life she had spent with Mac moved across her brain like the slides of a
magic-lantern. She saw Jemmie arrive with him in a hansom-cab, saw him
trying to coax him upstairs to the drawing-room at King's Gate.
"I've bought you a little dawg, Mary."
How hard she had tried to express her thanks by addressing him as
Jemmie without letting him see what an effort it was, for she had
known that nothing could please him more. Somehow she gulped out the
Christian name. How happy he had been. And with what grateful affection
he had patted Mac good-by.
The picture faded, and now there behind her stood Daisy Harland
examining Mac critically in the manner of one who knew all that there
was to be known about dogs.
"Not a bad little pup. Come here, boy, and say how-do to your Aunt
Daisy."
But Mac simply would not go and say "how-do" to his Aunt Daisy, and
from the first had attached himself exclusively to his mistress.
There he was now growling in Pierre's arms on the day of the dog-fight
in Kensington Gardens.
Pierre?
Strange that to-night Mac should die, to-night when he who had entered
her life with Mac's help should now stand once more upon its threshold.
Pierre? Why should she not write to Pierre? No harm would come from
that. If he refused to answer her letter, nobody would be any the wiser.
"Mac! Mac! Mac!"
Silence. No pitter-pat of dear bandy legs. He was lying out there in
the cold garden.
"Mac, you clumsy old darling, you must not keep lying on my train."
How restless and unhappy he had been on that wedding morning! How he
had hated it! And when he was left behind to stay at home in charge of
Adèle during the honeymoon, what a howling he had set up! She had heard
him above the noisy guests bidding her good-by on the steps of the
house in King's Gate.
"Poor little dawg," Jemmie had exclaimed. "We really ought to have
taken him with us. I owe a lot to that little dawg. I owe you to him,"
he had murmured with a sound in his voice that had frightened her
rather. But she must let him kiss her now. She had no right to refuse.
She was married. How glad Mac was to see her when she came back, and
how he had enjoyed his first scamper in the garden of Woodworth Lodge.
For him the lawn here must have seemed as large as the Park. Dear old
dog, with what zest he used to chase the sparrows and how good he was
with cats! He hated cats really; but he knew that his mistress loved
them, and he would deny himself the most tempting pursuits to oblige
her.
Jemmie had always liked the old dog until the night Richard was born,
when Mac lying outside her bedroom door had growled at Jemmie, who
had come up to see how she was. No, after that Jemmie had never liked
him, had always talked about its being a mistake to have a dog in a
house where there were children. As if he would ever have hurt the
children! It was only Jemmie he disliked. Yes, it was strange how much
he disliked Jemmie. And now Jemmie had had him shot. Had it really
been necessary ... no, that was unfair. She ought not even in thought
to accuse Jemmie of anything like that. How sad the children would be
to-morrow! Their beloved Mac. That was the kind of irritating thing
Jemmie did. Fancy his telling nurse that the dear little dog was not
to be allowed in the nursery! And nurse had given herself airs of such
importance, because Jemmie had told her this himself. Ridiculous woman!
"Mac! Mac!"
Could it really be true that she should never again see that grizzled
head and those faithful eyes?
If Pierre did come to see her, would he ask after Mac, would he
remember him?
Pierre?
Eleven years. Not quite eleven years since she saw him last. It was not
a very long time really. So distinguished as he had looked! How had he
come to find himself in Madagascar? He must have gone there after she
had told him that everything was over.
Pierre?
It might seem less than eleven years to him. She tossed her hair back
over her shoulders and rose from the dressing-table.
In the benign gaslight her bureau stood invitingly open.
"Yes, I will," she declared, and sitting down she wrote this note:
Woodworth Lodge,
Campden Hill, W.
_May 3rd, 1891._
_Dear Pierre_,
_I was at your lecture to-night. If you remember who I am after
eleven years and feel inclined to renew an old acquaintance, won't
you come and have tea with us on Wednesday next any time after four?
I should so much enjoy to hear more about your adventure._
_Yours sincerely,
Mary Alison._
There was no answer by post, but on Wednesday afternoon when she was
sitting in the drawing-room, counting over to herself the woolen
spiders and butterflies crawling up and down her curtains, he came.
Once in the early days of marriage Mary had taken part with her
husband in some amateur theatricals, in the course of which she had
been attacked by stage fright and stood speechless on the stage for
what seemed an age of agony before she regained her voice. It was the
first time Jemmie was angry with her, and she had resolved never to act
again. Now when Pierre was shown into the room she felt just as she
felt then. Fortunately he was more at ease than she was, and under his
guidance of the conversation Mary slowly recovered her self-possession.
All the time that Pierre was talking Mary became more and more
conscious of him as a man. She had never regarded Jemmie except as an
institution. These eyes that looked so eagerly into hers and at the
same time beyond hers to remote shores and distant mountain-peaks made
her heart beat faster, her breath come and go. Yet, he was only talking
to her as he had talked to an audience the other night. There was
nothing personal, still less intimate, in his words.
"I was very lucky to arrive in Madagascar just before we went to war
with Queen Ranavalona--a very remarkable woman. So was her niece who
succeeded her. I was also lucky to know English so well, because you
English were always there behind the scenes with your officers in
the Malagasy army; besides, there were always negotiations with your
consular officials. We shall have war again in Madagascar soon."
"Again?" Mary echoed in alarm.
Pierre made a gesture of contempt.
"It will not be a very dangerous war for us," he laughed.
At this moment Jemmie, to his wife's regret, came in unexpectedly early.
"This is Monsieur Menard," she said, introducing the stranger with an
air of faint embarrassment as if she were explaining the presence
of some odd new decorative addition to the drawing-room of Woodworth
Lodge. "Monsieur Menard visited us in King's Gate before we were
married. He has been abroad for ten years."
"Charmed to make your acquaintance," said Pierre, bowing.
Jemmie shook hands with English awkwardness, evidently wondering how
on earth he was expected to reply to the exaggerated courtesy of the
stranger.
"I was wondering what night would suit Monsieur Menard to come and dine
with us."
Jemmie glared at his wife in amazement; but without being openly rude
he did not know how to dispose of the unwelcome invitation.
"What in creation put it in your head to ask that fellow to dinner?" he
demanded when Pierre was gone. "You might have guessed that he would
accept. He was probably afraid to refuse for fear of being rude."
"On the contrary, I think he was agreeably surprised to find that
somebody in this house was polite enough to invite him," said Mary.
"That's meant for me, I suppose? If I were you, Mary, I should keep
a check on my tongue. A sharp tongue doesn't add to a woman's charm.
Where did you pick this fellow up?"
"I told you. He used to visit us at King's Gate before we were married."
"I don't see why we should have all your grandmother's foreign friends
and acquaintances foisted on us for the rest of our lives," Jemmie
grumbled. "And I wish you'd answer my question. Where did you meet him
again?"
"At a lecture on Madagascar to which I took my girls."
Jemmie threw up his eyebrows to express compassion for human folly.
"You'll be bringing Barnum and Bailey back to dinner next," he
prophesied. "Or one of the keepers at the Zoo. I don't want this house
filled with showmen and cranks. I knew what it would be when you
started that club of yours. I should have thought three children was
enough for any woman. But go your own way. Don't let anything I say
interfere with your pleasures. From what I can see of it the women will
be ruling the men before long."
Mary let her husband grumble on for a while. Then she suggested a few
names for a dinner-party.
"I don't want a dinner-party," he declared angrily. "I'm terribly
overworked just now, and I like to rest whenever I can. You know how
late I've been kept every day this week at the office. We get quite
enough dinner-parties that we have to give and go to without letting
ourselves in for any more than are necessary."
"Very well then," said Mary, "I'll ask nobody else."
"A jolly evening for me to look forward to," grumbled her husband.
"Very jolly."
"You'll find Monsieur Menard most interesting, I assure you. His
adventures in Madagascar...."
"Madagascar!" Jemmie interrupted angrily. "What do I care about
Madagascar! I'm not a girl's club. You'll be suggesting in a minute
that I should read _Robinson Crusoe_ on my way to the office."
Mary began to laugh, upon which her husband retired in dudgeon to the
billiard-room, where he succeeded in making a break of thirty-one
by the indiscriminate use of both white balls and was comparatively
pleasant when he emerged again.
On the evening that Pierre was invited to dinner at eight, Mary
began to dress at half-past six; by a quarter-past seven Adèle was
in despair, and the room was littered with discarded frocks. While
the discussion was proceeding, with Adèle becoming more voluble every
moment, a note arrived by messenger boy from Jemmie to say he was
afraid that he should not be able to get home to-night, as he had to go
down into the country upon very important business. He asked Mary to
make his apologies to Mr. Menard.
"Unusually polite," she thought, and went back to a consideration of
her dress for to-night. Since her husband's note that problem assumed
an even greater importance. In the end she chose light blue as the
color, and the sash of a darker shade tied in a large bow over her
left hip made her seem much younger. Adèle declared that she had not
changed in ten years, and Mary blushed with pleasure at the obvious
compliment.
"And I really do feel quite young to-night," she assured her maid.
During dinner Pierre talked away about Madagascar as if there were
no other topic in the world. Mary, watching him in the rubied shadow
above the candles, did not really pay much attention to what he was
saying, but thought all the time how distinguished he looked and how
like an Englishman in evening dress, notwithstanding the imperial.
And Grandmamma had laid stress on his inferiority to herself. What a
fool she had been to listen to her! In any gathering who would have
stood out more clearly, Jemmie or Pierre? Why, Jemmie looked like a
poulterer beside him. If only she had known enough about the world to
argue with her grandmother then! How Pierre must have despised her! Did
he despise her now, or was he simply not interested in her? Perhaps he
was interested in nothing except Madagascar. He never seemed to look
at her while he was talking, but always at an audience; he must have
fallen into that habit from lecturing. Or perhaps he did not wish to
embarrass her. Yes, probably that was the reason why he continued to
talk about Madagascar without looking at her. She must remember that
eleven years had gone by. Eleven years, during which he had had all
these adventures of which he was talking. Eleven years, during which
she had married and had had three children. It was only the suddenness
of meeting again after so long which made her forget the sundering
years ... the years ... the irrevocable years.... Odd that Jemmie
should have decided not to come back to-night. Would he have come back
if he had known that once, eleven years ago, this despised Frenchman
had possessed her heart and that no one else had ever touched it since?
Would he be jealous? Pierre was pledging her in a glass of port wine.
She never drank red wine, but to-night she must take a sip in response.
Would the maids think it odd if she drank Pierre's health? No, no, they
would attribute it to foreign ways.
"_Salut_," she murmured.
"_Trinquez_," he laughed, raising his glass to meet hers. There was a
faint tinkle, and for a brief moment their fingers touched.
"Let us go into the drawing-room for coffee," she said, "unless you
would rather sit here and finish your wine."
He shook his head and followed her from the table.
"_Enfin_," he said when the coffee had been brought in and they were
sitting alone together in the drawing-room. "_Enfin_, here we are!"
"After eleven years, Pierre."
"After eleven years, Mary. Yet you have scarcely changed."
"Oh yes, I have changed a great deal, Pierre."
"Is the old lady still alive, Mary?"
"She died last autumn, Pierre."
"She was no friend to me, Mary."
Each of them used the other's Christian name in every sentence as if
the uttermost advantage must be taken of an opportunity that neither
of them had hoped to enjoy over again. Each of them seemed to feel the
propriety, the necessity indeed, of giving way to sentiment on such an
occasion.
"She believed that she was acting for the best."
"And was she?" he asked, looking at the woman of whom, once the
illusion of her love was shattered and the first chagrin was allayed,
he had scarcely thought in all those years.
"It's hardly fair to ask me that now, Pierre. You forget that I am
married and the mother of three children."
"I am not married," he murmured, drawing his chair a little closer.
"You have been otherwise occupied."
"I had to occupy myself."
By now Pierre's chair had made a ruck in the carpet, at which he would
have to put it like a horse at a fence if he wished to draw still
closer to Mary; but rising boldly he seated himself in another chair at
least three feet nearer.
"I had to occupy myself," he repeated. "When you wrote me that letter
I was ... but what right have I to speak of my feelings now? I must
consider myself lucky that I was able to forget them in my new career."
"Time works miracles," Mary sighed. "I've often wondered where you were
and what you were doing."
"I have wondered about you. _Mon Dieu_, how I have wondered! And I used
to think about Mac."
Mary's eyes filled with tears.
"Pierre! You remembered my little dog! He only died last week. He was
run over, and my husband had to shoot him."
"Your husband," he repeated in gloomy tones. "I do not have to refer to
my wife. I have never married."
"You did not remain single on my account," she said.
Pierre paused for a moment as if he were trying to resist the
temptation to tell her that it was on her account. But the forms of
Malagasy maidens floated within the smoke of his cigarette, and forbade
him to claim too straight a fidelity.
"If I had ever found the right woman, I suppose I should have married.
But the kind of life I was leading demanded the right kind of woman to
share it. Ah, Mary, if only you could have shared it! If only...."
He leaned over, and taking her hand from the arm of her chair upon
which it was resting he raised it slowly to his lips.
Mary was not so much astonished at herself as she felt she ought to
be, as perhaps she would have been if Jemmie had not shown so clearly
his indifference to her during these last few months. Pierre could not
have been holding her hand like this if Jemmie had come back to dinner.
"Ought you to be taking my hand like this?" she asked.
He paid no attention to the question, but went on talking.
"With the right kind of woman at one's side what might not a man
achieve?" he demanded. "Here are you in London leading the life of
thousands of other women, when with me you might have become as famous
as the wife of Garibaldi."
"I don't think I should care to be famous, Pierre," she murmured with a
shake of the head. "I'd like you to be famous. But I don't want fame."
"No, no, you want love," he cried. "And it is not too late even now."
"Oh yes, it is," she whispered with a sad smile. "Years too late,
Pierre. Besides, I'm not the sort of woman who could bear the burden
of an illicit love-affair. I should be afraid of it. I did wrong in
thrusting myself into your life again. I had no courage then. I have no
courage now."
When she spoke thus, he rose from his chair and kneeling beside her
drew her lips down to meet his own.
"Are you sure you have no courage?" he asked breathlessly. "Mary, we
are still young. We could still be happy together. In my life there
has been no other woman but you. Have you loved any one as you loved
me, as you still love me at this moment while I hold you closer to my
heart than I have ever held you? Come away with me, Mary. Come away
with me to-night, now. Leave behind you all this."
While Pierre was talking, Mary felt that she was nothing more than a
doll that a child was vainly trying to wake to life.
A child?
"Hush! Did you hear somebody calling?" she asked in sudden apprehension.
"Come to the open window. The air in this room is hot. Come and look at
the May moon, _ma bien aimée_".
She let him draw her arm through his and lead her to the window, where
they stood a while in the lilac-scented hush of what could scarcely be
imagined a London night.
"The world is so much bigger than this room," he proclaimed.
"I need no lover to tell me that," she whispered.
How wonderful it would be to go right away ... right away....
She allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. Moonlight and the
perfume of lilac and a tale of green islands murmured in her ear held
her entranced. Bewitched by the imagination of love enduring forever,
she looked up at him. Her hands were upon his shoulders in appeal, and
then there was a tap on the door. Mary sprang away from Pierre and
stood quivering like a sapling released from the woodcutter's grasp.
"What is it, nurse?"
"If you please, ma'am, I shan't rest till you've had a look at Master
Richard. After he came back from school he said he had a headache, but
I didn't like to worry you without cause. Only now he says his throat
is so bad, and really I don't like the looks of him at all."
Mary did not wait to make any apologies to Pierre, but hurried upstairs
to where in his little room, of which he was so proud, her eldest son
was tossing upon his bed and muttering rapid nonsense with fever's
thick and troubled accents.
"Dearest boy, is your throat very bad? Let me look at your chest. Turn
the gas higher, nurse. I want to see if there's any rash. Give me your
hand, Richard. Lie still, my darling, a minute. Mother wants to feel
your pulse. Nurse, ring for Pinkney and tell her to go at once for Dr.
Marlow."
Nurse hurried away.
"Is your throat very bad, Richard darling?"
"Worse and worse," the little boy whispered.
"My loved one, mother's so dreadfully sorry. Never mind. The doctor
will soon be here. Could you open your mouth and let mother look at it?
All right, my sweetheart, don't agitate yourself. I won't fuss you, but
when the doctor comes you must try to let him see what's the matter.
Darling boy, mother's so dreadfully sorry it hurts."
She sat by the bed keeping the yellow curls from his eyes and soothing
him with her voice.
Presently nurse came back.
"Pinkney's gone just as she is, ma'am, without waiting to pop on
anything. Let's hope Dr. Marlow is at home. And what about the
gentleman in the drawing-room, do you wish for him to do anything?"
"Apologize to him, please, nurse, from me for leaving him so abruptly
and explain about Master Richard. Say how sorry I am not to be able to
say good night myself. How very sorry.... What is it, Richard darling?
It's mother beside you. Try to lie still, dearest. I know it hurts
horribly. But try to lie still."
_Chapter Five_
THE MOTHER
_Chapter Five: The Mother_
In the rich light of a September afternoon of the year 1900 Mary Alison
slowly paced the grass walk along the phlox border at High Corner,
wondering why everybody was so late for tea, even Jemmie, who nowadays
was not often late for a meal. At that moment her husband appeared,
looking as hot and red as the reddest phlox in the border.
"Tea ready?" he gasped. "By George, I'm baked!"
He slipped his overheated tweed-covered arm into hers so cool in
its muslin; thus, affectionately, they strolled together in the
direction of the big mulberry tree on the lawn, beneath whose shade,
notwithstanding the way the ripe fruit at this season sometimes tumbled
into the cups, they always sat for tea.
"You know, I'll tell you what it is," said Jemmie, cramming his mouth
with bread and butter. "I'll tell you what it is, Mary. I took up golf
too late. That's what I did. Too old. I shall never be any good at it.
I'd give it up, if I didn't think it kept my weight down."
"But I think it's so clever of you to play at all," said his wife
consolingly. "I was thinking I should have to take it up myself. Women
are beginning to play quite a lot everywhere. I'm sure I should never
get on half so well as you did when you began."
"Ah, you're too sympathetic, my dear. Yes, that's what you are. You
should hear Muriel sneering at her poor old father's efforts. As for
Geoffrey, he declines to play with me. 'Pon my word, he does. Yes, he
told me last week that people on the links stared so. I said, 'They
stare at your ties, my boy.' Ha-ha! I rather had him there, I flatter
myself. Ha-ha-ha! Yes, I said, 'It's your ties and stockings that make
'em stare, my boy, not your father's driving.' By the way, where are
the two of them?"
"I was wondering," Mary said. "It's odd, isn't it, dear, that neither
of them ever seems to bother at all about us? You'd think when Muriel
was going back to school next week that she'd want to spend some of her
time with her father and mother. She does give _you_ a little of it;
but I hardly see her between breakfast and dinner."
"Young, you know. She's young," the father apologized. "We must try to
remember that. You'd think that Geoffrey would be glad to play a round
with me; but if he can dodge it, he will. I saw a bit of him last week,
because there was a fellow staying at the hotel who offered to give me
some advice about the proper allowance to make him at Oxford when he
goes up in October. I can't help feeling that two hundred and fifty
pounds a year is enough. But this fellow says, 'No, you can't do on
less than three hundred pounds at a college like St. Mary's.' Well, I
suppose I shall have to give it to him."
"Yes," Mary sighed, "children are strange. They seem quite suddenly not
to belong to one, and to be almost complete strangers. Thank heaven,
Richard at any rate has never learnt to do without me entirely."
"Ah, Richard!" her husband laughed. "But we were discussing ordinary
boys and girls, common or garden boys and girls, not paragons. Though,
by George, I've no right to tease you about him, for he is a fine lad.
There's no doubt about that. Well, he'll be here to-morrow. Yet not for
long, I'm afraid. You mark my words, he'll be gazetted almost at once.
They've a good many losses to make up in South Africa."
"Jemmie, don't! It's too horrible to think of."
"Duty, my dear," said the father sternly. "You must be glad in your
heart that Richard is going to do his duty. We shall be proud of him if
he gets out there."
"I should be just as proud of him at home," said the mother.
Further discussion of Richard was interrupted by the arrival of
Geoffrey and Muriel, who immediately sat down to tea and exclaimed at
the coldness of the scones.
"Did you expect us to wait any longer?" their mother asked. "It's
half-past five, dear children."