The following day Diana got a delightful letter from Lady Mary asking us
to go to luncheon, or to tea, or to both, or whatever we liked best, so
long as it was at once, and that we stayed a long time, and brought all
the children. She offered to send for us, but going in a donkey-cart was
a stipulation on the part of the children, otherwise they could not or
would not tear themselves away from the sand and all its fascinations.
Sara was particularly offended at having to get out to tea, and more so
at not being allowed to go in her bathing-drawers. But a mushroom hat
trimmed with daisies appeased her, and even at that early age she saw
the incongruity of that hat and those nether garments. They were packed,
Hugh, Betty, Sara, and the nursery-maid, into the donkey-cart. Betty was
supposed to drive, but Hugh and Sara had so large a share in the stage
direction of that donkey, that I wonder we ever arrived. We did.
Our approach was not dignified. The donkey would eat the lawn at the
critical moment, and neither the stern rebukes of Sara, nor the gentle
persuasion of Betty, had any effect; neither, to tell the truth, had the
chastisements of Hugh. Of Diana's efforts and mine it is unnecessary
to speak; they only made us very hot. As to Nannie, she said she would
rather have ten children to deal with.
There were horribly tidy and beautifully dressed people walking about on
the lawn, people who had never, I felt sure, been called upon to speak
unkindly to a donkey. It was a little tactless of them, I thought, in
view of our flushed cheeks, to appear so calm and cool, but they were
quite kind, and I noticed that Diana as usual held a little court of her
own, not entirely as the mother of Sara, either. Hugh and Betty too made
friends, and hearing shouts of laughter coming from Hugh's audience, I
went, aunt-like, to see what was happening, and I heard Hugh saying:--
"I've got another! What did the skeleton--"
"Hugh," I said, "I want you!"
"I'm asking riddles, Aunt Woggles."
"Yes, but have you seen the tortoise?"
The situation was saved.
I look back to the rest of that afternoon, and it is all blur and
confusion. I remember the loveliness of the gardens, the peeps of
distant moorland through arches of pink ramblers. I remember how the sun
shone and how beautiful everything was, and above all and through all
those confused memories I hear the quiet, gentle voice of Lady Mary as
she talked to me of things of which I had thought no one knew anything.
She asked me, I remember, if I would like to see the garden, and I loved
her for her graciousness, her affection, and for her love for my mother.
I could see even in the way she looked at me that it was of my mother he
was thinking, and I remember, in answer to her question whether I liked
the garden, saying I thought it was quite beautiful and so peaceful!
She said, "That is what I feel, the peace of it all. But you, dear
Betty, are too young to feel that. It is as we grow older that the
promise of peace holds out so much. But to the young, life is before
them!"
All that, I remember quite clearly, and a little more. I can still see
Lady Mary, so beautiful, so calm, so confident in the peace which the
future held for her. Then all of a sudden came these words, "Betty, I
liked your hero so much; what happened?"
It was a too sudden opening of prison doors. I was blinded by the light.
I could say nothing. My secret, I felt, was wrested from me. I had
ceased almost to try to hide it, it seemed so safe. What--could I say?
Lady Mary went on: "It is not from curiosity that I ask, but from a very
real and deep interest. Your dear mother used so often to talk of your
future. Her love for you was very wonderful, Betty."
I looked away to the purple hills and longed to escape, but she laid her
hand on mine with a gentle pressure. "I liked him so much. His gentle
chivalry appealed to me; it is a thing one does not meet every day. Some
one, I remember, described him as being as hard as nails and full of
sentiment, which was a charming description of a delightful character
and a rare combination. All women, I think, would have their heroes
strong, and the sentiment makes all the difference in life. If it is
money, Betty dear, as I imagine it is, that must come right. It was
money?"
"His father got into difficulties, no fault of his own, that--and
friends made mischief."
"And he is helping his father," continued Lady Mary. "And while he is
doing that, he thinks he has no right to bind a woman."
How could I say when I didn't know? "Men make that mistake; they forget
how much easier it is for a woman to wait bound than to be free, not
knowing. They don't distinguish between the woman who wants to get
married and the woman who loves. Remember, Betty, how hard it must be
for him. I am not sure that his is not the harder part."
"If he cares," I said.
"I am sure he cares," said Lady Mary softly. "There are secrets that are
not mine, Betty, but there is one that is--the money shall come right. I
had been looking out for a hero for some time when I met yours. This
is strictly between ourselves, and you must remember that all my young
people are so ludicrously well off, that an old woman doing as she likes
with her own will do no one any harm. If I had had children, that, of
course, would have made a difference. To me, who have lived the quiet
life I have lately lived, the soldier, the man of action, appeals very
strongly. Much as I love this place, it seems to me that I should love
it still more if it came as quiet after a storm, a haven of rest after
the battle of life."
Then she spoke of Diana. "Hers is a wonderful character, and I often
think how beautiful it is that she should follow your dear mother at
Hames."
"You feel that?" I said.
"Very, very strongly, dear. How happy it must have made her to feel that
her grandchildren should have such a mother. I may be wrong, and you
will smile at an old woman's prejudice and think that she is looking
back with prejudiced eyes into that wonderful past which is always so
much better than any present. I am not, but still it seems to me that
Diana has something that all young people have not got nowadays, a
reverence for the old, an admiration for the good, and a pity for the
poor and distressed. These things take you far through life, dear, and,
combined with her wonderful vitality and beauty, make her a power.
"Talking of your beautiful mother, it was said years ago that she was
the only woman of whom I had ever been jealous. I am old enough to
tell you these things. It is the privilege of the old to enlist the
sympathies of the young! But it was not true. I had every reason to be
jealous, as had most women I ever saw, but jealousy in connection with
anything so perfect as your mother, I think, was not possible. Her
beauty was of the kind which disarms jealousy. It was beyond comparison
or criticism. It seemed to belong to another world, and yet she was so
tender to the sinners, so understanding, so full of loving kindness.
Hers was a beauty of the soul as well as the body, and that beauty is as
remote from the everyday prettiness as the earth is from the stars. Her
expression had something of the divine in it, as if she had seen God
face to face. I see the same look coming in Diana's face. Old Sir George
used to say it would be worth committing a sin to be forgiven by your
mother. He said her look was a benediction."
As I said good-by to Lady Mary, she held my hand and said, "Betty dear,
you will some day forgive an interfering old woman, and in days to come,
when you look to these distant hills, you will remember this day with a
kind thought for your beautiful mother's old friend."
"Isn't Lady Mary a darling?" said Diana, as we walked home through the
scented lanes on that most wonderful of summer evenings. "You look as if
you had been seeing visions, Betty, quite dazed like, as Nannie used to
say."
"I often see visions," I said.
"Have you been crying, Aunt Woggles?" said Hugh. "Were all the peaches
gone when you got back?"
Betty slipped her little hand into mine. "You promised to let me walk
with you for a little. Shall we pick honeysuckle, supposing we see any?"
"Yes, we will, darling."
"Supposing you can't reach it," she said.
"There is always some within reach."
"I suppose grown-ups can always reach things," said Betty.
Later, in the quiet darkness of the night, I could picture the garden,
the roses, the distant moor, Lady Mary's beautiful face, but I could not
bring myself to believe that I had really heard those words, "I am sure
that he cares."
Surely I had dreamed them, or Lady Mary had, because if they were true,
why had he said nothing? How should he have told her what he could not
tell me?