thus."
Lady Mary uttered a stifled scream. "But I won't let him. How can you
think his mother will let him go like that?"
"How can you help it?"
She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead. "I will think. There
is a way. There are plenty of ways. I can drive to the junction--it's
not much further than Brawnton--and catch the midnight express, and
get to Southampton by daybreak. I know it can be done. Ash will look
out the trains. Why do you look at me like that? You're not going to
stop my going, are you? You're not going to _try_ and stop me, are
you? For you won't succeed. Oh yes, I know I've been an obedient wife,
Timothy. But I--I defied you once before for Peter's sake; when he was
such a little boy, and you wanted to punish him--don't you remember?"
"Don't talk so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, almost soothingly. Her
vehemence really alarmed and distressed him. "It is not like you to
talk like this. You will be sorry--afterwards," he said; and his voice
softened.
She responded instantly. She came closer to him, and took his big
shaking hand into her gentle clasp.
"I should be sorry afterwards," she said, "and so would you. Even
_you_ would be sorry, Timothy, if anything happened to Peter. I'll try
and not make any more excuses for him, if you like. I know he's not
a child now. He's almost a man; and men seem to me to grow harsh and
unloving as they grow older. I try, now and then, to shut my eyes and
see him as he once was; but all the time I know that the little boy
who used to be Peter has gone away for ever and ever and ever. If he
had died when he was little he would always have been my little boy,
wouldn't he? But, thank God, he didn't die. He's going to be a great
strong man, and a brave soldier, and--and all I've ever wanted him to
be--when he's got over these wilful days of boyhood. But he mustn't go
without his father's blessing and his mother's kiss."
"He has chosen to do so, Mary," said Sir Timothy, coldly.
She clung to him caressingly. "But you're going to forgive him before
he goes, Timothy. There's no time to be angry before he goes. It may
be too late to-morrow."
"It may be too late to-morrow," repeated Sir Timothy, heavily.
He resented, in a dull, self-pitying fashion, the fact that his wife's
thoughts were so exclusively fixed on Peter, in her ignorance of his
own more immediate danger.
"Don't think I'm blind to his faults," urged Lady Mary, "only I can
laugh at them better than you can, because I _know_ all the while that
at the very bottom of his heart he's only my baby Peter after all.
He's not--God bless him--he's _not_ the dreary, cold-blooded, priggish
boy he sometimes pretends to be. Don't remember him like that now,
Timothy. Think of that morning in June--that glorious, sunny morning
in June, when you knelt by the open window in my room and thanked God
because you had a son. Think of that other summer day when we couldn't
bear even to look at the roses because little Peter was so ill, and we
were afraid he was going back to heaven."
Her soft, rapid words touched Sir Timothy to a vague feeling of pity
for her, and for Peter, and for himself. But the voice of the charmer,
charm she never so wisely, had no power, after all, to dispel the dark
cloud that was hanging over him.
The sorrow gave way to a keener anxiety. The calmness of mind which
the great surgeon had prescribed--the placid courage, largely aided by
dulness of imagination, which had enabled poor Sir Timothy to keep
in the very background of his thoughts all apprehensions for the
morrow--where were they?
He repressed with an effort the emotion which threatened to master
him, and forced himself to be calm. When he spoke again his voice
sounded not much less measured and pompous than usual.
"My dear, you are agitating yourself and me. Let us confine ourselves
to the subject in hand."
Lady Mary dropped the unresponsive hand she held so warmly pressed
between her own, and stepped back.
"Ah, forgive me!" she said in clear tones. "It's so difficult to--"
"To--?"
"To be exactly what you wish. To be always on guard. My feelings broke
bounds for once."
"Calm yourself," said Sir Timothy. "And besides, so far as I am
concerned, your pleading for Peter is unnecessary."
"You have forgiven him?" she cried joyfully, yet almost incredulously.
He paused, and then said with solemnity: "I have forgiven him, Mary.
It is not the moment for me to cherish resentment, least of all
against my only son."
"Ah, thank God! Then you will come to Southampton?"
"That is impossible. But I will telegraph my forgiveness and the
blessing which he has not sought that he may receive it before the
ship sails."
"I am grateful to you for doing even so much as that, Timothy, and for
not being angry. Then I must go alone?"
"No, no."
"Understand me," said Lady Mary, in a low voice, "for I am in earnest.
I have never deceived you. I will not defy you in secret, like Peter;
but I _will_ go and bid my only son God-speed, though the whole world
conspired to prevent me. _I will go!_"
There was a pause.
"You speak," said Sir Timothy, resentfully, "as though I had
habitually thwarted your wishes."
"Oh, no," said his wife, softly, "you never even found out what they
were."
He did not notice the words; it is doubtful whether he heard them.
"It has been my best endeavour to promote your happiness throughout
our married life, Mary, so far as I considered it compatible with your
highest welfare. I do not pretend I can enter into the high-flown
and romantic feelings engendered by your reprehensible habit of
novel-reading."
"You've scolded me so often for that," said Lady Mary, half mockingly,
half sadly. "Can't we--keep to the subject in hand, as you said just
now?"
"I have a reason, a strong reason," said Sir Timothy, "for wishing you
to remain at home to-morrow. I had hoped, by concealing it from you,
to spare you some of the painful suspense and anxiety which I am
myself experiencing."
Lady Mary laughed.
"How like a man to suppose a woman is spared anything by being kept in
the dark! I knew something was wrong. Dr. Blundell and Canon Birch are
in your confidence, I presume? They kept exchanging glances like two
mysterious owls. Your sisters are not, or they would be sighing and
shaking their heads. And John--John Crewys? Oh, he is a lawyer. When
does a visitor ever come here except on business? He has something to
do with it. Ah, to advise you for nothing over your purchase of the
Crown lands! You have got into some difficulty over that, or something
of the kind? You brought him down here for some special purpose, I am
sure; but I did not know him well enough, and I knew you too well, to
ask why."
"Mary, what has come to you? I never knew you quite like this before.
I dislike this extraordinary flippancy of tone very much."
"I beg your pardon," said Lady Mary; make allowance for me this once.
I learnt ten minutes ago that my boy was going to the war. I must
either laugh or--or cry, and you wouldn't like me to do that; but it's
a way women have when their hearts are half broken."
"I don't understand you," he said helplessly.
Lady Mary looked at him as though she had awakened, frightened, to the
consciousness of her own temerity.
"I don't quite understand myself, I think," she said, in a subdued
voice. "I won't torment you any more, Timothy; I will be as calm and
collected--as you wish. Only let me go."
"Will you not listen to my reason for wishing you to remain at home?"
he said sternly. "It is an important one."
"I had forgotten," she said indifferently. "How can there be any
business in the world half so important to _me_ as seeing my boy once
more before he sails?"
The colour of Sir Timothy's ruddy face deepened almost to purple, his
grey eyes glowered sullen resentment at his wife.
"Since you desire to have your way in opposition to my wishes, _go!_"
he thundered. "I will not hinder you further."
But his sonorous wrath was too familiar to be impressive.
Lady Mary's expression scarcely changed when Sir Timothy raised his
voice. She turned, however, at the foot of the staircase, and spoke to
him again.
"Let me just go and give the order for my things to be packed,
Timothy, and tell Ash to go and find out about the trains, and I will
return and listen to whatever you wish--I will, indeed. I could not
pay proper attention to anything until I knew that was being done."
Sir Timothy did not trust himself to speak. He bowed his head, and the
slender figure passed swiftly up the stairs.
Sir Timothy walked twice deliberately up and down the empty hall, and
felt his pulse. The slow, steady throb reassured him. He opened the
door of the study.
"John," said Sir Timothy, "would you kindly come out here and speak to
me for a moment? Dr. Blundell, would you have the goodness to await me
a little longer? You will find the London papers there."
"I have them," said Dr. Blundell, from the armchair by the study fire.
John Crewys closed the door behind him, and looked rather anxiously at
his cousin. It struck him that Sir Timothy had lost some of his ruddy
colour, and that his face looked drawn and old.
But the squire placed himself with his back to the log fire, and made
an effort to speak in his voice of everyday. His slightly pompous,
patronizing manner returned upon him.
"You are doubtless accustomed, John, in the course of your
professional work," he said, "to advise in difficult matters. You
come among us a stranger--and unprejudiced. Will you--er--give me the
benefit of your opinion?"
"To the best of my ability," said John. He paused, and added gently,
"I am sorry for this fresh trouble that has come upon you."
"That is the subject on which I mean to consult you. Do you consider
that--that her husband or her child should stand first in a woman's
eyes?"
"Her husband, undoubtedly," said John, readily, "but--"
"But what?" said Sir Timothy, impatiently. A gleam of satisfaction had
broken over his heavy face at his cousin's reply.
"I speak from a man's point of view," said John. "Woman--and possibly
Nature--may speak differently."
"Your judgment, however, coincides with mine, which is all that
matters," said Sir Timothy. He did not perceive the twinkle in John's
eyes at this reply. "In my opinion there are only two ways of looking
at every question--the right way and the wrong way."
"My profession teaches me," said John, "that there are as many
different points of view as there are parties to a case."
"Then--from _my_ point of view," said Sir Timothy, with an air of
waving all other points of view away as irrelevant, "since my wife,
very naturally, desires to see her son again before he sails, am I
justified in allowing her to set off in ignorance of the ordeal that
awaits me?"
"Good heavens, no!" cried John. "Should the operation prove
unsuccessful, you would be entailing upon her a lifelong remorse."
"I did not look upon it in that light," said Sir Timothy, rather
stiffly. "The propriety or the impropriety of her going remains in
any, case the same, whether the operation succeeds or fails. I feared
that it would be the wrong thing to allow her to go at all; that it
might cause comment were she absent from my side at such a critical
juncture."
"I see," said John. His mobile, expressive face and bright hazel eyes
seemed to light up for one instant with scorn and wonder; then he
recollected himself. "It is natural you should wish for her sustaining
presence, no doubt," he said.
"I trust you do not suppose that I should be selfishly considering my
own personal feelings at such a time," said Sir Timothy, in a lofty
tone of reproof. "I am only desirous of doing what is right in the
matter. I am asking your advice because I feel that my self-command
has been shaken considerably by this unexpected blow. I am less sure
of my judgment than usual in consequence. However, if you think my
wife ought to be told"--John nodded very decidedly--"let her be told.
I am bound to say Dr. Blundell thought so too, though his opinion is
neither here nor there in such a matter, but so long as you understand
that my only desire is that both she and I should do what is most
correct and proper." He came closer to John. "It is of vital
importance for me to preserve my composure," said Sir Timothy. "I am
not fitted for--for any kind of scene just now. Will you undertake for
me the task of explaining to--to my dear wife the situation in which I
am placed?"
"I will do my best," said John. He was touched by the note of piteous
anxiety which had crept into the squire's harsh voice.
"Thank you," said Sir Timothy. "Will you await her here? She is
returning immediately. Break it to her as gently as you can. I shall
rest and compose myself by a talk with Dr. Blundell."
He went slowly to the study, leaving John Crewys alone.