CHAPTER V.
They went back into the billiard-room again; outside the wildhurly-burly of the storm still screamed and wailed round the house, butCochrane now was utterly unconscious of it. A clear command, louder thanthe wind and the tattoo of rain, the "still small voice" which made allelse inaudible, had come to his soul. He knew that what he was going todo was right, and had no fear at all of the consequences. Consequences?He gloried in them, and embraced them, for they would be nothing elsethan a demonstration, convincing and conclusive, as to the truth of allhe taught and worked and believed. He had said to Maud half an hour agothat he did not then know what he should do if Thurso had a relapse, butnow that the relapse had come he knew. He was perfectly certain that hewas doing right.
He rang the bell as soon as he got to the fireplace.
"We want some glasses, I suppose, don't we?" he said. "I beg yourpardon, may I ring? Because I have rung."
Thurso looked at him secretly.
"Better for the servants not to know," he said.
"Why not? We're doing nothing to be ashamed of," he said. "I should likeeverybody to know. Ah! Would you bring a couple of glasses, please?" hesaid to the man.
Thurso came close to him, and whispered:
"I take a little water and sugar with mine," he said. "Perhaps hot waterwould be nice; I got so wet."
"Yes, very wise," said Cochrane. "And some hot water and sugar, please,"he added.
Then a sudden distrust came into Thurso's mind.
"You are not going to cheat me?" he asked.
Cochrane felt one moment of vast pity for him. Ever since he and Maudhad gone out into the hall, and found him stealthily closing the door sothat his return should be unheard, he had felt it was a differentpersonality from the Thurso of the last three days whom they haddiscovered there dripping from his secret errand. It was as if he waspossessed; he was furtive and suspicious and bubbling with this onedesire; nothing remained of him but Thirst, and the jealous fear that itwas not going to be quenched--Thirst for that drug which had alreadydragged him so near to the precipitous edge of ruin and death, and thatexpunged from his mind all sense of honour, all the rudimentary moralcode by which men are bound, all sense that anything in the worldexisted except Thirst and the quenching of it.
"You shouldn't have said that," he said quietly, "because I never havecheated you or anybody, and you have no right to suppose that I evershould. Dear me! how long they are bringing our glasses! Did you forgethe prescription again?"
Again Thurso gave that dreadful little cackle of cunning laughter. Hetook such pleasure in his success, such pride as some foolish-natureddog takes in doing its "trick."
"Well, yes, I suppose I did," he said, "and I forged Sir James's namequite beautifully. The one I did on the steamer was a clumsy affair. AndI wrote it on a rather crumpled piece of paper, so that it looked to bean old prescription."
"Why, that was real smart of you!" said Cochrane.
The man had brought the sugar and water and glasses, and as soon as hehad left the room Thurso produced his package, and tore its coveringsoff. What was going to happen Maud did not know, but she trustedCochrane, and she trusted the Power in obedience to which she felt surehe was acting. Thurso trusted him too, it appeared, for after he hadpoured some half of the bottle into his own glass, he passed it acrossto Cochrane. Then he dropped a lump of sugar into his glass, and pouredin a little hot water, stirring it up, and stabbing with his spoon atthe lump.
"I wouldn't take much if I were you," he said.
"Ah, to leave more for you to-morrow morning," said Cochrane. "Greedyfellow! And look at your ration! Why, you've taken half the bottle!"
Thurso gave that dreadful giggle again.
"I know," he said. "It's a regular bumper this time, isn't it? I'm goingto drink to our first merry meeting. Damn the sugar! it melts soslowly."
A moment's doubt and fear swept over Maud like some huge combingbreaker.
"Thurso, Thurso!" she cried. "Mr. Cochrane!"
He still held the bottle in his hand.
"Ah, reverse your fear quickly," he said.
But Thurso seemed not to hear her. The sugar was nearly dissolved now,and he was stabbing at the few remaining crystals.
"What a nice fire!" he said. "I shall sit by it all the evening, and notcome to dinner, and enjoy four or five hours of Paradise. Time goes soslowly, too, in Paradise; it seems an eternity. I shouldn't take morethan a tea-spoonful if I were you," he said to Cochrane, who was justtilting the bottle. "That's what I began with."
"Ah, was it?" said Cochrane. "Then, see here."
He poured the whole of the rest of the bottle into the glass. Then,without troubling about hot water or sugar, he put it to his mouth anddrank it off.
"Can't say I like your brand," he said, putting the glass down.
The sugar was melted in Thurso's glass, and he had withdrawn the spoon.The first sip was imminent now, that first sip of so many. Then thestruggle began; he longed for that first sip, but as he saw whatCochrane had done his hands trembled; they would not raise the glass tohis mouth. But the stammering had gone, and the giggling laugh was dumb.
"Why, it will kill you! it will kill you!" he screamed. "You don't knowwhat you have done! It's nearly pure laudanum. You must take an emeticat once. Here, this hot water. Ah, it's too hot! But go quick. You'll bedead in a couple of hours. Maud, don't sit there!" he cried. "Send for adoctor! Send for somebody quick!"
He put his own glass down, and sprang up from his chair with thehelpless agitation of a man who has no control of himself. But Maud didnot move. Cochrane looked at her once, and she smiled at him, and heseemed satisfied, as if he had been waiting for that, waiting for theassurance of her confidence that the smile gave. Then he turned toThurso.
"Now, I haven't cheated you, have I?" he said. "There's your glass;drink it. I told you I would not interfere with you, and I am not doingso. I have finished the bottle, I am afraid, but you can get some moreto-morrow. And while you are drinking--why don't you drink?--just listento me a minute. I'm going to talk straight to you now.
"What I have drunk will have no effect at all on me," he said. "You maysit here, and not have dinner, but I shall have dinner just the same,please. I drank that in order to show you how you have been a slave to athing that has no real power or effect of any kind. What you have been aslave to is your intention, your false belief, your self-indulgence. Andnow at last you will see how unreal is the power of that stuff which youlove so much compared to the Power which I love so much. It is througherror that you have made an unreal thing real to you. It is throughtruth that I show you how unreal it is. And look what error has made ofyou! Think for a moment of what you were a year ago, and what you areto-day. There's a glass: look. You know without it."
Thurso had risen, and was walking up and down the room, waving his handsin the impotent gesticulations of despair. Once or twice he paused bythe table where his steaming glass still stood brimming, but he onlyshuddered at it. Once he tried to go to the curtain that led to thehall, but Cochrane stood in front of it, big, cheerful, but ratherdetermined, blocking his way.
"Aren't you going to drink that?" he asked, pointing to Thurso'suntasted glass. "Aren't you going to have four hours of Paradise?"
Thurso shrank from the table where the glass stood.
"Oh, I implore you, I implore you!" he cried, "run to a doctor, take anemetic, and be quick. You have taken a fatal dose: you will be dead ina couple of hours. You are such a good chap: you've been so good to me,so patient, and have helped me so much. And this damnable habit of minewill have killed you. You don't know what you have done: you think drugshave no power. And you've done it to convince me. Oh, if you'll only gobefore it is too late, I will swear to you never to touch the stuffagain. As for that----"
He took his own glass, and flung it, contents and all, into the heart ofthe fire. There, with a huge puff of steam, a hissing and blackening ofthe wood logs, and crack of glass, it passed away up the chim
ney.
"There, will that show you that I am in earnest?" he cried. "Just when Iwas worked up for it, just when I wanted it as I never wanted it before,you have caused me to do that! Oh, I implore you to go and make yourselfsick. Maud! Maud! tell him to do something. If he doesn't I shall havekilled him, and he has helped me so, has helped me--damned beast that Iam!"
He flung himself down on a sofa in a paroxysm of despair, writhing andsobbing and shuddering. As for Maud, though she dared not speak for fearof giving way to some uncontrollable outburst of emotion, she thankedGod for it, telling herself she was not afraid, and would not be afraid.Here in this room life and death, not the mere life or death of a man,even the man she loved, were fighting their battle: the eternalprinciple of life, love, health, was asserting its serene supremacy oversin and death and disease. As ever, its work was kind and compassionate,bringing healing with it, and deliverance from error, and nothing couldprevail against it. She believed now, in spite of her moment's panicterror when she saw Cochrane toss off that deadly draught, that he haddone right. God could not play him false without playing Himself false,while, as for Thurso, poor, trembling, sobbing Thurso, at last he wasbroken. A thousand times had he fallen and been sorry, and vowed toamend, but it had never been like this. This was the completeabandonment, the absolute break-up, without which there is no realrepentance. If, as Cochrane had said, there had still been a reservoirof error, so to speak, within him, she could not doubt now but that itsbanks were broken; it was coming out from him in torrents.
For a minute or two Cochrane looked with those kind, sorry eyes onThurso's agony; then, still smiling, still serene, he sat down by him ashe writhed on the sofa, and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"I'm awfully sorry for all the anguish you are feeling," he said, "but Ihad to do it. There was really no other way, as far as I could see, ofconvincing you. You are not convinced yet, but you will soon see thatyour fears for me now are just as false, just as mistaken, as was yourdesire for that stuff that tasted so abominable. But, apart from that,I can't tell you how glad I am to have had this opportunity, for I feelsure you will see now. You've thrown it off for good, I believe. You'vebeen getting better all these days, you know, but somehow I was unableto get deep enough into you. But it's all right now."
"Oh, it's not too late yet!" cried Thurso; "but go at once, before youbegin to feel the effects. Go! go!"
"And show you I don't really believe a word of all that I have ever saidto you and Lady Maud?" he asked. "You can't seriously invite me to showmyself such a hypocrite as that. Why, anyone of the least spirit wouldsooner really die, as you still fancy I am going to do, than do that."
Thurso laid an agonised hand on his shoulder.
"Oh, your work is done," he cried, "as regards me. And--and I know youbelieve you are safe. But make it really safe. Or have you ever doneanything of the sort before? For pity's sake tell me that you have, andthat it had no result. The minutes are passing, too."
Cochrane laughed.
"Well, no, I haven't," he said, "and this is the opportunity I have longhoped would come my way. Now, when is this bad-tasting stuff supposed totake effect?"
Again Thurso beat the air with his hands.
"Oh, it's my fault, it's all my fault!" he cried. "Maud, can't youpersuade him? You are friends."
"No, dear Thurso," she said quietly. "I can't persuade him, and I don'twant to."
Thurso sat quivering there a moment longer, then he suddenly got up,dashed through the curtained doorway, and a moment afterwards thecurtain again bellied inwards, rising free of the ground, and showingthat the gale had got into the house again. Then the front-door bangedto, and the wind subsided.
"He has gone out again," said Maud. "Is it safe to leave him?"
"Oh yes. I think he has gone for a doctor, or he may have gone just todespair by himself. Then he will come back and see. He will not harmhimself; he won't even catch cold," he added, smiling.
"You are sure?" she asked.
"Yes; so are you. Why, Divine Love is pouring into him on all sides. Ithas got to break him first, then it builds so tenderly, so gloriously."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"He is cured, you know," he said. "It's over."
Then in flood there came over him all that he had so resolutely banishedall these days. He felt that his visit as healer must come to an end atonce. But he would see them again, see her again.
"There is no longer any reason for me to stop here," he said. "It'srather a rough night, but if you don't think it is very rude and abruptof me, I think I'll go back to town at once."
Then Maud's lip quivered, and her eyes brimmed over.
"Without letting me say 'God bless you?'" she asked.
"No; thank you for that," he said gravely.
She took both his hands in hers for a moment, silently thanking him.Then she looked at him once more.
"You mustn't think of going up to-night, or to-morrow, or, I hope, for along time," she said. "You say your work is over, and so I believe. Butwon't you stay a little while with your friends when they ask you?"
"As your friend?" he said.
"Yes, mine and Thurso's."
They looked at each other, still gravely.
"Thanks, yes," he said. "It is kind of you."
But his hour had come.
"Maud, Maud," he cried, "don't you know what I have kept back so long?Why, I love you, I love you!"
* * * * *
Bertie Cochrane's conjecture had been right, and half an hour laterThurso came back, drenched with storm, for he had put on neither hat norcoat, with the doctor from Port Washington. A minute later a highlyaffronted physician left again, wondering if it was some form ofaristocratic English humour to drag a man out on a night like this,because a friend in the house had inadvertently taken a huge dose oflaudanum, only to find on arrival that the friend in the house, who, ifhe had really done so, would certainly by now have lost consciousness,looked rather annoyed at the interruption, but otherwise perfectly well.
But a glance at his companion seemed to the doctor to account for hisannoyance.
CHAPTER VI.
Catherine was returning home to Thurso House the next afternoon aboutfour o'clock. She had been lunching out, and a number of people, she wasglad to think, were coming to dinner; but she had a good deal to dobefore that, and she hardly liked to estimate how much to think about.Also, a telegram from Maud, who cabled to her every day, would probablyhave arrived by the time she got home. That might add considerably tothe number of things to be thought about.
Ever since the departure of her husband and sister-in-law to America herhands had been very full, and she had devoted more time than usual topurely social duties. For she knew perfectly well that London had talkeda good deal about Thurso's "illness," in that particular tone whichmeans that in public and to her it was referred to as an "illness" inthe abstract, but that when two or three only were gathered together itwas discussed with far more detail and circumstance. To one of her tact,therefore, and knowledge of life it was clear that the more she was seenabout, the more she entertained and was entertained, the lessdisagreeable and loud would all the talk and scandal about him be. Withall its faults and general lack of respect, the world immensely respectspluck and the power of facing things, and certainly Catherine had facedthings magnificently. The result already was that the world had begun tothink that it was rather a "shame" to talk about Thurso even amongintimates when Catherine was so plucky. It would very much have liked toknow why she had not gone with him, for the reason that shegave--namely, that she abhorred the sea, and Maud delighted in it--wastoo straightforward and true to be accepted at all generally. Still, onthe whole, it was a "shame" to talk. And since the memory of the worldresides in its tongue, it follows that it soon forgets when it ceases totalk. It was understood, however, that Thurso's case was hopeless,though Catherine--brave woman--always said that she hoped the voyagewould quite restore him after hi
s nervous breakdown.
Catherine, in herself, believed his case to be hopeless. He had refusedto see her on the morning he left, or to say good-bye, but from herwindow she had seen his face as he got into the carriage which took himand Maud to the station, and it seemed to her that Death had already sethis seal upon it, and, as a matter of fact, she had scarcely expectedthat he would reach America alive. But in spite of the news which mightreach her any day, she had, consistently with her declaration that thevoyage would probably restore him, acted as if she really thought so,and had been indefatigable in her activities. If he ever was to comeback (and as long as he lived that possibility was still there), herpart was to minimise the gossip and discussion about him which at thepresent moment was inevitable.
During that week when he was at sea she had thought about the wholesituation more deeply and earnestly than in all probability she hadthought of anything before in her very busy but very unemotional life,and with her whole heart she had forgiven him--not by intention only,but in fact, so that she dismissed the matter from her mind--for thesuffering and indignities he had brought on her during these last sixmonths. Whether he would ever read her letter or not, she did not know,but some three days after their departure she had written to him, quiteshortly, but quite sincerely, telling him never to reproach himself asregards her for what happened in the past, but to dismiss it asabsolutely as she had dismissed it, and devote himself to getting well.The letter was not an easy one to write, or rather the attitude of mindwhich had made it possible to write it had not been attained withouteffort; for just as she was very slow to take offence, so she wasnaturally slow to forgive, and the events of the last six months, withtheir crowning indignity, had bitten very deeply into her. But theeffort had been made and the letter written, and she had pledged herselfto oblivion and whole-hearted forgiveness. Should he get well, she hadgiven him to understand that the past was blotted out, and that she waswilling and eager to join with him in making the best possible out ofthe future.
But she knew quite well, with that ruthless honesty with which shejudged herself, and which was so fine a trait in her character, that shedid not expect him to live, and this, she knew, made the letter aneasier one to write, and her complete forgiveness less difficult toarrive at, than it would otherwise have been. She thought that it wasunlikely that she would ever see him again. But she was absolutelywilling, whether he lived or died, to abide by what she had said.
There had been a grim business of telegraphic codes arranged between herand Maud. It was clearly undesirable to telegraph in full such messagesas Maud might feel it necessary to send her, and half a dozen crypticwords sent from New York on their arrival had told her that he hadbroken down once on the voyage, but had subsequently allowed her tothrow the rest of the bottle away. His general health, Maud said, wascertainly better. Three more telegrams, reporting the events of threemore days, had come since then, each recording improvement, and it wasnews of their fourth day which she was expecting to find now on herreturn.
But as she drove through the streets, where the shops were gay forChristmas purchasers, her mind was busy over an emotional conflict moreintimate than even these things. As was inevitable, matters had come toa crisis between her and Rudolf Villars, and two days ago he haddeclared to her his steadfast and passionate devotion. But he hadrefused to continue any longer on this present unbearable footing offriendship. Should she now definitely reject him, he would not see herany more, except as was necessary in the casual meetings when the worldbrought them together. And she had promised to give him his answer thisevening.
She had really no idea at this moment what that answer would be. Monthsago she had determined that she would not herself break that moral law,though, as a matter of fact, it meant little to her. But since then muchhad happened: ruin and degradation had come to her husband; he hadoffered her the greatest insult that, from the point of view of thismoral law, a wife can be offered, and, what was a far more vital anddetermining factor in her choice, she knew now that she loved this manwith an intensity that she believed equalled his. Could the moral lawwhich tied her to an opium-drenched wreck have any significance comparedto the significance of her love?
Then suddenly, and for the first time, she remembered, in connectionwith her choice, the letter she had written to Thurso. She had told himthat the past was utterly blotted out, and she saw how insincere thatletter would become if the blotting out of the past meant for her thatshe was to console herself in the future. Already she knew that the factthat she did not expect him to live had made the writing of it easier.Between the two her letter did not now seem to be worth much. Yet shehad meant that letter: the best part of her meant it. But just now thatbest part seemed to have dwindled to a mere pin's head in herconsciousness. Love and life and desire were trumpets and decorations toher, and the little grey battered flag of honour was scarcely visibleamong the miles of bunting, and the little voice scarcely audible in theblare of the welcome that would be hers if she said but one word to herlover.
Her victoria had already stopped at her door, and the footman hadturned back the fur rug that covered her knees to let her get out; butshe sat for a moment quite still, for the significance of her letter (orits insignificance) had struck her like a blow. Till she saw it inconnection with her decision she had not known how nearly she haddecided. She had told her husband, and that with sincerity, that thepast was wiped out; all that he had said or done which had been unjustor insulting to her she had cancelled, annihilated, as far as itconcerned her. Was she, then, going to make a fresh past, so to speak,on her own account, to give him an opportunity to be as generous as shehad been? There was a dreadful ironical fitness about it: theconjunction of these things was brutally apt.
Yet she had forgiven him, and that forgiveness was far more real to herthan that which was labelled sin. That did not signify anything veryparticular to her, but to do this thing behind the screen of herforgiveness seemed mean, and meanness was an impossible quality. Shehad forgiven Thurso on the big scale, and the very bigness of hernature, which enabled her to do that, made her hatred of meanness strongalso. And as she got out, she asked herself whether, if the letter whichshe had written to Thurso was still unposted, she would let it go ortear it up. And she knew that, though she might stand with it in herhand for a little, she would still send it. She meant what she had saidin it.
* * * * *
There were some half-dozen of letters for her on the table in the hall,and a telegram lay a little apart. As she picked these up, she spoke tothe footman.
"I shall be in to anybody till six," she said; "but to nobody after thatexcept Count Villars."
She had half opened the telegram when her eye fell on two little hatsand coats hung up on a rack at the end of the hall. She looked at thema moment, feeling that they ought to convey something to her, but shedid not know what. Then she remembered that the two eldest boys werehome from school to-day for the holidays.
"Lord Raynham and Master Henry have come?" she asked.
"Yes, my lady: they arrived an hour ago."
Again she paused. Whatever she said or did to-day seemed to be ladenwith significance, trivial though it appeared.
"Let them know I have come in," she said. "They will come and have teawith me in the drawing-room in ten minutes." (What was it children likedwith their tea?) "And a boiled egg for them both," she added.
* * * * *
She went slowly up the staircase which last June had been a country laneof wild-flowers at her ball, and looking back to that night shewondered whether, if among her guests then had come the prescience ofwhat the next six months were to hold for her, she would not have chosento die then and there, so deeply had the iron entered. But the past wasdead: she must not forget that; and even to think of the bitterness ofit was to allow it to writhe and struggle again. But there were thingsin the past--these children, for instance, though she had never foundthem particularly interesting--
whom the death of the past, in the sensethat she had promised it to her husband, made more alive. It was thewretchedness and alienation of the whole past, as well as these tragicsix months, that she had meant should be dead, and she willed it moresurely in caring for all that was truly vital in it, in neglecting nolonger those whom she had neglected too much. She did not reproachherself now for the small part that her children had had in her life;but if Thurso lived, the letter she had written to him must befulfilled here also. She had forgiven him, and she must amend herself sothat he should forgive her. Even now she recognised that the childrencould help in stabbing the estrangement of the past to death. She wastheir mother, and though for all these years she had overlooked the joy,just as she had forgotten the pains, of maternity, it was potentialstill. So ... would it not be better if she did not even see Villars? Hewould understand that as clearly as any words could make him. Yet sherejected that, and knew the cause of her rejection--that, though shetold herself her mind was made up, she was still debating what sheshould say to him.
All this passed like a series of pictures rapidly presented to her asshe went up the stairs. Then she paused underneath the electric light atthe top, and took out the telegram from the envelope. She looked firstat the end of it, as was natural, to see from whom it came, expectingto find it was from Maud. But it was signed "Thurso."
Then she read it.
"I am cured, and I humbly entreat your pardon, though your letter so generously has given it me. Shall I come back, or would you possibly come out here? I will return immediately if you wish.--THURSO."
She read it once, and read it again, in order to be sure of the sense ofthis incredible thing. Could it be a hoax? If so, who could have playedso grim a joke? But she hardly grasped it. Yet it was clear and inorder; the hour at which it was sent off was there, and the hour ofEnglish time when it had been received.
"But it is incredible," she said to herself. "It means a miracle."
She passed into the drawing-room, looking round consciously and narrowlyat the pictures and the furniture, warming her hands at the fire, andfeeling the cold of the marble chimney-piece to convince herself of thereality and normalness of her sensations. She opened a letter or two,and they also were quite ordinary and commonplace; there was aninvitation to dinner, a few replies to invitations of her own, allsigned with familiar names. A footman was bringing in tea: he had drawntwo high chairs up to the table, and had put a plate and an egg-cupopposite each. Everything except this telegram indicated that the worldwas going on in its normal manner. She had ordered a boiled egg, as atreat, for the two boys. There were the egg-cups.
The boys? Whose? Hers and Thurso's.
Then a sudden wave of cynical amusement, coming in from the ocean of theworld in which her life was passed, went over her head for a moment. Shefelt that she was being unreal, melodramatic, in that she suddenlythought of her children like this, of her husband, of forgiveness, ofall the stale old properties and stock solutions of difficulties. It waslike some preposterous Adelphi piece, and she was the burglar who wassuddenly filled with repentance and remorse because he heard the clockstrike twelve, as he remembered to have heard it strike on New Year'snight in young and innocent days. As if burglars thought of theirchildhood when they were engaged in the plate-closet! Or as if peoplelike herself thought of maternal obligations and marriage vows when atlast love had really come into their lives! Of course, they forgoteverything except that, instead of suddenly remembering all sorts ofother things which they had, spontaneously and habitually, forgotten forso long. If all this had been described in a book she read, or acted ina play, she would have thrown the book aside, or have got up from herseat at the play whispering, "How perfectly ridiculous! How absolutelyunlike life! I think we won't stop for the end, as I am sure there isgoing to be an impossible reconciliation."
Yet what would have seemed to her so unreal in fiction or drama was nowextraordinarily real when it actually happened to occur. She wonderedwhether the life she had led all these years was as unreal as fiction ofthis sort or drama of this sort would have seemed to her.
Thurso was cured, so he said. He besought her forgiveness. The childrenwere coming down to tea with her. She expected Villars. There was enoughthere to occupy her mind for the few minutes that would elapse beforethe children came.
Poor old Mumbo-Jumbo, that fetish called Morality or Duty, which hadbeen to her but a doll with a veil over its face, was showing signs oflife, giving sudden, spasmodic movements, twitching at the veil. Whatits face was like she had really no idea, for in so many things she hadpractically been untempted. But all these years she had been kind, shehad been generous, she had had the instinct for helping those whosuffered. Perhaps the face would not be so very ugly.
* * * * *
The message that the two boys were to come down to tea had not beenproductive, up above, of any notable rapture. Raynham, aged eleven, hadsaid, "Oh, bother!" and Henry had asked if they would have to stop long.Their mother was a radiant but rather terrifying vision to them. She wasusually doing something else, and must not be interrupted. That summedup their knowledge of her.
Catherine remembered a pack of ridiculous cards which had once producedshouts of laughter when the children were playing with their father.They concerned Mr. Bones the butcher, and the families of otherportentous and legendary personages. She remembered the day, too, a wetafternoon in July, when they had played with them, and went to acupboard in the drawing-room where cards were kept, and among otherpacks discovered these joyous presentments. The children were going tohave eggs also with their tea. That was a treat, too.
They came in immediately afterwards, rather shy, and very anxious to"behave." But insensibly, with the instinct of children, they soon sawthat "behaviour" was not required. The radiant vision begged a spoonfulof Henry's egg, and asked Raynham to spare her one corner of thedelicious toast he had buttered for himself. He gave her the butteriestcorner of all, and Henry parted with precious yolk.
There was news also. Father was away--and some nameless dagger stabbedher as she realised that this was the first they had heard of it--andhad been ill. Then there was good news: he was ever so much better, andsoon he was coming home, or perhaps mamma was going out to see him--yes,America. Millions of miles off. What ocean? Atlantic, of course. EvenHenry knew that.
Soon there was no thought in the minds of the children as to how long itwas necessary to stop. The wonderful cards were produced, and they allsat on the hearth-rug, and mamma was too stupid for anything. For shehad the whole flesh-eating family of Mr. Bones the butcher in her handand never declared it; so Henry, having, to his amazement, been passedMr. Bones himself, bottled Mr. Bones up, although he wasn't collectinghim. This was a plan of devilish ingenuity, for had he passed Mr. Bonesto Raynham, Raynham might have given him back to mamma, who, perhaps,then would have seen her foolishness.
The game was growing deliriously exciting when an interruption came, andRaynham again said, "Oh, bother!" But mamma did not get up from thehearth-rug, though the children were told to do so.
"Get up, boys," she said, "and shake hands with Count Villars. But don'tlet me see your cards. I am going to win. How are you, Count Villars?The boys are just home from school. This is Raynham, this is Henry. Dogive yourself some tea, and be kind, and let us finish our game."
Catherine again proved herself perfectly idiotic, and Henry threw downhis cards with a shriek.
"All the Snips, the tailors!" he cried.
"Oh, bother!" shouted Raynham; "and I have all the Buns but one."
"And I have all the Bones but one!" said their mother. "Now go upstairs,darlings, and take the cards with you, if you like."
"And is father coming home?" asked Raynham.
"Perhaps I am going to him. I don't know yet. Off you go!"
"And are we to shake hands again with him?" asked Henry in a whisper.
"Yes, of course. Always shake hands when you you leave the room."
br />
There was silence for a moment after the boys had gone. Catherine brokeit.
"I have just had a telegram from America," she said, "from Thursohimself. He is better. He says he is cured. He asks me if I will gothere, or if he shall come back."
She was still sitting on the hearth-rug, where she had been playing withher sons. But here she got up.
"I think I shall go to him," she said quietly. "That will be the bestplan for--several reasons."
And then the situation, which she had thought of as being of the natureof Adelphi melodrama, broke down from the melodramatic point of view,and began to play itself on more natural lines. He should have been thevillain of the piece, she the gutteral heroine. But he was not a villainany more than she was a heroine.
"I think I have always loved you," she said. "But I can't be mean. Hesays he is cured. And--he asks my forgiveness, though he had it already.He asks it, you see. That makes a difference. If I stopped here, ifI---- In that case I should be refusing it him. It would amount tothat."
Villars put down his cup, and looked at her, but without moving, withoutspeaking.
"Say something," she said.
He got up too, and stood by her.
"I say 'Yes,'" he said.
* * * * *
Two days afterwards Catherine came up towards evening onto the deck ofthe White Star liner on which she was travelling. The sun had just sunk,but in the east the crescent moon had risen, while in the west, whithershe was journeying, there was still the after-glow of sunset. She wasleaving the east, where the moon was, but she was moving towards thatother light. And she was content that it should be so. She would nothave had anything different. The west, too, where she was going, hadmeant so much to Thurso; it had meant all to him. It was easier to weighthe moon than to weigh the veiled light of the sunken sun. She hadrenounced, blindly, it might be; but if for her, too, in the west, inthe after-glow....
THE END.
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