'Of course, darling. And if you don't come back, I will take care of
them, always.'
'But, mother,' said Jack, and there were tears in his eyes, 'you don't
know, you don't realize. I mean--she's a dear little thing--but you
couldn't be happy with her. She'd get most frightfully on your nerves.
She's just--just a silly little dancer who has got into trouble.'
Jack was clear-sighted. Every vestige of fairyland had vanished. And she
was deeply thankful that they should see alike, while she answered,
'It's not exactly a time for considering one's nerves, is it, Jack? I
hope I won't get on hers. I must just try and make her as happy as I
can.'
She made it all seem natural and almost sweet. The tears were in his
eyes, yet he had to smile back at her when she said, 'You know that I am
good at managing people. I'll manage her. And perhaps when you come
back, my darling, she won't be a silly little dancer.'
They sat now for a little while in silence. While they had talked, a
golden sunset, slowly, had illuminated the western sky. The river below
them was golden, and the wintry woodlands bathed in light. Jack held her
hands and gazed at her. Love could say no more than his eyes, in their
trust and sorrow, said to her; she could never more completely possess
her son. Sitting there with him, hand in hand, while the light slowly
ebbed and twilight fell about them, she felt it to be, in its accepted
sorrow, the culminating and transfiguring moment of her maternity.
When they at last rose to go it was the hour for Jack's departure, and
it had become almost dark. Far away, through the trees, they could see
the lighted windows of the house which waited for them, but to which she
must return alone.
With his arms around her shoulders, Jack paused a moment, looking about
him. 'Do you remember that day--when we first came here, mummy?' he
asked.
She felt in him suddenly a sadness deeper than any he had yet shown
her. The burden of the past she had lifted from him; but he must bear
now the burden of what he had done to her, to their life, to all the
future. And, protesting against his pain, her mother's heart strove
still to shelter him while she answered, as if she did not feel his
sadness, 'Yes, dear, and do you remember the hepaticas on that day?'
'Like you,' said Jack in a gentle voice. 'I can hardly see the plants.
Are they all right?'
'They are doing beautifully.'
'I wish the flowers were out,' said Jack. 'I wish it were the time for
the flowers to be out, so that I could have seen you and them together,
like that first day.' And then, putting his head down on her shoulder,
he murmured, 'It will never be the same again. I've spoiled everything
for you.'
But he was not to go from her uncomforted. She found the firmest voice
in which to answer him, stroking his hair and pressing him to her with
the full reassurance of her resolution. 'Nothing is spoiled, Jack,
nothing. You have never been so near me--so how can anything be spoiled?
And when you come back, darling, you'll find your son, perhaps, and the
hepaticas may be in flower, waiting for you.'