Behold me, an hour ago, a great lady, seated in lonely
grandeur at the head of my own ancestral table. This is the
first time I have used the dining-room; usually I take all my
meals in the morning-room, at a small table beside the fire.
But to-night I had the great table spread, and the plate set
out, and wore my best gown, and solemnly took my grandfather's
chair and glowered at the ghost of a small girl shivering
at the far end of the long white cloth. When I had enough of
this (which was pretty soon) I ordered up some champagne and
drank the health of Theophilus John Raymond, Demy of Magdalen
College, Oxford. I graciously poured out a second glass for
the small ghost at the other end of the table; and it gave
her the courage to confess that she, too, in a timid way, had
taken an interest in you for years, and hoped you were going
to be a great man. Having thus discovered a bond between us,
we grew very friendly; and we talked a great deal about you
afterward, in the drawing-room, where I lost her for a few
minutes and found her hiding in the great mirror over the
fire-place—a habit of hers.
It is time for me to practise ceremony, for it seems that
George and I are to be married some time in the spring. For my
part, I think my lord would be content to wait longer; for so
long as he is happy and sees others cheerful, he is not one
to hurry or worry. But Sir Harry is the impatient one, and
has begun to talk of his decease. He doesn't believe in it a
bit, and at times when he composes his features and attempts
to be lugubrious I have to take up a book and hide my smiles.
But he is clever enough to see that it bothers George.
I saw both your father and mother this morning. Mr. Raymond
has been kept to the house by a chill; nothing serious; but
he is fretting to be out again and at work in that draughty
church. He will accept no help; and the mistress of Tredinnis
has no right to press it on him. I shall never understand
men and how they fight. I supposed that the war lay between
him and my grandfather. But it seems he was fighting an idea
all the while; for here is my grandfather beaten and dead and
gone; and still the Vicar will give no quarter. If you had
not assured me that your demy-ship means eighty pounds a year,
I could believe that men fight for shadows only. Your mother
and grandmother are both well....
It was a raw December afternoon—within a week of the end of term—and
Taffy had returned from skating in Christ Church meadow, when he found
a telegram lying on his table. There was just time to see the Dean, to
pack, and to snatch a meal in hall, before rattling off to his train.
At Didcot he had the best part of an hour to wait for the night-mail
westward.
"_Your father dangerously ill. Come at once._"
There was no signature. Yet Taffy knew who had ridden to the office
with that telegram. The flying darkness held visions of her, and the
express throbbed westward to the beat of Aide-de-camp's gallop. Nor was
he surprised at all to find her on the platform at Truro station. The
Tredinnis phaeton was waiting outside.
He seemed to her but a boy after all, as he stepped out of the train in
the chill dawn; a wan-faced boy and sorely in need of comfort.
"You must be brave," said she, gathering up the reins as he climbed to
the seat beside her.
Surely yes; he had been telling himself this very thing all night. The
groom hoisted in his portmanteau, and with a slam of the door they were
off. The cold air sang past Taffy's ears. It put vigor into him, and his
courage rose as he faced his shattered prospects, shattered dreams. He
must be strong now, for his mother's sake; a man to work and be leant
upon.
And so it was that whereas Honoria had found him a boy, Humility found
him a man. As her arms went about him in her grief, she felt his body,
that it was taller, broader; and knew, in the midst of her tears, that
this was not the child she had parted from seven short weeks ago, but
a man to act and give orders and be relied upon.
"He called for you ... many times," was all she could say.
For Taffy had come too late. Mr. Raymond was dead. He had aggravated a
slight chill by going back to his work too soon, and the bitter draughts
of the church had cut him down within sight of his goal. A year before,
he might have been less impatient. The chill struck into his lungs. On
December 1st he had taken to his bed, and he never rallied.
"He called for me?"
"Many times."
They went up the stairs together and stood beside the bed. The thought
uppermost in Taffy's mind was—"He called for me. He wanted me. He was
my father, and I never knew him."
But Humility in her sorrow groped amid such questions as these: "What
has happened? Who am I? Am I she who yesterday had a husband, and a
child? To-day my husband is gone, and my child is no longer the same
child."
In her room old Mrs. Venning remembered the first days of her own
widowhood; and life seemed to her a very short affair, after all.
Honoria saw Taffy beside the grave. It was no season for out-of-door
flowers and she had rifled her hot-houses for a wreath. The exotics
shivered in the northwesterly wind; they looked meaningless,
impertinent, in the gusty churchyard. Humility, before the coffin left
the house, had brought the dead man's old blue working-blouse and spread
it for a pall. No flowers grew in the parsonage garden; but pressed in
her Bible lay a very little bunch gathered, years ago, in the meadows
by Honiton. This she divided and, unseen by anyone, pinned the half upon
the breast of the patched garment.
On the evening after the funeral and for the next day or two she was
strangely quiet, and seemed to be waiting for Taffy to make some sign.
Dearly as mother and son loved one another, they had to find their new
positions, each toward each. Now Taffy had known nothing of his parents'
income. He assumed that it was little enough, and that he must now leave
Oxford and work to support the household. He knew some Latin and Greek;
but without a degree he had little chance of teaching what he knew. He
was a fair carpenter, and a more than passable smith.... He revolved
many schemes, but chiefly found himself wondering what it would cost to
enter an architect's office.
"I suppose," said he, "father left no will?"
"Oh, yes, he did," said Humility, and produced it—a single sheet of
foolscap signed on her wedding-day. It gave her all her husband's
property absolutely—whatever it might be.
"Well," said Taffy, "I'm glad. I suppose there's enough for you to rent
a small cottage, while I look about for work?"
"Who talks about your finding work? You will go back to Oxford, of
course."
"Oh, shall I?" said Taffy, taken aback.
"Certainly; it was your father's wish."
"But the money?"
"With your scholarship there's enough to keep you there for the four
years. After that, no doubt, you will be earning a good income."
"But—" He remembered what had been said about the lace-money, and could
not help wondering.
"Taffy," said his mother, touching his hand, "leave all this to me
until your degree is taken. You have a race to run and must not start
unprepared. If you could have seen _his_ joy when the news came of the
demy-ship!"
Taffy kissed her and went up to his room. He found his books laid out
on the little table there.
4
TREDINNIS, February 13, 18—.