_MOTHER AND SON._
Three weeks went past. We are once more at Tregowan. The snow had
gone; the winter had vanished as in a night; and now, in the middle
of January, there was, or seemed to be, already in the air the breath
of spring. Rain had taken the place of snow, floods the place of
ice. There had been some deluges of late, and in all the valleys the
streams, rising above their banks, were out upon the country on
either side of them. People did not know which was the worst, rain
and mist or ice and snow. As for the farmers, they already had
declared that the only thing wanted to complete their ruin was the
frost; now they changed their minds, and declared that it was the
rain instead. But farmers grumble always--the weather is not known
which would fall in with their requirements.
The boys were already looking forward, not too anxiously, to a return
to school; the holidays seemed to them as though they fled on
lightning wings. It is not impossible that the parents--at least in
some cases--deemed their progress slower; nor was a recommencement of
scholastic duties anticipated by the lads with unqualified
dissatisfaction. The healthy, honest boy has always in his heart a
fondness for his school, and is never so ready to talk about its
charms as when he is away from it. The affair at Fruin's was already
a matter of history. It was on everybody's tongue when first it was
made known--not a matter of local discussion only, for it got into
the papers. It travelled even as far as Plymouth, and the _Mercury_
and _Morning News_ spoke of it in their columns. It was an eight
days' wonder, and, as is generally the case with wonders, was told in
half-a-dozen different ways--was, indeed, so twisted out of shape,
that those who were, for obvious reasons, best acquainted with the
story, could not recognise it in its new shape at all.
It was said that murder had been done; that at least half-a-dozen had
been wounded; that firearms had been used on either side; that, in
short, the whole affair was a disgrace to the high state of
civilisation to which we have attained. As a matter of fact, in the
actual affair itself no one had been injured; it was, moreover,
pretty certain that the guns which Mr. Fruin and his friends had
fired were loaded with nothing more dangerous than powder. But
notwithstanding, it was felt that the business was in no sense a
creditable one, and that it was at least advisable that its
recurrence should as far as possible be made impossible. With this
view, recognising that the cause of the unpleasantness was Mr. Fruin,
several gentlemen, with Mr. Trevena and Mr. Mason at their head,
resolved to leave no stone unturned to relieve the neighbourhood of
so undesirable an inhabitant. It was quickly found that Mr. Fruin
was considerably in arrear with the rent for his stream-works. In an
ordinary case, time would probably have been given him; but this was
not an ordinary case, and he was immediately informed that he must
choose between two alternatives--either to be sold up stick and
stone, and be turned penniless out into the world; or a sum of money
would be advanced to him, a fair price allowed for such property as
he possessed, on condition that he at once betook himself to other
climes, where his presence might be more welcome than it was just
there. This second offer he accepted, and his old haunts knew him no
more: in a new country every opportunity was given him to redeem the
past, and render himself a respectable member of society.
But it was Marmaduke Tregowan who had suffered most by the adventure.
It was he who was likely to have most cause to regret that Christmas
Eve. He was not dead; on that point the mother's fears were soon
relieved. The physicians who came so hurriedly from town that
Christmas Day were soon agreed in that--it was not likely he would
die.
"No," said they, or rather so said the senior among them, speaking in
the name of all, when she implored them to hide from her nothing of
the truth, "madam, you need be in no fear that his injuries are
mortal. He will not die; it is not that which we anticipate--no
mortal part is injured."
"Then, sir," she cried, perceiving that his words suggested something
which they did not actually express, "what is there wrong with him?"
"There is much that is wrong with him, but what will be the issue it
is as yet impossible to say. The spine is injured, and the spine has
reacted upon the brain. Whether the injury will be temporary, at
present no man can say. We have a young and vigorous constitution
upon our side; it may be that in time all will still be well."
And so the worst was known. The lad was crippled--was rendered more
helpless than a child. He could not sit, he could not stand, he
could not move his legs, with difficulty could use his hands; and,
worse than all, his brain, his mental powers, were injured with his
spine. It was a living death which stared him in the face! And this
was come to Marmaduke Tregowan! Bitter was the hour in which they
first knew the nature of the evil which had fallen on their heads!
Bitter to the mother, bitter to the girls as well! Their Duke--their
noble, gallant, handsome Duke, to end in this! Could it be possible?
Was this indeed the new chapter which was never again to be turned
over in their lives? What an hour, what a Christmas Day was that!
What holidays were those to be! The hope of all their line, from
whom, seemingly with such good cause, they had hoped so much,
helpless and an imbecile!
"Mother," said Winnie, when first the news was told, and the mother
sat by the fire in Parson Wheeler'a kitchen, staring as one in a
dream at the flashing flames, "speak to me. Don't look like that.
It is all for the best. How shall we know if it be right or wrong?"
But the mother never spoke, but sat and stared; and Ria was like a
girl gone mad--they feared indeed she would go mad. Her grief, as
grief is apt to be, was altogether unreasonable. They found it
impossible to control her. Mrs. Pollyon was helpless now, and Nelly
too; and Lionel with his hands in his pockets stood blubbering by,
wondering what there was which he could do. And the mother sat still
and never spoke a word, but at last she rose and went upstairs to the
room which Lionel had occupied. Winnie offered to go with her, but
she motioned her from her; she preferred to be alone; and there in
solitude, as David did of old, she wrestled with the Lord.
"I say," blundered Lionel, who found that Ria's grief was more than
he could stand, "don't go on like that. What's the use of it, you
know? You never can believe a word those doctors say. I'll bet you
anything he's right again within a week. They're perfect duffers,
doctors are." But his words of comfort were of but small effect.
None the less the prophecy did not prove wholly false. Although Duke
was certainly not all right again, he still was better in a week--as
the doctors declared, marvellously better. It was an improvement
which in its rapidity was altogether unlooked for by them. It was
not his body which was changed--he still was physically helpless--it
was his mind. They no longer feared he would be imbecile. As far as
they could judge, his mental powers were vigorous as ever; yet there
was a something there which was not there before, and which they yet
had to discover.
They had had him taken to Tregowan; the doctors had said the removal
might be effected without danger--he only required care in handling;
so they had him taken home. How different the return to what the
setting out had been! They took him in a carriage which they had
brought specially from London. It walked, all the way, and the
mother, who was already strangely altered, walked beside it. It had
more the air of a funeral than of a coming home.
That was now more than a fortnight since, and very little change had
taken place in Duke since then. A special attendant had been engaged
for him, well skilled in such cases, and his sole business was to
attend upon the lad. As yet he had never risen from his bed, but
they were in hopes that in course of time he might be lifted from the
bed on to a particular chair--half bed, half couch--which the doctors
had had made for him. What a change to the Duke who once had been!
What availed him all his wealth and pride of family now?
Not the least strange part of it was that he himself never seemed to
feel the change at all. So far as they could judge, he was perfectly
contented and at ease. His temper was just as sunny as it had been
of yore, his speech was just as merry; he was not conscious of any
pain. It might be that as yet he did not realise his loss, but he
seemed to have no fault to find. He was at peace with all the world.
One afternoon--it had been a rainy morning and the clouds were just
beginning to show a disposition, if not to clear, then at least to
cease to shed their torrents on the sodden earth--Duke was lying in
bed, and his mother was sitting at his side. She sat there often
now; indeed it was her accustomed place, and he was always glad to
see her there. He was always glad to have them all about him, to
hear their noise and chatter. Visitors were always welcome; he was
over full of life and fun. His room had been of late almost the
chief reception-room; whoever called as a rule was shown at once in
there. As for the mother and the girls, they eat, drank, worked,
played, talked, read, did nearly everything but sleep there.
This particular afternoon he and the mother were alone. Winnie and
Ria were out--had driven for something to the town. It was found
almost impossible to induce Ria to leave the house even for an hour
or two; she would cry and moan by herself for hours together. She
was never happy away from Marmaduke. The confinement was injuring
her health, and every excuse was seized to get her out into the open
air. So the mother and her son were left to enjoy each other's
company.
"I hope," said Duke, turning his head and looking at the mother,
"that people will be sensible and will not call. Of course one's
very glad to see them, but somehow they always seem to call just when
one wants them least."
The mother smiled. A book was at her side; she had been reading it
to Marmaduke, for, as he owned, he was too lazy to read himself; but
she had laid it down, and was engaged upon some work instead.
Despite her smile, one could see how greatly she had changed. Her
hair was already dashed with grey; age had come upon her unawares;
she was old before her time. In face at least she was much more
changed than Duke. He looked as he had ever looked, save that there
was a gentle something, a new sweetness in his countenance.
"Why," she asked as she turned to him, "do you wish to see no one?
Shall I give instructions? Do you wish particularly to be alone?"
"Yes, I do, alone with you, and that's a fact; but I'm not going to
spare you even to tell them that I wish to be alone." She was
rising, but his words brought her back to her seat. Even more than
of old his every wish was law. "I've wanted to have a talk with you
for ever so long, but somehow I've never seemed to have a chance.
Things always will go contrary." He made a grimace and laughed at
her; she put out her hand and laid it upon his. "'There is a power
which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may.' That's about the
only bit of Shakespeare which I know. I had that passage set me once
to construe and turn into prose, and a pretty mess I made of it. I
never shall construe. Consequence, I had that line to write five
hundred times from memory; no wonder that I keep it well in mind.
But, mother, it's not nonsense that I want to talk to you--at least,
considering who's the talker--but something else."
He stopped and pressed her hand, and then began to play with it. It
was the hand which bore the wedding-ring, and he turned the plain
gold circlet round and round upon her finger.
"I have an idea, mother, in my big head, that you're not too pleased
to see me lying here."
She turned her head aside, and for a moment lost the power of speech.
The blood rushed into her face, she blushed like a young girl, and
though she sat she shook from head to foot.
"Mother--mother mine!" His voice was very soft and gentle, pitiful
as though she were to be pitied and not he. "Thou best of all good
mothers, is it so very hard to bear? Why, I'm just the same Duke
that ever I was, only just a little changed. Was I such a perfect
article that I could not have been possibly improved? Why, mother,
do you know you had ever such a lot of bones to pick with me; you can
hardly pick them now. What a scamp I was! Do you know I"---- He
hesitated whether to use the present or past tense; then said, "Do
you know that I was expelled from Dorrincourt?"
"Yes, Duke, I know." She bent and kissed him. He put his arms about
her neck and held her to him. "It grieved me very much, my darling;
I could not bear to think it of my son, my only boy."
"Ah! mother, I was a regular good-for-nothing lot, and that's the
truth of it. It was a good day on which I was expelled; it brought
me to a standstill, and to look things fairly in the face. And the
accident--you don't know, mother, how much I owe to Lionel from first
to last. It was he who that night first brought me to a clear
understanding of the Lord."
"Don't say that, my dear. Have I not always striven to keep you in
the right way? and did not your father in his time?"
"Darling mother mine! you're not a boy, and you don't know what
animals boys are. You don't know what a thick-headed-idiot I am.
While things went well with me, you might have striven from now till
never; it was only when things went ill with me that I began to think
about the thing at all. So, mother, do you not see what I mean when
I say that it would have been impossible for things to have turned
out better than they have?"
The mother held her peace. She never said a word, but kept her head
upon the pillow by her son's. She closed her eyes, and the tears
stood in the lashes. It was hard for her to realise. He read her
thoughts.
"Why, mother," he said, "I'm hardly a bit worse off than I was
before. The only thing which I cannot do is misbehave myself by
running into scrapes--not much loss in that. I'm much more of a man
than I was before--much more of a Tregowan."
She still was silent for a time, and there they were face to face
beside each other, the mother and her son. She opened her eyes and
looked at him, and strove to read the hidden something which she felt
sure was in his heart, and to learn if he spoke all the truth to her.
Then at last--
"Duke," she said, "tell me, darling--tell me truly," and her voice
was so low that none other in the room could have heard but him.
"Are you quite contented as you are?"
There was silence in the room. Without the sun was attempting in a
feeble, indistinct sort of way to demonstrate his presence despite
the clouds. The rain had altogether ceased, there was little or no
wind, and the ill-used farmer, if of a particularly sanguine nature,
might almost begin to anticipate an opportunity of being able to
grumble at the continued presence of the sun. The mother looked
steadfastly at Duke. It was a home question--perhaps scarcely a
judicious one. The boy's lip quivered: for a moment there was
something in his eyes, but he winked it resolutely away. Still he
did not speak; he was tongue-tied; it was his turn to be silent now.
Perceiving this, she read, or thought she read, the cause, and
leaning still more forward, she kissed him passionately again, not
once, nor twice, but many times, until at last she burst into a flood
of tears. That unloosed his tongue at once.
"Mother, mother! thou mother mine! Why do you cry? You must not cry
for me, darling. All will be well with me--all is for the best. You
would not make it worse for me to bear? Bear! why there is nothing
to bear. So long as I have you and the girls, what else is there for
me to want? What a discontented mortal you must suppose I am!"
"How dare you say so? I do not. I think nothing of the kind. Duke,
I do think, after all, it may be for the best."
"There! what a weathercock you are! I never thought it of mother
mine. Will you be so good as to tell me, when you have dried those
tears? Why, we are changing places; it is I who command and you who
obey. I never was particularly obedient, so perhaps the change will
be convenient. At the same time, I mean exactly what I say. When
you have dried those tears, will you be so good as to tell me in what
way you think it for the best?"
"Duke, you must not be cross with me."
"Be cross! The idea of my being cross with you! Mother, I do
believe that after all you are a goose."
"I used to fear," and her voice was very low again, "that you would
soon be more than I could manage--that you would get entirely beyond
my power to control. There was much good in you, my dear, but you
were so reckless and so hasty. You were so proud of your agility and
strength of limb--you were so proud, my dear."
Sho still cried on. She did not try to check the tears. The sun
shone now; he was far down in the western sky; a single ray of
sunlight gleamed through the leafless branches of the trees and shone
into the room.
"Mother, the past is past." He stopped; there was a trembling in his
voice, and it was, perhaps, because he wished to get the better of it
that he stopped. "Let us think about the future now; it is yet too
soon to think about the past. Perhaps, after all, the wound is
rather sore; it is better to leave it for a time." Then he burst out
in louder tones, in which there was a ring of passion, in something
like the old tones which those who knew him knew so well, "Yes, I
could run better than any one in all the school; I could use a bat
and send down a decent ball. I should have been in the next eleven
to play at Lord's, I should have been captain of the football team
ere long. I could row and I could swim, I could shoot and hunt, and
loved to ride. How I looked forward to the day when I could keep a
pack of hounds, mother, mother!"
He stopped, and turned his face away from, her and laid his cheek
upon the pillow. Still with her face all wet with crying, she got up
and laid it upon his.
"Duke! Duke! don't talk like that. It is I--it is I who have done
wrong. The Lord is with us, Duke; the love of Christ is with us
still."
He turned his face back to her again; his voice was colder and
sterner.
"Yes, mother, it is because I know that--because I know that the love
of Christ is with us still, that it is not so hard to bear."
He was silent, and she was silent too. They did not speak again till
Nelly entered, and found him with his arms about the mother's neck.
The mother, who did not see that it was she, disengaged herself
hastily from Duke's embrace, as though she feared to be discovered in
an act of which she was ashamed. Duke, who saw her come, laughed at
the mother's haste, and let her go.
"I believe, mother," said Nelly gravely, with the sweet demure air
which so well became her, "that if you had an opportunity, you would
do nothing but kiss Duke from morning until night. It is well that I
have such a generous disposition, or your conduct to your son would
fill your daughter's heart with jealousy." And so she went and
kissed the mother on her own account.
"You see," retorted Duke with twinkling eyes, as he surveyed the two
together, "a son is such a much more important article than a
daughter by any possibility could be; you know it, though you won't
confess it. Girls never will be candid. He is a man, and no one in
his wildest moments of delusion would suppose it possible to compare
a girl with a man."
"No, a man is incomparable; there is only one thing more conceited
than a man, and that's a boy--a boy about your age!" And Nelly, with
her hands behind her back, looked down at Duke, and left him to
digest her words at leisure.