WHAT PETER KNEW
"Isn't my good Groatley a curious looking person?" said Lady Ingleby, as
the door closed behind the butler. "I call him the Gryphon, because he
looks perpetually astonished. His eyebrows are like black horseshoes, and
they mount higher and higher up his forehead as one's sentence proceeds.
But he is very faithful, and knows his work, and Michael approves him. Do
you like this portrait of Michael? Garth Dalmain stayed here a few months
before he lost his sight, poor boy, and painted us both. I believe mine
was practically his last portrait. It hangs in the dining-room."
The doctor moved his chair opposite the fireplace, so that he could sit
facing the picture over the mantelpiece, yet turn readily toward Lady
Ingleby on his left. On his right, little Peter, with an occasional
sobbing sigh, slept heavily in his absent master's chair. The log-fire
burned brightly. The electric light, from behind amber glass, sent a
golden glow as of sunshine through the room. The dank damp drip of autumn
had no place in this warm luxury. The curtains were closely drawn; and
that which is not seen, can be forgotten.
The doctor glanced at the clock. The minute-hand pointed to the quarter
before six.
He lifted his eyes to the picture.
"I hardly know Lord Ingleby sufficiently well to give an opinion; but I
should say it is an excellent likeness, possessing, to a large degree,
the peculiar quality of all Dalmain's portraits:--the more you look at
them, the more you see in them. They are such extraordinary character
studies. With your increased knowledge of the person, grows your
appreciation of the cleverness of the portrait."
"Yes," said Lady Ingleby, leaning forward to look intently up at the
picture. "It often startles me as I come into the room, because I see a
fresh expression on the face, just according to my own mood, or what I
happen to have been doing; and I realise Michael's mind on the subject
more readily from the portrait than from my own knowledge of him. Garth
Dalmain was a genius!"
"Now tell me," said the doctor, gently. "Why did you leave town, your
many friends, your interests there, in order to bury yourself down here,
during this dismal autumn weather? Surely the strain of waiting for news
would have been less, within such easy reach of the War Office and of the
evening papers."
Lady Ingleby laughed, rather mirthlessly.
"I came away, Sir Deryck, partly to escape from dear mamma; and as you do
not know dear mamma, it is almost impossible for you to understand how
essential it was to escape. When Michael is away, I am defenceless. Mamma
swoops down; takes up her abode in my house; reduces my household,
according to their sex and temperament, to rage, hysterics, or despair;
tells unpalatable home-truths to my friends, so that all--save the
duchess--flee discomforted. Then mamma proceeds to 'divide the spoil'! In
other words: she lies in wait for my telegrams, and opens them herself,
saying that if they contain _good_ news, a dutiful daughter should
delight in at once sharing it with her; whereas, if they contain _bad_
news, which heaven forbid!--and surely, with mamma snorting skyward,
heaven would not venture to do otherwise!--_she_ is the right person to
break it to me, gently. I bore it for six weeks; then fled down here,
well knowing that not even the dear delight of bullying me would bring
mamma to Shenstone in autumn."
The doctor's face was grave. For a moment he looked silently into the
fire. He was a man of many ideals, and foremost among them was his ideal
of the relation which should be between parents and children; of the
loyalty to a mother, which, even if forced to admit faults or failings,
should tenderly shield them from the knowledge or criticism of outsiders.
It hurt him, as a sacrilege, to hear a daughter speak thus of her mother;
yet he knew well, from facts which were common knowledge, how little
cause the sweet, lovable woman at his side had to consider the tie either
a sacred or a tender one. He had come to help, not to find fault. Also,
the minute-hand was hastening towards the hour; and the final
instructions of the kind-hearted old Duchess of Meldrum, as she parted
from him at the War Office, had been: "Remember! Six o'clock from London.
I shall _insist_ upon its being kept back until then. If they make
difficulties, I shall camp in the entrance and 'hold up' every messenger
who attempts to pass out. But I am accustomed to have my own way with
these good people. I should not hesitate to ring up Buckingham Palace, if
necessary, as they very well know! So you may rest assured it will not
leave London until six o'clock. It gives you ample time."
Therefore the doctor said: "I understand. It does not come within my own
experience; yet I think I understand. But tell me, Lady Ingleby. If bad
news were to come, would you sooner receive it direct from the War
Office, in the terribly crude wording which cannot be avoided in those
telegrams; or would you rather that a friend--other than your
mother--broke it to you, more gently?"
Myra's eyes flashed. She sat up with instant animation.
"Oh, I would receive it direct," she said. "It would be far less hard, if
it were official. I should hear the roll of the drums, and see the wave
of the flag. For England, and for Honour! A soldier's daughter, and a
soldier's wife, should be able to stand up to anything. If they had to
tell me Michael was in great danger, I should share his danger in
receiving the news without flinching. If he were wounded, as I read the
telegram I should receive a wound myself, and try to be as brave as he.
All which came direct from the war, would unite me to Michael. But
interfering friends, however well-meaning, would come between. If _he_
had not been shielded from a bullet or a sword-thrust, why should _I_ be
shielded from the knowledge of his wound?"
The doctor screened his face with his hand,
"I see," he said.
The clock struck six.
"But that was not the only reason I left town," continued Lady Ingleby,
with evident effort. Then she flung out both hands towards him. "Oh,
doctor! I wonder if I might tell you a thing which has been a burden on
my heart and life for years!"
There followed a tense moment of silence; but the doctor was used to such
moments, and could usually determine during the silence, whether the
confidence should be allowed or avoided. He turned and looked steadily at
the lovely wistful face.
It was the face of an exceedingly beautiful woman, nearing thirty. But
the lovely eyes still held the clear candour of the eyes of a little
child, the sweet lips quivered with quickly felt emotion, the low brow
showed no trace of shame or sin. The doctor knew he was in the presence
of one of the most popular hostesses, one of the most admired women, in
the kingdom. Yet his keen professional insight revealed to him an
arrested development; possibilities unfulfilled; a problem of inadequacy
and consequent disappointment, to which he had not the key. But those
outstretched hands eagerly held it towards him. Could he bring help, if
he accepted a knowledge of the solution; or--did help come too late?
"Dear Lady Ingleby," he said, quietly; "tell me anything you like; that
is to say, anything which you feel assured Lord Ingleby would allow
discussed with a third person."
Myra leaned back among the cushions and laughed--a gay little laugh, half
of amusement, half of relief.
"Oh, Michael would not mind!" she said. "Anything Michael would mind, I
have always told straight to himself; and they were silly little things;
such as foolish people trying to make love to me; or a foreign prince,
with moustaches like the German Emperor's, offering to shoot Michael, if
I would promise to marry him when his period of consequent imprisonment
was over. I cut the idiots who had presumed to make love to me, ever
after; and assured the foreign prince, I should undoubtedly kill him
myself, if he hurt a hair of Michael's head! No, dear doctor. My life is
clear of all that sort of complication. My trouble is a harder one,
involving one's whole life-problem. And that problem is incompetence and
inadequacy--not towards the world, I should not care a rap for that; but
towards the one to whom I owe most: towards Michael,--my husband."
The doctor moved uneasily in his chair, and glanced at the clock.
"Oh, hush!" he said. "Do not----"
"No!" cried Myra. "You must not stop me. Let me at last have the relief
of speech! My friend, I am twenty-eight; I have had ten years of married
life; yet I do not believe I have ever really grown up! In heart and
brain I am an undeveloped child, and I know it; and, worse still, Michael
knows it, and--_Michael does not mind_. Listen! It dates back to years
ago. Mamma never allowed any of her daughters to grow up. We were
permitted no individuality of our own, no opinions, no independence. All
that was required of us, was to 'do her behests, and follow in her
train.' Forgive the misquotation. We were always children in mamma's
eyes. We grew tall; we grew good-looking; but we never grew up. We
remained children, to be snubbed, domineered over, and bullied. My
sisters, who were good children, had plenty of jam and cake; and,
eventually, husbands after mamma's own heart were found for them. Perhaps
you know how those marriages have turned out?"
Lady Ingleby paused, and the doctor made an almost imperceptible sign of
assent. One of the ladies in question, a most unhappy woman, was under
treatment in his Mental Sanatorium at that very moment; but he doubted
whether Lady Ingleby knew it.
"I was the black sheep," continued Myra, finding no remark forthcoming.
"Nothing I did was ever right; everything I did was always wrong. When
Michael met me I was nearly eighteen, the height I am now, but in the
nursery, as regards mental development or knowledge of the world; and, as
regards character, a most unhappy, utterly reckless, little child.
Michael's love, when at last I realised it, was wonderful to me.
Tenderness, appreciation, consideration, were experiences so novel that
they would have turned my head, had not the elation they produced been
counterbalanced by a gratitude which was overwhelming; and a terror of
being handed back to mamma, which would have made me agree to anything.
Years later, Michael told me that what first attracted him to me was a
look in my eyes just like the look in those of a favourite spaniel of
his, who was always in trouble with everyone else, and had just been
accidentally shot, by a keeper. Michael told me this himself; and really
thought I should be pleased! Somehow it gave me the key to my standing
with him--just that of a very tenderly-loved pet dog. No words can say
how good he has always been to me. If I lost him, I should lose my
all--everything which makes home, home; and life a safe, and certain,
thing. But if _he_ lost little Peter, it would be a more real loss to him
than if he lost me; because Peter is more intelligent for his size, and
really more of an actual companion to Michael, than I am. Many a time,
when he has passed through my room on the way to his, with Peter tucked
securely under his arm; and saying, 'Good-night, my dear,' to me, has
gone in and shut the door, I have felt I could slay little Peter, because
he had the better place, and because he looked at me through his curls,
as he was carried away, as if to say: '_You_ are out of it!' Yet I knew I
had all I deserved; and Michael's kindness and goodness and patience were
beyond words. Only--only--ah, _can_ you understand? I would sooner he had
found fault and scolded; I would sooner have been shaken and called a
fool, than smiled at, and left alone. I was in the nursery when he
married me; I have been in the school-room ever since, trying to learn
life's lessons, alone, without a teacher. Nothing has helped me to grow
up. Michael has always told me I am perfect, and everything I do is
perfect, and he does not want me different. But I have never really
shared his life and interests. If I make idiotic mistakes he does not
correct me. I have to find them out, when I repeat them before others.
When I made that silly blunder about the brazen serpent, you so kindly
put me right. Michael would have smiled and let it pass as not worth
correcting; then I should have repeated it before a roomful of people,
and wondered why they looked amused! Ah, but what do I care for people,
or the world! It is my true place beside Michael I want to win. I want to
'grow up unto him in all things.' Yes, I know that is a text. I am famous
for misquotations, or rather, misapplications. But it expresses my
meaning--as the duchess remarks, when _she_ has said something mild under
provocation, and her parrot swears!--And now tell me, dear wise kind
doctor; you, who have been the lifelong friend of that grand creature,
Jane Dalmain; you, who have done so much for dozens of women I know; tell
me how I can cease to be inadequate towards my husband."
The passionate flow of words ceased suddenly. Lady Ingleby leaned back
against the cushions.
Peter sighed in his sleep.
A clock in the hall chimed the quarter after six.
The doctor looked steadily into the fire. He seemed to find speech
difficult.
At last he said, in a voice which shook slightly: "Dear Lady Ingleby, he
did not--he does not--think you so."
"No, no!" she cried, sitting forward again. "He thinks of me nothing but
what is kind and right. But he never expected me to be more than a nice,
affectionate, good-looking dog; and I--I have not known how to be better
than his expectations. But, although he is so patient, he sometimes grows
unutterably tired of being with me. All other pet creatures are dumb; but
I love talking, and I constantly say silly things, which do not _sound_
silly, until I have said them. He goes off to Norway, fishing; to the
Engadine, mountain-climbing; to this horrid war, risking his precious
life. Anywhere to get away alone; anywhere to----"
"Hush," said the doctor, and laid a firm brown hand, for a moment, on the
white fluttering fingers. "You are overwrought by the suspense of these
past weeks. You know perfectly well that Lord Ingleby volunteered for
this border war because he was so keen on experimenting with his new
explosives, and on trying these ideas for using electricity in modern
warfare, at which he has worked so long."
"Oh, yes, I know," said Myra, smiling wistfully. "Tiresome things, which
keep him hours in his laboratory. And he has some very clever plan for
long distance signalling from fort to fort--hieroglyphics in the sky,
isn't it? you know what I mean. But the fact that he volunteered into all
this danger, merely to do experimenting, makes it harder to bear than if
he had been at the head of his old regiment, and gone at the imperative
call of duty. However--nothing matters so long as he comes home safely.
And now you--you, Sir Deryck--must help me to become a real helpmeet to
Michael. Tell me how you helped--oh, very well, we will not mention
names. But give me wise advice. Give me hope; give me courage. Make me
strong."
The doctor looked at the clock; and, even as he looked, the chimes in the
hall rang out the half-hour.
"You have not yet told me," he said, speaking very slowly, as if
listening for some other sound; "you have not yet told me, your second
reason for leaving town."
"Ah," said Lady Ingleby, and her voice held a deeper, older, tone--a note
bordering on tragedy. "Ah! I left town, Sir Deryck, because other people
were teaching me love-lessons, and I did not want to learn them apart
from Michael. I stayed with Jane Dalmain and her blind husband, before
they went back to Gleneesh. You remember? They were in town for the
production of his symphony. I saw that ideal wedded life, and I realised
something of what a perfect mating of souls could mean. And then--well,
there were others; people who did not understand how wholly I am
Michael's; nothing actually wrong; but not so fresh and youthful as
Billy's innocent adoration; and I feared I should accidentally learn what
only Michael must teach. Therefore I fled away! Oh, doctor; if I ever
learned from another man, that which I have failed to learn from my own
husband, I should lie at Michael's feet and implore him to kill me!"
The doctor looked up at the portrait over the mantelpiece. The calm
passionless face smiled blandly at the tiny dog. One sensitive hand,
white and delicate as a woman's, was raised, forefinger uplifted, gently
holding the attention of the little animal's eager eyes. The magic skill
of the artist supplied the doctor with the key to the problem. A
_woman_--as mate, as wife, as part of himself, was not a necessity in the
life of this thinker, inventor, scholar, saint. He could appreciate dumb
devotion; he was capable of unlimited kindness, leniency, patience,
toleration. But woman and dog alike, remained outside the citadel of his
inner self. Had not her eyes resembled those of a favourite spaniel, he
would very probably not have wedded the lovely woman who, now, during ten
years had borne his name; and even then he might not have done so, had
not the tyranny of her mother, awakening his instinct of protection
towards the weak and oppressed, aroused in him a determination to
withstand that tyranny, and to carry her off triumphantly to freedom.
The longer the doctor looked, the more persistently the picture said; "We
two; and where does _she_ come in?"--Righteous wrath arose in the heart
of Deryck Brand; for his ideal as to man's worship of woman was a high
one. As he thought of the closed door; of the lonely wife, humbly jealous
of a toy-poodle, yet blaming herself only, for her loneliness, his jaw
set, and his brow darkened. And all the while he listened for a sound
from the outer world which must soon come.
Lady Ingleby noticed his intent gaze, and, leaning forward, also looked
up at the picture. The firelight shone on her lovely face, and on the
gleaming softness of her hair. Her lips parted in a tender smile; a pure
radiance shone from her eyes.
"Ah, he _is_ so good!" she said. "In all the years, he has never once
spoken harshly to me. And see how lovingly he looks at Peter, who really
is a most unattractive little dog. Did you ever hear the duchess's _bon
mot_ about Michael? He and I once stayed together at Overdene; but she
did not ask us again until he was abroad, fishing in Norway; so of course
I went by myself. The duchess always does those things frankly, and
explains them. Therefore on this occasion she said: 'My dear, I enjoy a
visit from you; but you must only come, when you can come alone. I will
never undertake again, to live up to your good Michael. It really was a
case of St. Michael and All Angels. _He_ was St. Michael, and _we_ had to
be all angels!' Wasn't it like the duchess; and a beautiful testimony to
Michael's consistent goodness? Oh, I wish you knew him better. And, for
the matter of that, I wish I knew him better! But after all I _am_ his
wife. Nothing can rob me of that. And don't you think--when Michael comes
home this time--somehow, all will be different; better than ever
before?"
The hall clock chimed three-quarters after the hour.
The clang of a bell resounded through the silent house.
Peter sat up, and barked once, sharply.
The doctor rose and stood with his back to the fire, facing the door.
Myra's question remained unanswered.
Hurried steps approached.
A footman entered, with a telegram for Lady Ingleby.
She took it with calm fingers, and without the usual sinking of the heart
from sudden apprehension. Her mind was full of the conversation of the
moment, and the doctor's presence made her feel so strong and safe; so
sure of no approach of evil tidings.
She did not hear Sir Deryck's quiet voice say to the man: "You need not
wait."
As the door closed, the doctor turned away, and stood looking into the
fire.
The room was very still.
Lady Ingleby opened her telegram, unfolded it slowly, and read it through
twice.
Afterwards she sat on, in such absolute silence that, at length, the
doctor turned and looked at her.
She met his eyes, quietly.
"Sir Deryck," she said, "it is from the War Office. They tell me Michael
has been killed. Do you think it is true?"
She handed him the telegram. Taking it from her, he read it in silence.
Then: "Dear Lady Ingleby," he said, very gently, "I fear there is no
doubt. He has given his life for his country. You will be as brave in
giving him, as he would wish his wife to be."
Myra smiled; but the doctor saw her face slowly whiten.
"Yes," she said; "oh, yes! I will not fail him. I will be adequate--at
last." Then, as if a sudden thought had struck her: "Did you know of
this? Is it why you came?"
"Yes," said the doctor, slowly. "The duchess sent me. She was at the War
Office this morning when the news came in, inquiring for Ronald Ingram,
who has been wounded, and is down with fever. She telephoned for me, and
insisted on the telegram being kept back until six o'clock this evening,
in order to give me time to get here, and to break the news to you first,
if it seemed well."
Myra gazed at him, wide-eyed. "And you let me say all that, about Michael
and myself?"
"Dear lady," said the doctor, and few had ever heard that deep firm
voice, so nearly tremulous, "I could not stop you. But you did not say
one word which was not absolutely loving and loyal."
"How could I have?" queried Myra, her face growing whiter, and her eyes
wider and more bright. "I have never had a thought which was not loyal
and loving."
"I know," said the doctor. "Poor brave heart,--I know."
Myra took up the telegram, and read it again.
"Killed," she said; "_killed_. I wish I knew how."
"The duchess is ready to come to you immediately, if you would like to
have her," suggested the doctor.
"No," said Myra, smiling vaguely. "No; I think not. Not unless dear mamma
comes. If that happens we must wire for the duchess, because now--now
Michael is away--she is the only person who can cope with mamma. But
please not, otherwise; because--well, you see,--she said she could not
live up to Michael; and it does not sound funny now."
"Is there anybody you would wish sent for at once?" inquired the doctor,
wondering how much larger and brighter those big grey eyes could grow;
and whether any living face had ever been so absolutely colourless.
"Anybody I should wish sent for at once? I don't know. Oh, yes--there is
one person; if she could come. Jane--you know? Jane Dalmain. I always say
she is like the bass of a tune; so solid, and satisfactory, and beneath
one. Nothing very bad could happen, if Jane were there. But of course
this _has_ happened; hasn't it?"
The doctor sat down.
"I wired to Gleneesh this morning," he said. "Jane will be here early
to-morrow."
"Then lots of people knew before I did?" said Lady Ingleby.
The doctor did not answer.
She rose, and stood looking down into the fire; her tall graceful figure
drawn up to its full height, her back to the doctor, whose watchful eyes
never left her for an instant.
Suddenly she looked across to Lord Ingleby's chair.
"And I believe _Peter_ knew," she said, in a loud, high-pitched voice.
"Good heavens! Peter knew; and refused his food because Michael was dead.
And _I_ said he had dyspepsia! Michael, oh Michael! Your wife didn't know
you were dead; but your dog knew! Oh Michael, Michael! Little Peter
knew!"
She lifted her arms toward the picture of the big man and the tiny dog.
Then she swayed backward.
The doctor caught her, as she fell.