They went slowly up the garden path between the flaming borders, that
flamed less now that the sun was no longer on them. She noted the
difference, and was sorry they should not be showing themselves off at
their best. Nevertheless Henry said, “How jolly your flowers are,
mother,” and she was satisfied. She had taken his arm; from her other
hand swung her inseparable companion, the garden basket, and from sheer
habit she kept a sharp look out for a possible weed. Even though Henry
was there. She knew now—now that he was there—how lonely had been her
wanderings up that garden path, and how hollow, really, had been her
gardening triumphs since there was no one to admire them and to share.
Not that she had ever faced the fact; for it was not her habit to face
facts. But now, since it had become a fact only in the past, she could
allow herself to turn round and wave it a little belated, valedictory
gesture of recognition. She pressed Henry’s arm ever so slightly against
her side. Not enough for him to notice; only enough to give herself
assurance and comfort. Stupid of her not to have realized how much she
wanted Henry. He had been always in the background, of course, and she
had trained herself to think that that was enough; perhaps it was
fortunate, rather than stupid; she would have wanted him too much, if
once she had let herself begin to think about it. It was pleasant to
have the physical support of his arm to lean on; it was surprisingly
pleasant to have the moral support of his presence. She had had to carry
all the responsibility herself for so long, the responsibility of
decisions, all the loneliness of command; and although she was quite
well aware of her own efficiency she felt that she was growing a little
tired, and would be happy to let some of the responsibility slide off on
to Henry’s shoulders. When Lynes was obstinate, as he sometimes was, it
would be a comfort to reply that he must discuss the matter with Mr.
Henry. At the end of this train of thought she said confidently to
Henry, “You won’t be going back to the Argentine any more, dear, will
you?”
Henry emerged startled from a parallel train of thought that he had been
following. The first warm excitement of his homecoming had passed, and
he was beginning to wonder what he should do, when once his mother had
had her fill of showing him all which she had vaguely threatened to
show, and which he did not particularly want to see. Already, with
reaction, things were a little flat. But he answered, without any
perceptible pause, “No, no more Argentine for me. I’m fed up with the
place.” He was; the solitude, the rough life, had not been to his taste;
he had grown to hate the plains, and the stupid, ubiquitous cattle, and
the endless cattle-talk. No more Argentine for him; he had had the
experience, he had made the money he wanted to make, now he wanted the
pleasure to which he thought he was entitled.
“That’s nice,” said Mrs. Martin comfortably; “it will be nice for me to
have you at home in my old age.”
Henry let this remark pass; he hated inflicting disappointment, and
there would be plenty of time in which to make his plans clear to his
mother. In the meantime she was so obviously happy; a pity to throw a
shadow over her first day.
They reached the top of the path and the clump of firs. Mrs. Martin’s
heart was beating hard, and a little pink flush had appeared on her
cheeks. It was not, after all, every day that one reached a moment one
had anticipated for nearly five years. She wished she had had the
strength of mind to wait until the following morning before bringing
Henry here, for the country was lovelier under the morning mists than
now in the cruder light of the afternoon; but she had been too much
excited, too impatient. They stood there looking down over the valley,
across it to the Downs. She let him look his fill.
“Better than the Argentine, Henry?”
“By Jove, yes, I should think so: better than the Argentine.”
She gave a chuckle of happiness. She dealt her secret out to him in
small doses, like the old Epicurean she was.
“Isn’t it nice to think, Henry, that those fields and woods belong to
you?”
“But they don’t,” he said, “they belong to you.”
“Well—doesn’t that amount to the same thing?”
“Oh, no,” he said, “not at all the same thing,” and the difference in
his mind was that whereas she loved and wanted the fields and woods,
their possession would have bored him.
“Dear Henry, that is just an evasion. You know that it amounts to the
same thing really. Let us, for the sake of argument, assume that they
belong to us both.”
“All right,” he said, humouring her.
“Do you remember,” she went on, “we used to say, how nice it would be if
our property went down as far as the river?”
“Did we?—Doesn’t it?—No, I don’t remember,” he said absently.
“But, Henry! Think, darling! Well, it does now: right down to the
river.”
“How splendid!” he replied, feeling that he was expected to say
something of the sort. “But didn’t it always?”