MOTHER AND SON.
By an early train Osborne and Nevill left London for Stratford-on-Avon
next day. Marie did not see him after that brief interview in the
drawing-room the previous evening. Nevill asked Osborne if he had any
objection to travel in a smoking compartment. Osborne answered, not
the least. They started with two other men in the compartment. Thus
private conversation was impossible, and neither cared to talk of
general matters. Each read, or affected to read, a newspaper.
When they arrived at Stratford, Osborne took Nevill to The Falcon, and
went straight to his mother's. He found Mrs Osborne at home. She was
surprised to see him; but she was one of those placid, lymphatic
natures not easily disturbed or ruffled. She took off her gold-rimmed
spectacles and placed them on the open page of Tillotson's Sermons
lying on the table at her elbow.
'I did not expect you, George. You did not write to say you were
coming. Where is your sister Kate?'
'I had no reason to think I was coming until it was too late to write
last night, and I did not like telegraphing, lest you might be
alarmed. Kate is in London, and quite well. Where is little Alice?'
'She is gone over to Mrs Craven, who is very bad--believed to be
dying. I do not expect her to be back for an hour or two. Mrs Craven
has been a great sufferer while you have been away. The doctor says
she may die at any moment. Mr Craven is greatly to be pitied.'
'As you may guess, mother, I have not come for nothing. I wish to
speak with you on a matter of importance.'
Mrs Osborne took a letter out of her pocket, opened it on her lap,
and, holding her finger on the sheet, said quietly,--
'I got this letter from you, my son, in which you say you have met a
lady in London whom you intend making your wife, or proposing marriage
to. I daresay it is about that matter you wish to speak with me.'
'It--it is not about that I wish to speak with you now, but another
matter of importance.'
'Very well, my son. I thought now you are in Stratford, now you have
come back to your old home, you might care to say something to your
mother about the lady you are going to make your wife, and about your
approaching marriage. George, you are not looking well. I hope you are
not breaking bad news to me?'
'No, no, mother. I am quite well, and bear no bad news. You must
excuse my not entering upon the--the subject of my--of my mar--of my
own affairs just now.'
'I know you too well, my son, to think you act without sufficient
reason or judgment, and I am certain you act on good reasons when you
do not wish to tell me of this haste--I mean this engagement of yours
to a lady who was quite unknown to you, as I understand, a few weeks
ago. I cannot help my feelings, for I am your mother. You, of course,
are old enough and sensible enough to arrange your marriage yourself;
but, as I said, not wishing, my son, to hurt you, I cannot help having
a mother's feeling in the matter. You are my son.'
'Mother, mother, take my word for it I have good reason for not
alluding to my own affairs at present. I know it must look very
strange to you that I should not open my mind to you on that matter;
but, trust me, I have good reason for not doing so just now.'
'You say no more for yourself than I say for you. Do not for a moment
think I am suspecting you of having poor reasons for your silence.
When you asked Kate to go up to London, I said,--"We know George has
always good reasons for what he does and says." I say so still. I
think it a little strange you should ask Kate up to London--say you
wanted her most particularly--become engaged to a strange lady, and
then come home saying, "I have nothing to tell you about my own
marriage." My son, I do not blame or reproach you. I have the fullest
faith in your good sense and judgment, but good sense and judgment are
not feeling, and you are my son.'
He was sitting in front of her, at the opposite side of the table on
which Tillotson lay. He dropped his head on his hand, and, turning his
white, worn face to the window, looked out at the bare wet trees
standing up in the bare wet winter day.
'I am very sorry, mother, very sorry,' he said, after a long pause.
'Very sorry for what, George?'
'For what I cannot say.'
'You are changed, my child, greatly changed. London has altered you
more in a few days than all the years before. I pray it may be a
wholesome change.'
'Mother, you used, when we were little children, before my father
died, to come into the room we slept in, and pray in a loud whisper,
so that you should not wake us, but that God might know you were in
great earnest.'
'Yes, my child; you were a little fellow then, not up to my elbow.'
'Do you, now that we are grown up, pray for us, mother?'
'Daily, my child, daily, day and night, and often when I am alone in
the daytime, and always when I hear of evil or danger. What have I to
do now, my child, but pray for my children while I am on earth, and
ask God to show me grace and lead me to Him and to the presence of
your good father by-and-by?'
'I have told you I do not care to speak of my own affairs just now. I
ask you, mother, to pray for me. I am in sore trouble.'
'In sore trouble, and will not tell me! In sore trouble about your
marriage? I hope not, my boy.'
'Yes and no. You must not press me, mother. I am troubled, and you
must not press me. Pray for me. All may be right yet, but up to this
all is not right.'
'My dear son, my dear George, you may count on my prayers. What can be
the matter? I hope, George, you have not given away your affections to
any unworthy person. You tell me nothing about her or your marriage,
and now you ask me to pray for you. I hope it is not as I fear?'
'No, no, no, mother. It is I who am unworthy, and need the help of
Heaven towards worthiness, not she. She is all that is good and
amiable.'
'You unworthy, George! Why, no woman alive could be too good for you.
What can have put such a notion in your head? I hope you are not going
to marry anyone with new-fangled religious notions. I hope she is not
one of those for whom the simple religion of the English Church and
England's Queen is not satisfactory; who must set up some foolish
superstition of their own.'
'She was brought up, mother, as you and I were--in the Church of
England; and she now holds the same faith as you. Be not uneasy on
that account; and, mother, as a great favour, let us talk no more of
my affairs for the present. I have other matters on which the
happiness of two people depends, to speak to you about.'
He turned his face away from the window, and looked gravely into his
mother's eyes.
She simply bowed in token that he was to proceed.
'When I went to London, as you know, I had neither friend nor
acquaintance there. I stopped at the private hotel Garvage
recommended. I arrived in London on Saturday night, and on Sunday I
made the acquaintance of a man named Nevill--William Nevill. I have
seen a great deal of him since. I have met him every day since, and I
do not think I am misled when I say he is a respectable man, one whom
you would be glad to know and receive. He has come down to Stratford
expressly to see you, and is now at The Falcon awaiting your
permission to call upon you.'
'I shall be very glad to receive any friend of yours, George. Why did
you not bring him here direct? It scarcely looks hospitable to leave
your friend at an hotel, when you know we have plenty of room and
welcome.'
'He wishes to speak to you on a very important subject, and, as much
will depend on your answer, he and I thought it best he should for the
present put up at The Falcon.'
'Is he any relative of the lady you propose making your wife?'
'No, mother. He has no relatives alive. He is alone in the world, and
thinks of settling down in England. He is an Englishman, but has spent
much time travelling, and has been only a short time in England. He
will settle down somewhere in the Midlands, perhaps here in Stratford,
and he hopes you and he will get on very well together.'
'I am sure I hope so too, with all my heart. I shall always be glad to
meet any friend of yours, and try to be friendly to him. You said he
had some question to ask me, George. What is it? Do you know what it
is?'
'Yes, I know. It may take you by surprise, mother, but it is only in
the nature of things such a request should be made. I think he means
to ask you to allow him to pay his addresses to Kate.'
'What!' cried Mrs Osborne, rising to her feet. 'He wants to take Kate
away from me? London has taken you, and now it is going to take away
my darling Kate. Oh, this is too bad, too bad!'
She sank into her chair and covered her face for a moment.
'He does not mean to take Kate away. On the contrary, he means to live
here in Stratford, close to you.'
'But why need Kate marry an interloping London man, or a traveller?
Was not Mr Garvage good enough for her--an old neighbour, and most
respectable man and family? Surely he is good enough for her. For, of
course, this man would never come to me unless Kate told him; and, of
course, Kate would not tell him to come to me unless she was willing
to have him.'
'When he spoke to Kate, she told him she could give him no answer
until he had spoken to you.'
'I know, of course, Kate would act properly in any such case; but that
is not enough. I think--I think she had no right to favour a stranger
who wants to take her away from me, instead of a settled, respectable,
well-known man like Mr Garvage.'
'But, mother, I have explained to you that he has no intention of
taking Kate away from you. Would you not be glad to see Kate well
settled in Stratford?'
'Yes, in Stratford?'
'Well, you may be easy on that subject. He has money. He will buy a
house in this neighbourhood, and Kate will live close to you.'
'What is this man like?'
'He is not very good-looking. His complexion is dark, and he is thin.'
'What in the name of wonder did Kate see in him?'
'He is very amiable and agreeable and amusing. I don't think you ever
met a man of exactly his kind.'
'I am prepared to meet a man I shall not like.'
'Then I am certain you will be disappointed.'
'What are his means and his family?'
'He is in very fair circumstances. He has thirty thousand pounds.'
'Well, and what family is he of?'
'He has no living relative, as I told you. His father was in trade--a
merchant in New York.'
'A merchant of New York! This is very bad, George. The Americans who
come here are not the kind of people I should care to select a husband
for my daughter from. And a merchant?'
'I don't think he is in trade himself. In fact, I don't think he ever
has been; so great a traveller cannot have had any time for business
matters.'
'I cannot understand how Kate could like him. An American, whose
father, any way, has been in trade, and who is not himself
good-looking. Now, Mr Garvage is a gentleman, and of a good stock and
good property. I can't understand Kate. I can't indeed. Do you think
she has fully made up her mind to accept him?'
'I only know, mother, what I have told you. I am sure Kate has not
made up her mind to anything that does not depend on your decision.'
'I understand that. What I mean is, do you think Kate has made up her
mind to accept this man if I give my consent to his paying her his
addresses?'
'From the fact that Kate refers him to you, I should think so.'
'She has not told you so herself?'
'No, mother. I have not, I must tell you, seen her alone since she
referred Nevill to you.'
'Not seen your sister Kate since this new acquaintance of yours
proposed to her! Indeed, George, you astonish me. What am I to think
of all this? I can scarcely credit my ears.'
'The fact is, I have been and am in such a distracted state of mind
about my own affairs, I could not do anything rational in London. I am
calmer down here. I wish, with all my heart and soul, I had never left
this.'
'My son! What, am I listening to the words of my sane son, or those of
a man whose brain is turned?'
'I think my brain is a little out of order. I fear I greatly
exaggerate things; but they are bad enough with me now. When I came to
you about Kate I had two objects in view--first, to tell you about
that matter, and second, to get away from London, if even for only a
few hours. Coming here has done me good. Until now I had no intention
of telling you; but somehow the peace of this place, and being with
you once again, the silence and freshness, give me ease and comfort
me. And you, mother, above all--you, with your dear kind face and your
simple goodness, have made me a new man almost, although I am still
sorely perplexed.'
'Tell me, child, all your trouble. Am I not your best and most
unselfish friend?'
'Oh yes, mother. But what I have to tell you will shock and pain you
even more than anything I have yet told you. When I left Stratford I
had strong religious feelings.'
'Yes, my son.'
'Well, mother, would you not be greatly shocked if I told you I felt,
since I left this, a strong tendency to join--abandon my creed for
some other?'
'Why do you ask so absurd a question? Of course I should be shocked
and grieved beyond measure.'
'It is worse then even that. I have lost all I had, and have got
nothing back in return.'
'My son, my son, this strange woman has stolen away your brain.'
'No, mother, it is still more desperate. She has stolen my heart, and
God has taken away my reason and wholesomeness, and I wish it would
please God to take away my life too.'
'My son!' She rose and threw her arms round his neck. 'My son, my
darling son! My child, my child! How can you say such things to me,
your mother?'
'Mother, for all sakes, it would be well if I died.'