IT was difficult to explain the impulse which drew them one after
another into the ante-room. On ordinary occasions it would have been the
height of bad manners; and there was no reason, so far as most of the
company knew, why common laws should be postponed to the exigencies of
the occasion. John Trevanion hurried out first of all, and Rosalind
after him, making no apology. Then Mrs. Lennox, with a troubled face,
put forth her excuses--“I am sure I beg your pardon, but as they seem to
be expecting somebody, perhaps I had better go and see--” Sophy, who had
devoured Russell’s communications with eyes dancing with excitement, had
slipped from her seat at once and vanished. Rex, with a moody face and
his hands in his pockets, strolled to the door, and stood there, leaning
against the opening, divided between curiosity and disgust. The three
men who were rivals alone remained, looking uneasily at each other. They
were all standing up, an embarrassed group, enemies, yet driven together
by stress of weather. Everard was the first to move; he tried to find an
outlet, looking stealthily from one door to another.
“Don’t you think,” he said at last, in a tremulous voice, “that if there
is--any family bother--we had better--go away?”
“I suppose,” said Roland Hamerton, with white lips, “it must be
something about Mrs. Trevanion.” And he too pushed forward into the
ante-room, too anxious to think of politeness, anxious beyond measure to
know what Rosalind was about to do.
A little circular hall, with a marble floor, was between this ante-room
and the door. The sound of the carriage driving up, the knocking, the
little pause while a servant hurried through to open, gave time for all
these secondary proceedings. Then there was again an interval of
breathless expectation. Mrs. Lennox’s travelling servant was a stranger,
who knew nothing of the family history. He preceded the new-comer with
silent composure, directing his steps to the drawing-room; but when he
found that all the party had silently thronged into the ante-room, he
made a formal pause half-way. No consciousness was in his unfaltering
tones. He drew his feet into the right attitude, and then he announced
the name that fell among them like a thunderbolt--“Mrs. Trevanion”--at
the top of a formal voice.
She stood upon the threshold without advancing, her black veil thrown
back, her black dress hanging in heavy folds about her worn figure, her
face very pale, tremulous with a pathetic smile. She was holding fast by
Jane with one hand to support herself. She seemed to stand there for an
indefinite time, detached and separated from everything but the shadow
of her maid behind her, looking at them all, on the threshold of the
future, on the verge of the past; but in reality it was only for a
moment. Before, in fact, they had time to breathe, a great cry rang
through the house, and Rosalind flung herself, precipitated herself,
upon the woman whom she adored. “Mother!” It rang through every room,
thrilling the whole house from its foundations, and going through and
through the anxious spectators, to whom were now added a circle of
astonished servants, eager, not knowing what was happening. Mrs.
Trevanion received the shock of this young life suddenly flung upon her
with a momentary tottering, and, but for Jane behind her, might have
fallen, even as she put forth her arms and returned the vehement
embrace. Their faces met, their heads lay together for a moment, their
arms closed upon each other, there was that murmur without words, of
infinite love, pain, joy, undistinguishable. Then, while Rosalind still
clasped and clung to her, without relaxing a muscle, holding fast as
death what she had thus recovered, Mrs. Trevanion raised her head and
looked round her. Her eyes were wistful, full of a yearning beyond
words. Rosalind was here, but where were the others, her own, the
children of her bosom? Rex stood in the doorway, red and lowering, his
brows drawn down over his eyes, his shoulders up to his ears, a confused
and uneasy embarrassment in every line of his figure. He said not a
word, he looked straight before him, not at her. Sophy had got behind a
curtain, and was peering out, her restless eyes twinkling and moving,
her small figure concealed behind the drapery. The mother looked
wistfully out over the head of Rosalind lying on her bosom, supporting
the girl with her arms, holding her close, yet gazing, gazing, making a
passionate, pathetic appeal to her very own. Was there to be no reply?
Even on the instant there was a reply; a door was flung open, something
white flashed across the ante-room, and added itself like a little line
of light to the group formed by the two women. Oh, happiness that
overflows the heart! Oh misery that cuts it through like a knife! Of all
that she had brought into the world, little Amy alone!
“My mistress is not able to bear it. I told her she was not able to bear
it. Let her sit down. Bring something for her; that chair, that chair!
Have pity upon her!” cried Jane, with urgent, vehement tones, which
roused them from the half-stupefaction with which the whole bewildered
assembly was gazing. John Trevanion was the first to move, and with him
Roland Hamerton. The others all stood by looking on; Rivers with the
interest of a spectator at a tragedy, the others with feelings so much
more personal and such a chaos of recollections and alarms. The two who
had started forward to succor her put Mrs. Trevanion reverently into the
great chair; John with true affection and anguish, Roland with a
wondering reverence which the first glance of her face, so altered and
pale, had impressed upon him. Then Mrs. Lennox bustled forward, wringing
her hands; how she had been restrained hitherto nobody ever knew.
“Oh, Grace, Grace! oh, my poor Grace! oh, how ill she is looking! Oh, my
dear, my dear, haven’t you got a word for me? Oh, Grace, where have you
been all this time, and why didn’t you come to me? And how could you
distrust me, or think I ever believed, or imagine I wasn’t your friend!
Grace, my poor dear! Oh, Jane, is it a faint! What is it? Who has got a
fan? or some wine. Bring some wine! Oh, Jane, tell us, can’t you tell
us, what we ought to do?”
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Trevanion, rousing herself; “nothing, Sophy. I knew
you were kind always. It is only--a little too much--and I have not been
well. John--oh, yes, that is quite easy--comfortable. Let me rest for a
moment, and then I will tell you what I have come to say.”
They were all silent for that brief interval; even Mrs. Lennox did
nothing but wring her hands; and those who were most concerned became
like the rest, spectators of the tragedy. Little Amy, kneeling, half
thrown across her mother’s lap, made a spot of light upon the black
dress with her light streaming hair. Rosalind stood upright, very
upright, by the side of the mother whom she had found again, confronting
all the world in a high, indignant championship, which was so strangely
contrasted with the quiet wistfulness and almost satisfaction in the
face of the woman by whom she stood. Jane, very anxious, watching every
movement, her attention concentrated upon her mistress, stood behind the
chair.
When Mrs. Trevanion opened her eyes she smiled. John Trevanion stood by
her on one side, Rosalind on the other. She had no lack of love, of
sympathy, or friendship. She looked from between them over Amy’s bright
head with a quivering of her lips. “Oh, no test, no test!” she said to
herself. She had known how it would be. She withdrew her eyes from the
boy standing gloomy in the doorway. She began to speak, and everybody
but he made some unconscious movement of quickened attention. Rex did
not give any sign, nor one other, standing behind, half hidden by the
door.
“Sophy,” she said quietly, “I have always had the fullest trust in your
kindness; and if I come to your house on Rosalind’s birthday that can
hurt no one. This dreadful business has been going on too long--too
long. Flesh and blood cannot bear it. I have grown very weak--in mind, I
mean in mind. When I heard the children were near me I yielded to the
temptation and went to look at them. And all this has followed. Perhaps
it was wrong. My mind has got confused; I don’t know.”
“Oh, Grace, my dear, how could it be wrong to look at your little
children, your own children, whom you were so cruelly, cruelly parted
from?”
Mrs. Lennox began to cry. She adopted her sister-in-law’s cause in a
moment, without hesitation or pause. Her different opinion before
mattered nothing now. Mrs. Trevanion understood all and smiled, and
looked up at John Trevanion, who stood by her with his hand upon the
chair, very grave, his face full of pain, saying nothing. He was a
friend whom she had never doubted, and yet was it not his duty to
enforce the separation, as it had been his to announce it to her?
“I know,” she cried, “and I know what is your duty, John. Only I have a
hope that something may come which will make it your duty no longer. But
in the meantime I have changed my mind about many things. I thought it
best before to go away without any explanations; I want now to tell you
everything.”
Rosalind clasped her hand more closely. “Dear mother, what you please;
but not because we want explanations,” she said, her eyes including the
whole party in one high, defiant gaze.
“Oh no, dear, no. We want nothing but just to enjoy your society a
little,” cried Mrs. Lennox. “Give dear Grace your arm, and bring her
into the drawing-room, John. Explanations! No, no! If there is anything
that is disagreeable let it just be forgotten. We are all friends now;
indeed we have always been friends,” the good woman cried.
“I want to tell you how I left home,” Mrs. Trevanion said. She turned to
her brother-in-law, who was stooping over the back of her chair, his
face partially concealed. “John, you were right, yet you were all wrong.
In those terrible evenings at Highcourt”--she gave a slight shudder--“I
did indeed go night after night to meet--a man in the wood. When I went
away I went with him, to make up to him--the man, poor boy! he was
scarcely more than a boy--was--” She paused, her eye caught by a strange
combination. It brought the keenest pang of misery to her heart, yet
made her smile. Everard had been drawn by the intense interest of the
scene into the room. He stood in the doorway close to young Rex, who
leaned against it, looking out under the same lowering brows, in the
same attitude of sullen resistance. She gazed at them for a moment with
sad certainty, and yet a wonder never to be extinguished. “There,” she
said, with a keen sharpness of anguish in her voice, “they stand
together; look and you will see. My sons--both mine--and neither with
anything in his heart that speaks for me!”
These words, and the unconscious group in the doorway, who were the only
persons in the room unaffected by what was said, threw a sudden
illumination upon the scene and the story and everything that had been.
A strange thrill ran through the company as every individual turned
round and gazed, and perceived, and understood. Mrs. Lennox gave a
sudden cry, clasping her hands together, and Rosalind, who was holding
Mrs. Trevanion’s hand, gave it such a sudden pressure, emphatic, almost
violent, that the sufferer moved involuntarily with the pain. John
Trevanion raised his head from where he had been leaning on her chair.
He took in everything with a glance. Was it an older Rex, less assured,
less arrogant, but not less determined to resist all softening
influences? But the effect on John was not that of an explanation, but
of an alarming, horrifying discovery. He withdrew from Mrs. Trevanion’s
chair. A tempest of wonder and fear arose in his mind. The two in the
doorway moved uneasily under the observation to which they were suddenly
subjected. They gave each other a naturally defiant glance. Neither of
them realized the revelation that had been made, not even Everard,
though he knew it--not Rex, listening with jealous repugnance, resisting
all the impulses of nature. Neither of them understood the wonderful
effect that was produced upon the others by the sight of them standing
side by side.
John Trevanion had suddenly taken up a new position; no one knew why he
spoke in harsh, distinct tones, altogether unlike his usual friendly and
gentle voice. “Let us know, now, exactly what this means; and, for
God’s sake, no further concealment, no evasion. Speak out for that poor
boy’s sake.”
There was surprise in Mrs. Trevanion’s eyes as she raised them to his
face. “I have come to tell you everything,” she said.
“Sir,” said Jane, “my poor lady is far from strong. Before she says more
and brings on one of her faints, let her rest--oh, let her rest.”
For once in his life John Trevanion had no pity. “Her faints,” he said;
“does she faint? Bring wine, bring something; but I must understand
this, whatever happens. It is a matter of life or death.”
“Uncle John,” said Rosalind, “I will not have her disturbed. Whatever
there is amiss can be told afterwards. I am here to take care of her.
She shall not do more than she is able for; no, not even for you.”
“Rosalind, are you mad? Don’t you see what hangs upon it? Reginald’s
position--everything, perhaps. I must understand what she means. I must
understand what _that_ means.” John Trevanion’s face was utterly without
color; he could not stand still--he was like a man on the rack. “I must
know everything, and instantly; for how can she stay here, unless-- She
must not stay.”
This discussion, and his sharp, unhappy tone seemed to call Madam to
herself.
“I did not faint,” she said, softly. “It is a mistake to call them
faints. I never was unconscious; and surely, Rosalind, he has a right to
know. I have come to explain everything.”
Roland Hamerton had been standing behind. He came close to Rosalind’s
side. “Madam,” he said, “if you are not to stay here, wherever I have a
house, wherever I can give you a shelter, it is yours; whatever I can do
for you, from the bottom of my heart!”
Mrs. Trevanion opened her eyes, which had been closed. She shook her
head very softly; and then she said almost in a whisper, “Rosalind, he
is very good and honest and true. I should be glad if-- And Amy, my
darling! you must go and get dressed. You will catch cold. Go, my love,
and then come back to me. I am ready, John. I want to make everything
clear.”
Rosalind held her hand fast. She stood like a sentinel facing them all,
her left hand clasping Mrs. Trevanion’s, the other free, as if in
defence of her. And Roland stood close behind, ready to answer any call.
He was of Madam’s faction against all the world, the crowd (as it seemed
to these young people), before whom she was about to make her defence.
These two wanted no defence; neither did Mrs. Lennox, standing in front,
wringing her hands, with her honest face full of trouble, following
everything that each person said. “She is more fit to be in her bed than
anywhere else,” Mrs. Lennox was saying; “she is as white--as white as my
handkerchief. Oh, John, you that are so reasonable, and that always was
a friend to her--how can you be so cruel to her? She shall stay,” cried
Aunt Sophy, with a sudden outburst, “in my house-- I suppose it is my
house--as long as she will consent to stay.”
Notwithstanding this, of all the people present, there was no one who in
his heart had stood by her so closely as John Trevanion. But
circumstances had so determined it that he must be her judge now. He
made a pause, and then pointed to the doorway in which the two young men
stood with a mutual scowl at each other. “Explain that,” he said, in
sharp, staccato tones, “first of all.”
“Yes, John, I will explain,” Mrs, Trevanion said, with humility. “When I
met my husband first--” She paused as if to take breath--“I was married,
and I had a child. I feel no shame now,” she went on, yet with a faint
color rising over her paleness. “Shame is over for me; I must tell my
story without evasion, as you say. It is this, John. I thought I was a
deserted wife, and my boy had a right to his name. The same ship that
brought Reginald Trevanion brought the news that I was deceived. I was
left in a strange country without a friend--a woman who was no wife,
with a child who had no father. I thought I was the most miserable of
women; but now I know better. I know now--”
John’s countenance changed at once. What he had feared or suspected was
never known to any of them; but his aspect changed; he tried to
interrupt her, and, coming back to her side, took her other hand.
“Grace,” he cried, “Grace! it is enough. I was a brute to think-- Grace,
my poor sister--”
“Thank you, John; but I have not done. Your father,” she went on,
unconsciously changing, addressing another audience, “saw me, and heard
my story. And he was sorry for me--oh, he was more than sorry. He was
young and so was I. He proposed to me after a while that if I would give
up my boy--and we had no living, nothing to keep us from starvation--and
marry him, he would take care of the child; it should want for nothing,
but that I must never see it more. For a long time I could not make up
my mind. But poverty is very sharp; and how to get bread I knew not. The
child was pining, and so was I. And I was young. I suppose,” she said in
a low voice, drooping her head, “I still wished, still needed to be
happy. That seems so natural when one is young. And your father loved
me; and I him--and I him!”
She said these words very low, with a pause between. “There, you have
all my story,” with a glimmer of a smile on her face. “It is a tragedy,
but simple enough, after all. I was never to see the child again; but my
heart betrayed me, and I deceived your father. I went and looked at my
boy out of windows, waited to see him pass--once met him on a railway
journey when you were with me, Rosalind--which was all wrong, wrong--oh,
wrong on both sides; to your father and to him. I don’t excuse myself.
Then, poor boy, he fell into trouble. How could he help it? His father’s
blood was in him, and mine too--a woman false to my vow. He was without
friend or home. When he was in great need and alarm, he came--was it not
natural?--to his mother. What could be more natural? He sent for me to
meet him, to help him, to tell him what to do. What could I do but
go--all being so wrong, so wrong? Jane knows everything. I begged my
poor boy to go away; but he was ignorant, he did not know the danger.
And then Russell, you know, who had never loved me--is she there, poor
woman?--found us out. She carried this story to your father. You think,
and she thinks,” said Mrs. Trevanion, raising herself with great dignity
in her chair, “that my husband suspected me of--of-- I cannot tell what
shameful suspicions. Reginald,” she went on, with a smile half scornful,
“had no such thought. He knew me better. He knew I went to meet my son,
and that I was risking everything for my son. He had vowed to me that in
that case I should be cut off from him and his. Oh, yes, I knew it all.
My eyes were open all the time. And he did what he had said.” She drew a
long breath. There was a dispassionate sadness in her voice, as of
winding up a history all past. “And what was I to do?” she resumed. “Cut
off from all the rest, there was a chance that I might yet be of some
use to him--my boy, whom I had neglected. Oh, John and Rosalind, I
wronged _you_. I should have told you this before; but I had not the
heart. And then, there was no time to lose, if I was to be of service to
the boy.”
Everything was perfectly still in the room; no one had stirred; they
were afraid to lose a word. When she had thus ended she made a pause.
Her voice had been very calm, deliberate, a little feeble, with pauses
in it. When she spoke again it took another tone; it was full of
entreaty, like a prayer. She withdrew her hand from Rosalind.
“Reginald!” she said, “Rex! have you nothing to say to me, my boy!”
The direction of all eyes was changed and turned upon the lad. He stood
very red, very lowering, without moving from his post against the door.
He did not look at her. After a moment he began to clear his voice. “I
don’t know,” he said, “what there is to say.” Then, after another
pause: “I suppose I am expected to stick to my father’s will. I suppose
that’s my duty.”
“But for all that,” she said, with a pleading which went to every heart;
her eyes filled, which had been quite dry, her mouth quivered with a
tender smile--“for all that, oh, my boy! it is not to take me in, to
make a sacrifice; but for once speak to me, come to me; I am your
mother, Rex.”
Sophy had been behind the curtain all the time, wrapped in it, peering
out with her restless, dancing eyes. She was still only a child. Her
little bosom had begun to ache with sobs kept in, her face to work, her
mind to be moved by impulses beyond her power. She had tried to mould
herself upon Rex, until Rex, with the shadow of the other beside him,
holding back, repelling, resisting, became contemptible in Sophy’s keen
eyes. It was perhaps this touch of the ridiculous that affected her
sharp mind more than anything else; and the sound of her mother’s voice,
as it went on speaking, was more than nature could bear, and roused
impulses she scarcely understood within her. She resisted as long as she
could, winding herself up in the curtain; but at these last words
Sophy’s bonds were loosed; she shook herself out of the drapery and came
slowly forward, with eyes glaring red out of her pale face.
“They say,” she said suddenly, “that we shall lose all our money, mamma,
if we go to you.”
Mrs. Trevanion’s fortitude and calm had given way. She was not prepared
for this trial. She turned towards the new voice and held out her arms
without a word. But Sophy stood frightened, reluctant, anxious, her keen
eyes darting out of her head.
“And what could I do?” she cried. “I am only a little thing, I couldn’t
work. If you gave up your baby because of being poor, what should we do,
Rex and I? We are younger, though you said you were young. We want to be
well off, too. If we were to go to you, everything would be taken from
us!” cried Sophy. “Mamma, what can we do?”
Mrs. Trevanion turned to her supporters on either side of her with a
smile; her lips still trembled. “Sophy was always of a logical mind,”
she said, with a faint half-laugh. The light was flickering round her,
blackness coming where all these eager faces were. “I--I have my answer.
It is just enough. I have no--complaint.”
There was a sudden outcry and commotion where all had been so still
before. Jane came from behind the chair and swept away, with that
command which knowledge gives, the little crowd which had closed in
around. “Air! air is what she wants, and to be quiet! Go away, for God’s
sake, all but Miss Rosalind!”
John Trevanion hurried to open the window, and the faithful servant
wheeled the chair close to it in which her mistress lay. Just then two
other little actors came upon the scene. Amy had obeyed her mother
literally. She had gone and dressed with that calm acceptance of all
wonders which is natural to childhood; then sought her little brother at
play in the nursery. “Come and see mamma,” she said. Without any
surprise, Johnny obeyed. He had his whip in his hand, which he
flourished as he came into the open space which had been cleared round
that chair.
“Where’s mamma?” said Johnny. His eyes sought her among the people
standing about. When his calm but curious gaze found out the fainting
figure he shook his hand free from that of Amy, who led him. “That!” he
said, contemptuously; “that’s not mamma, that’s the lady.”
Against the absolute certainty of his tone there was nothing to be said.