MRS. CLINTON IN JERMYN STREET
It was about seven o'clock in the evening. Mrs. Clinton stood for a
moment on the pavement, on which the light of a street lamp shone and
was reflected from the wet stone, and paid her cabman. Then she turned
to the tall dull house and rang the bell. In this house, in one of the
narrow streets just off St. James's, Dick had had rooms for many years,
but his mother had not been able to correct the cabman when he had
first stopped at a wrong number. She had time to reflect on this fact
before the door was opened to her. Captain Clinton was not in, said
the man, but he generally came in to dress not later than half-past
seven; and she said she would go to his room and wait.
The hall was narrow and dimly lighted. On a table under a tiny gas-jet
were a dozen or so of bedroom candlesticks, and hanging on the wall a
rack for letters and telegrams. The stairs were darkly druggeted. The
man opened a door on the first floor, turned on the light and retired,
and she found herself in a furnished apartment such as is occupied by
men of fashion in London. There was nothing to mark it off from
superior furnished apartments anywhere. The furniture was of the solid
Victorian type, the paper on the walls ugly, the carpet of a
nondescript colour. There was a gilt clock on the mantelpiece and two
coloured glass vases. The pictures had no value or beauty. On a
marble-topped sideboard were a collection of gloves, caps, and hats,
the silk ones beautifully ironed and brushed, and on the sofa were two
or three carefully folded overcoats. These were all that spoke of
Dick's occupancy of the rooms, on which otherwise he had made no sort
of personal impress in a tenancy ranging over twelve years. There were
no books, and not even a photograph belonging to him. Yet he paid the
rent of a good house for this room and a bedroom behind the grained and
varnished folding-doors, and was quite content with them. There was no
bathroom in the house, and he had to go out for all his meals except
breakfast; but he was valeted as well as if he had been at home.
Mrs. Clinton sat down in an easy-chair before the fire and looked
around her once, her gaze resting for a minute on the closed doors
between the two rooms. She might have wished to see what sort of
bedroom Dick occupied, but she did not do so. She sat still and waited
for half an hour, and then Dick came in. She heard him humming an air
as he ran upstairs, but when he entered the room and saw her, half
risen from her chair to receive him, he stopped short in utter
surprise. "Why, mother!" he exclaimed, and for a moment his face was
not welcoming. Then he came forward and kissed her. "Whatever wind
blows you here?" he asked lightly.
"I am staying with Eleanor Birkett," she said. "I have come up to
engage a governess for the children."
"Time to break them in, eh?" he said. "How are the young rascals?
Still raking in coins for their camera?"
She allowed herself a faint smile. "They are very well," she said.
"Well, shall we go and have a little dinner somewhere together, or are
you dining in Queen's Gate?"
"I said I might not be back to dinner," she said. "I didn't know
whether you would be engaged or not."
"No, I was going to dine at the club. That's capital. I'll just go
and shift, if you don't mind waiting, and in the meantime you consider
what Epicurean haunt you would like to go to." He went into his
bedroom, giving her no time to say anything further if she had wished
to, and left her to sit by the fire again and wait for him.
He came out again in a quarter of an hour, during which time she had
heard splashings and movements, but no further humming of airs.
"Verrey's, I think," he said. "You'll want to go somewhere quiet, eh?"
"Dick," she said, "I should like to have a little talk with you before
we go out."
He was already putting on his scarf. "Let's dine first, mother," he
said. "It's just upon eight, and I'm hungry. We can come back here
afterwards, if you like."
Perhaps it was better that he should dine first, especially if he was
hungry. "Very well," she said, and rose to go with him.
Driving through the streets, sitting over their dinner for an hour, and
driving back again, nothing was said between them of what was certainly
occupying Mrs. Clinton's mind, and must have been in Dick's. It was
difficult for her to talk; they had so little in common besides the
externals of home life, and at every turn in the conversation something
came up that must not be said if there was to be no mention yet of the
only thing that mattered at Kencote. But Dick seemed determined that
there should be no mention of it, and by and by they got on to the
subject of the twins and their new governess, and then the conversation
was easier. She told him about the ladies she had interviewed, and he
laughed at her descriptions of them. "Capital, mother!" he said. "You
ought to write it all down." He was pleased with her. She was
entertaining him, where he had thought she would be a drag on his
well-meant efforts to entertain her. And because he was very well
disposed towards her, it was gratifying to be able to feel that they
were getting on happily together. His manner became warmer as the
dinner proceeded, reflecting his feelings, which also became warmer.
They had some quite sensible conversation about the twins and their
education. Dick thought that the governess who had taught in the High
School--Miss Phipp--was the right one. "They want discipline," he
said. "That's what's missing in girls' education, especially when they
are taught at home. It won't do those young women any harm to be made
to grind at it. I'm for the school-marm, mother."
As they waited for a minute for a cab to be called up to take them back
to Jermyn Street, Dick said, looking at her appreciatively, "What a
pretty gown that is, mother! I've never seen it before." She flushed
with pleasure, but said nothing. He handed her into the cab, and took
his seat beside her. "We must have another little evening together
before---- When are you going back, by the by?"
"To-morrow," she said.
"What a pity! Can't you stay till the next day, and come and do a
play? I've got to-morrow night free."
But she said she must go back, and he did not press her further.
When they reached Dick's rooms and got out of the cab he told the man
to wait and then turned to the door with his latch-key in his hand.
"Please send him away," said Mrs. Clinton. "I came on purpose to have
a talk with you, Dick."
"You needn't hurry away, mother," he said. "But you will want a cab by
and by to go home in."
"I shan't feel comfortable while the minutes are ticking away," she
said. "You can get me another one presently."
Dick laughed at her, but he paid the cabman, and they went up to his
room together.
"Now, then, little mother," he said, as he took off his overcoat and
scarf, "let's have it out. I'll mix myself a little liquid
refreshment, and if you don't mind my smoking a cigar, I shall be in a
mood to give you my whole attention."
Now that the time had come to speak she was nervous, and did not know
how to begin. Dick, apparently thoroughly at his ease, good-humoured
with her, but not prepared, it seemed, to take her very seriously, lit
another cigar, poured himself out whisky and undid the wire of a
soda-water bottle before she spoke, and as she was beginning he spoke
himself. "I'm going to be married next month," he said; "will you come
to my wedding?" As he spoke the cord of the soda-water bottle flew out
with a pop, and he said, "Steady now, steady!"
There was a pause, filled only with the sound of the water gurgling
into the glass. Then Mrs. Clinton spoke. "Oh, Dick!" she said, "why
do you treat me like this?"
He threw a glance at her, half furtive. He had never heard her speak
in that tone. She was looking at him with hurt eyes. "I am your
mother," she said. "Do you think I have no feeling for my children?
Have I been such a bad mother to you that it is right to put me aside
as if I were of no account when a crisis comes in your life?"
He walked to the chair on the opposite side of the fire to hers, his
glass in his hand, and sat down. There was a frown on his face. Like
his father, he hated a scene, unless it was one of his own making, and
especially he hated a scene with a woman. But it was true that he had
treated his mother as if she were of no account. In the presence of
the pain which her face and her voice had shown, he felt a sense of
shame at the easy mastery he had displayed towards her during the
evening, putting her wishes and her feelings aside, thinking only that
it was rather tiresome of her to have intruded herself into his plans,
and that her intrusion must be repelled with as little disturbance as
possible.
She spoke again before he could reply to her. "You are always very
charming to me, Dick--on the surface. You treat me with the greatest
possible politeness, always, as you have done this evening. I know
that many young men do not behave with such courtesy towards their
mother, especially those who do not live in the same world as they do.
But that charming behaviour is a very poor return for what a mother
does for her children when they are wholly dependent on her. You used
to come to me with all your troubles when you were a little boy, Dick.
Am I so changed that you must shut me out of your life altogether, now?"
Conflicting emotions caused him intense discomfort. "No, mother, no,"
he said. "But----"
She took him up. "But you don't want me any longer," she said, "and
you haven't enough kindness in you to think that I may want you."
Underneath her smooth-flowing speech there was bitterness, almost
cruelty; certainly cruelty, if deliberately to pierce self-satisfaction
is cruel. For if there were any qualities in Dick against which he
might have thought that no accusation could lie, they were his attitude
towards women and the essential kindness of his heart. But she had
shown him that external courtesy towards her had only hidden a deep
discourtesy, and his kindness was base metal, not kindness at all.
But she had aroused, if not resentment, opposition. Her words had
stung. If she wanted anything from him, that was not the way to get
it. "Oh, come now, mother," he said, with some impatience. "I----"
But she would not let him go on until she had said all that she had to
say. "If you don't care for me, Dick, if you have lost all the love
you had for me when you were a child, then I know it is of no use
saying these things. Words can't bring back love, nor reproaches. And
after all, it wasn't about myself that I came here to speak to you.
Your indifference has caused me pain, but I should not have taxed you
with it now; I should have kept silence as I have done for many years,
if it had not been that my love for you has been there ready for you if
you had ever wanted it, and I thought you might want it now. But I can
do nothing to help you if you won't let me a little way into your
heart. I must just stand aside and see the breach between you and your
father widen, when it might be healed, and you could restore him to
happiness as well as take your happiness yourself."
Dick's face became harder as she mentioned his father, who had not been
mentioned between them during the evening. "What can you do with him?"
he asked, with a shade of scorn in his voice. "He is utterly
unreasonable. He gets an idea into his head, and nothing will get it
out."
Her voice was softer as she replied. "Dick dear, you know that isn't
true."
He stirred uneasily in his chair. "It is true in this case," he said.
"I suppose you mean that as a rule if you give him his head about
anything you can pull him up and make him go the other way if you treat
him carefully. I know you can, as a rule. This is an unfortunate
exception to the rule."
"You have driven him into opposition by everything you have done," she
said. "If you had been a little patient----"
"Oh, I was as patient as possible, at first," he interrupted her. "But
he went beyond everything. The only thing was to go away until he had
come to his senses. From what I have heard, through Walter, he is
worse than ever. He is going to cut me off with a shilling. Well, let
him. I can't imagine anything that will bother him more during the
rest of his life than to have the prospect of Kencote divided up after
his death. I can't imagine him thinking of such a thing. I'm not
thinking of myself and what I'm going to get when I say it's a wicked
thing to do. He's always looked upon the place as a sort of trust. It
_is_ a trust, and he is going to betray it for the sake of scoring off
me. He must know that a threat of that sort would be the last thing to
move me. It is spite, and spite that hurts him as much as it hurts me."
"Oh, Dick! Dick!" she said.
He gave another uneasy hitch to his body. Her gentle admonition showed
him as no argument could have shown him from what source his speech had
come.
"Of course I'm sore," he said, answering her implied reproach. "Any
man would be sore in such a case. I believe you have seen Virginia. I
ask you plainly, mother, if you are on his side--the sort of mud he
throws at her--you know. Because if you are----"
"No, Dick dear," she said. "I have seen her, and I am not--not on his
side, in that."
Her words, and the tone in which they were spoken, softened his anger.
"You would welcome her as my wife?" he asked.
"Oh yes, I would," she said. "And I will, Dick, when this trouble is
over. If she will love me I will love her. Yes, I have seen her,
twice."
"Thank you very much, mother," he said quietly, after a short pause.
"Dick," she began again, "you know your father. You know how unhappy
it must make him to be parted from you. You are bearing very hardly on
him."
"And he on me, mother," said Dick. "What do you want me to do? Give
up Virginia? You haven't come here to ask me to do that?"
"No, not that, Dick."
"Or to wait for a year? That's Walter's scheme--at least, I believe
it's Herbert Birkett's. Very kind of him to take a hand in the
discussion. But I'm not going to wait a year. I'm not going to wait
any time. Why should I? If I make concessions of that sort I'm giving
away my case, I'm admitting that there's some sense in the objections
made--some reason in them. There's none. I won't submit Virginia to
the indignity. I'm sorry now I ever got her down to Meadshire. I did
that because I knew what--what his prejudices would be, and I thought
he should have a chance of getting over them."
"Then you did think, at first, that there was something to be said for
his prejudices."
"Er--yes--to the extent that if I had put it baldly that I was going to
marry a widow, an American, who had been for a time on the stage--years
ago--although I confess I didn't think that would be known--there might
be trouble. I thought then, and I think now, that if he had given her
a fair chance--if he had got to know her, he _couldn't_ possibly take
the line he has. There isn't a soul down there--I've heard all about
it--who isn't at her feet. It makes me furious--I hardly let myself
think about it--that he should behave as he does. No, mother, it has
gone too far. There is nothing I can do now, after all that has
happened, that wouldn't be an admission of weakness."
She did not speak immediately. "Have you made up your mind," she
asked, "to cut yourself off from all of us--never to come to Kencote
again until your father dies--never to see him again?"
"When I am married," he said, rather sullenly, "he will come
round--sooner or later."
"Not to make the first advance, Dick. If you marry now, without his
consent, definitely against his wishes, he will make the alteration as
to the succession that he has threatened. That will be between you.
He will be very unhappy--for the rest of his life--but he will have
taken a step that will make it ten times more difficult for you to come
together than it is now, and----"
"As far as the alteration in his will goes," Dick broke in on her, "I
have thought all that over. As I say, it's a step he has no right to
take under the circumstances, but if it is to come, if I am to come
into the place--or what's left of it--with my wings clipped for money,
then I say I'm ready to face it, and I don't mind as much as I thought
I should. Perhaps I've thought too much about money--having everything
cut and dried, and nothing to do for it. It was that that made me make
the mistake of getting Virginia to go down to Blaythorn. I was afraid
of what might happen--what he might do. It was rather mean, in a way.
I don't care what he does. At least, I care, but it isn't a thing one
ought to think too much about. Other fellows work to give their wives
a home. I'm going to do that, and I like the idea of it."
"I think that is a good thing to do," she said rather slowly.
"But--well, you mustn't mind my speaking, plainly, Dick--I think, too,
that in your case you may make too much of it. I mean that your mind
is probably full of it now, and it is a great relief to you that you
have found a way out of what might have been a serious difficulty, and
that you are not dependent on your father in your marriage. But there
is Kencote to be thought of. You are the eldest son, and your natural
place in the world is there. At present, with your new happiness
coming to you, you are able to detach your mind from it. But when the
novelty of your new life has worn off----"
"Oh, mother, I am not a child," he interrupted her. "I know there is
Kencote to be thought of, but not for many years yet--at least, I hope
so. And if I am to be partially disinherited, you know"--he looked at
her with a smile--"I think I had better detach my mind from it as much
as possible, don't you?"
Again she was silent for a time, and then she said, "Do you remember
when you were a little boy, Dick, and we were together in the garden
one summer evening, and I was telling you about the Clintons, who had
lived at Kencote for so many hundreds of years, and you asked me why
some people lived in beautiful places like that and others were poor
and had no nice homes? And your father had come out to join us--he was
a young man then--and he answered your question, and told you that
things were arranged like that, and some day Kencote would be yours,
and you must learn to love every acre of it, and know all the people
who lived about you and do the best you could for them when you were
grown up and were the master of Kencote."
"Yes, I remember quite well," said Dick. "It was the first lesson I
had in the duties of a landowner."
"We were very happy then," she said. "We used to talk over things
together, and father took a pride in you, and did all he could to make
your childhood happy and make you take a pride in Kencote."
"Yes, he did," said Dick. "He gave me a very good time as a boy. And
so did you, mother. I remember our talks in the garden and in the old
schoolroom, and going to church with you, and about the village. I
shall never forget those days."
"You grew up at Kencote," she said. "I know you have always loved it,
and have come home to us whenever you could. Dick, you can't give it
up, and give us up, your parents who both love you. You will make
yourself unhappy, as well as us."
He was thoughtful and uneasy. "Of course, it's a blow," he said. "I
do love the place."
"And us too, Dick, don't you--a little?"
"Oh, mother!" he said. "You have always been very good to me. Perhaps
I've been rather a brute to you--taking things for granted, and not
showing that I remembered. I do remember, you know. I had a good time
as a child, and I owe a lot to you."
"And to father too," she said. "Think of all he did for you and how
proud he has always been of you. He has made a mistake now--I think he
has, and I tell you so--but, Dick, you are not going to punish him--and
me and yourself--by destroying, for always, everything that keeps us
united as a family?"
Again he moved uneasily. "Well, what on earth am I to do?" he asked.
"I've told you what I feel about it all."
"Well, don't you feel exactly as your father does? Aren't you acting
just as you blame him for acting? Don't you see how like you are to
him in many ways?"
"The poor old governor!" said Dick. "I'm sorry for him in a way. But
I hope I don't act with quite such disregard for common sense as he
does."
"You act from pique. He thinks you are in the wrong, and won't give
way, although he would like to. And you think he is in the wrong and
you won't move towards him. There's something better even than common
sense, Dick, which he shows and you don't. It is love."
"I don't think you can reasonably say he has shown me much of that
lately, mother," said Dick.
"You keep away from him," she said. "If you were to come home you
would see how he has been longing for you, and you would be sorry for
him. Even if people wrong us, if they love us and we see it, it is not
difficult to forgive them. If you would come home I think all your
anger would disappear, however much you may think you are justified in
it. I have never seen your father so unhappy and so troubled. For his
sake, Dick, for the sake of all that he has done for you, come home to
us. That was what I came here to ask of you."
He was silent for some time, struggling with himself. "I'll come," he
said shortly, "but you must tell him, mother, that I am going to be
married soon. I can't come to enter into that question again with him.
It is settled."
"Very well," she said quietly, and there was silence between them for a
time.
"And now tell me of your plans, Dick," she said presently in a lighter
tone. "You must remember that I have heard nothing, and I want to hear
everything."
"Oh, I'm going up to Yorkshire next week to get the house ready.
Virginia is coming with me and we are going to stay with Spence. It is
a nice old stone house with a big garden and a view of the moors, and
the sea beyond. Look here, mother, can't you do anything? You have
brought _me_ round, you know. I'm going to do what you want, against
my own inclinations. I shan't be very comfortable at Kencote. Can't
you go and see Virginia? It's rather hard luck for her, poor girl, to
be treated as if she were a pariah by all my people. Something's owing
to her, and a good deal, I think."
"I should like very much to know her," she said. "Whether I can go
definitely against your father's wishes, whether I should do any good
by doing so, is a difficult question to decide."
"Well, I suppose I can see that," he said. "You have got to live with
him. But if we are to make it up at all, he and I, which I own I
haven't much hope of, there'll have to be give and take on both sides.
You ought not to get me down to Kencote and then take his part against
me."
"We must wait a little," she said. "What I can do I will do. Oh, Dick
dear, I am so glad you are going to be happy. I have thought about you
such a lot."
He came over to her and kissed her. "You're a good little mother," he
said. "I wish I'd carried you off bodily to see Virginia when she
first went down there. You would have got on well together."
"Oh, and we shall," she said, "as soon as these unhappy difficulties
are over. Now I shall go back home with a quiet mind. I'm sure, Dick,
if you are patient with your father, all the difficulties will melt
away. It rests with you, dear boy, and I'm sure you will act wisely.
Now I must be going back, if you will send for a cab for me."
"I'll take you back," said Dick. "I want to tell you all about
everything, mother."