_IN THE MOUNTAINS._
MILLICENT CUMMING had taken refuge with her boy in a quiet little
mountain village, somewhat out of the beaten track of Swiss tourists.
The shadow of her recent loss lay heavily upon her still, and she
was in no mood for making fresh acquaintances, or exchanging polite
commonplaces with strangers. For herself, the calm of this little
valley, with great heights and peace around, and the ceaseless rush of
a cascade down its slope, meant peace of spirit, and absence of worldly
distractions, and nearness to the heavenly land where she confidently
believed her boy to be.
With Escott, however, things were different. He was beginning to grow a
little weary of this absolute seclusion.
He had been shattered by the shock and grief of so suddenly losing his
twin brother, and for a while he had shrunk morbidly from friends and
strangers alike, seeming to desire no face except his mother's. She had
tended him with unremitting devotion, finding her comfort in so doing,
for he was now her all in life.
Escott loved his mother dearly in return, but she was not his all. And
while Ivor's death had unstrung him, and caused bodily suffering, that
loss was not actually to him what it was to her,—nay, his depression
was by no means exclusively owing to that event.
"Mother," he said wearily one day, "how long shall we stay here?"
"Tired of the place, Escott?"
"I don't know. Yes, I am tired of everything."
"Ah, that is so natural," she said tenderly, and her thoughts went
straight to Ivor's memory.
And he knew that his thoughts were supposed to take the same course.
But it was Pearl's face, not Ivor's, which rose vividly before him, and
he was vexed with himself, yet he would not have driven the vision away
even had he been able.
"So natural," she repeated. "But one must not give way to the feeling.
And this is a sweet little nest, Escott. I think I could be content to
live and die here."
"I could not," said Escott involuntarily. "At least—unless others were
with us."
A faint shadow crept over Millicent's fair brow. "I have always felt
that you and I were sufficient for one another," she said. "But you are
young still. I cannot expect it to be the same with you. Then you do
not think it would hurt you to see other people now?"
"It would do me good. I think I am getting rusty," said Escott, with
ill-concealed eagerness. "I have been wondering so much whether, when
Aunt Di and Pearl are abroad, you could not persuade them to meet us
somewhere. I know she said she would not come here, but we might move.
I think a change would do me good."
"I have just heard about them from Marian," said Millicent. "Diana has
given up all idea of a foreign trip this year. I do not understand why."
Escott's face fell heavily.
"I did not know you had looked forward to anything of the kind as even
possible," said Millicent. "You know Diana thought it would be better
for poor little Pearl to be among strangers. She thought that seeing us
would recall—"
Escott made an impatient movement. He and his mother had received
exaggerated accounts from Diana of Pearl's low spirits, and somehow
Millicent had never realised how much of Escott's own depressed
condition was owing to these same accounts.
"Aunt Di knows nothing about it," he said. "'You' could comfort Pearl,
if any one could."
Millicent sighed quietly. "I have not told you all my news," she said.
"Uncle Josiah and Marian are talking of coming abroad to spend a few
weeks near us. You will like that, dear?"
Escott's assent was languid. "That" was not what he wanted. She put the
letter into his hands, and after a minute, he remarked, "Mother, she
says Pearl is very much disappointed."
"She has never been abroad, so it is quite natural I am glad she is
well enough to care for the excitement of a trip."
"Yes; it shows—" Escott began, and stopped. "Mother," he said abruptly,
"why not ask Pearl to stay with us? Aunt Marian could bring her out."
Millicent did not seize on the idea. "Do you think you are fit for
visitors?" she asked reluctantly.
"Fit! I should be delighted. It would do me more good than anything in
the world."
"I thought you said last week you did not feel up to seeing people."
"People! No. But Pearl!"
His eyes shone, and his pale face flushed, with an expression not to be
mistaken.
"But, Escott—" she said gravely. "But, Escott—"
Doubt and remonstrance were in the voice. Escott sat upright, with a
sudden look of resolution.
"Mother, it is of no use to hide the truth from myself or you. I love
Pearl with all my heart. And if I don't win her for my own—mother, I
almost think I shall die of it."
"And I am nothing to you!"
Beryl might look upon Millicent as perfect; yet with all her gentleness
and sweetness she was human, and she was capable of that poor failing,
human jealousy. Dearly as she had loved Ivor, she could have borne
calmly the fact of "his" loving Pearl. But Escott was the very core
of her being; and it wrung her very heart-strings that another should
be to him what she now saw Pearl was. She had been dimly aware for
some time of an inclination in that direction, but he had never before
spoken openly to her of his love, and she had tried to shut her eyes.
"Mother, how 'can' you?"
He looked hurt, almost displeased, and she was displeased with herself
immediately.
"Yes, I know," she said sadly. "I understand. You love me, of course,
darling. The new does not touch the old—of course. But, Escott, don't
you know what Diana said about Pearl, and her distress at our dear
Ivor—"
Millicent's voice failed, but Escott was composed. "I have nothing to
do with that," he said. "Nothing was ever said. I do not believe Ivor
had any such thought, and it would be very wrong of us to speculate
about Pearl's thoughts. It is enough that she cared for him like a
sister. If there were anything more—she is very young,—and in time—I
should hope—mother, I don't see that we need consider that part of the
matter. Aunt Di is no judge. Pearl is poorly, and wants change, and I
want her. It would put fresh life into me to see her again. Sometimes
I have felt lately as if I could not wait much longer,—as if I 'must'
somehow have a glimpse of that sweet face."
"Then it has not been for Ivor!" she said in choked tones.
And Escott said, this time pettishly, "You can't understand, mother.
It's of no use to talk."
A few hot tears fell quietly on Millicent's work, and Escott quitted
his couch to kiss them away.
"Forgive me," he said penitently. "I am very cross, mother darling. And
I know you understand,—or you will when you think it over. There never
was a mother like you in the world, and I can't tell you how dear you
are to me. But that does not make the other impossible. And you know
Pearl, and you know what she is."
"Yes; she is a dear little girl. I don't think there is much strength
of character, Escott,—if I may venture to say so."
"Say just what you like, mother. She is soft and tender and
yielding,—that is what you mean."
Millicent had not meant it. She knew Pearl to be far from yielding,
where her own will was concerned.
"But you shall train her, when she is mine,—make her as like yourself
as possible," said Escott.
Millicent smiled, and answered, "A mother-in-law's training is not
generally acceptable."
"You will not be the conventional mother-in-law."
"'My son is my son till—'" she half quoted.
"Mother mine, I thought you were above such vulgar delusions. Well, we
shall see." Escott suddenly grew desponding, and sighed. "Who can tell?
She may disdain the very idea."
"In which case, I should feel that I had been wrong to bring her here."
Escott brightened. "That means that you really will ask her," he said.
And she answered, "Yes."
The letter was enclosed in one to Marian, and in due time reached its
destination. Marian wrote with it, from Weston-super-Mare, to say that
she would have no objection to escort Pearl, if Diana would allow her
to go.
"I can't afford it," Diana said at first. She was more than usually
unstrung that day, poorly and hysterical, satisfied with nothing that
anybody could do, and unwilling to have Beryl five minutes absent.
Pearl flushed with eager delight as the letters were read.
"I really can't afford it," Diana repeated. "I have so many expenses
just now—extra expenses. I don't see how I can possibly afford it. And
you would not like to go away for an indefinite time, Pearl. It isn't
as if I were going too. One can't tell in the least how long Marian and
my uncle may remain abroad, when once they are there. He is so odd in
his ways. I really can't afford it, Pearl."
Pearl pouted, and her eyes filled. "I wanted so very much to go,"
she said complainingly. "I do think it is too bad. You promised to
take me this autumn, Aunt Di, and you disappointed me. And now that I
might have the pleasure, you won't let me. It is so very very unkind."
Pearl's handkerchief went to her eyes.
Manner is certainly infectious. Though the two were not connected by
birth, Pearl's spoilt child air was an exact copy of Diana's own.
"And you don't care how long you are away from me, now I am ill," said
Diana, not so much with anger as unhappiness.
Pearl used her handkerchief, and looked prettily doleful.
"Well, it is just like you," said Diana, her tone becoming indignant.
"It is the sort of gratitude one may expect. All that I have done goes
for nothing, if you can't have your own way. If there ever was a time
when you could be useful to me, it is now, and all you care for is just
to keep out of my reach."
Pearl attempted no self-defence, but she was not stirred from her
purpose. She murmured in the following pause, "I want so 'very' much to
go."
"Then go," said Diana harshly. "That's enough. You may go,—and the
longer you stay the better. There, that is enough. I don't want to hear
any more about the matter."
"Pearl would not really wish to go, if you can't afford it," Beryl
ventured to say.
"Yes, she would. I'll afford it somehow. You may write and say it is
settled, Pearl."
The manner was cuttingly cold, and the voice was displeased, but Pearl
did not seem troubled. She withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes,
said cheerfully, "Thank you, dear Aunt Di," and tripped out of the room.
Diana would speak to no one for the next hour, and was exceedingly
curt to Pearl during the remainder of the day. Her pride and also her
affection were wounded by Pearl's eagerness to leave her. Whether or no
Pearl loved Mrs. Fenwick deeply, there could be no doubt that for years
Mrs. Fenwick had lavished the chief of her love and her thought upon
Pearl. She was exceedingly hurt, and took no pains to conceal the fact
from the two girls.
Mr. Crosbie and his niece were leaving soon, and Pearl had barely a
week in which to prepare for her journey. She passed the intervening
days in a state of high excitement, looking her prettiest, but so
absorbed in her own affairs as not even to notice Diana's deepening
depression. Beryl was hard-worked between the two.
"Pearl, do say something kind to Aunt Di before you go," she pleaded,
when the last morning came.
And Pearl said, with an amazed look, "Why, what in the world do you
mean?"
She understood no better, half an hour later, when it came to the
parting.
Diana looked wretched, but this was too frequent an event to make much
impression on Pearl. She counted Mrs. Fenwick nervous, and was eager to
be off.
"I'm only going for a few weeks, Aunt Di. You needn't be dismal," she
said, kissing Mrs. Fenwick, and speaking lightly. "One would think you
expected never to see me again."
The random shaft struck home, and Diana broke into a passion of tears.
She knew weeping to be a thing forbidden, as injurious to her eyes, but
she had never learnt self-restraint.
"I wish you wouldn't," said Pearl, in an injured tone. "It is so
uncomfortable. Good-bye, Aunt Di. Beryl will look after you."
"How long shall you be gone, Pearl?"
"Why, Aunt Di, you ought to know best how long Miss Crosbie is likely
to stay. Just a few weeks, I suppose. I shall miss my train if I don't
make haste. Good-bye, auntie."
Pearl tripped lightly through the garden, and sprang into the fly.
Hester Wyatt had kindly undertaken to see her off at the station, as
Beryl could not be spared. Pearl was to meet Mr. and Miss Crosbie in
London.
"So selfish—to be so glad to go," sobbed Diana. "And I have done so
much for Pearl. I am sure her own mother couldn't have done more. And
this in return is all the gratitude I have. I shall never see her
again,—I know, I know I shall not. My eyes have been so much worse the
last few days."
"I am afraid you will make them worse if you cry so often," said Beryl.
"Pearl does not know about 'that,' Aunt Di. If she did, I think she
would feel differently. She cannot guess what is wrong, and of course
it is a great treat for her to go abroad."
"I shall never never see her again," moaned Diana despairingly.