CHAPTER XXIII. MOTHER AND SON
The news from the big house on the day following was that Mrs.Poindexter-Jones had had a relapse and was again very weak and ill. Thesame doctor who visited Lenora was the physician at Poindexter Arms. Theson, Harold, had been sent for, and, as his examinations at the militaryacademy were over, he would not return. That, the doctor confided toSusan Warner, was indeed fortunate, as his patient had longed to see herboy. "The most curious thing about it all," he concluded, "is that shehas not sent for her daughter, who is so near that she could reach hermother's bedside in half an hour."
"Not yet," Mrs. Poindexter-Jones had said. "I wish to talk with my son.He will know what is best to do."
Harold, arrived and went at once to his mother's room. With infinitetenderness they greeted each other. "My dearest mother," the lad's toneexpressed deep concern, "I was so happy when your nurse wrote that youwere rapidly recovering. What has happened to cause the relapse? Have youbeen overdoing? Now that I am home, mother, I want you to lean on me inevery way. Just rest, dearest, and let whatever burdens there are be onmy broad shoulders." With joy and pride the sick woman gazed at her boy.
"Dear lad," she said, "you know not what you ask. The cause of my relapseis a mental one. I have done a great wrong to two people, a very greatwrong, and it is too late to right it. No, I am not delirious." Shesmiled up into his troubled, anxious face and her eyes were clear, eventhough unusually bright.
Then the nurse glided in to protest that Mrs. Poindexter-Jones wouldbetter rest before talking more with her son. But the sick woman wasobstinate. "Miss Dane," she said, "please let me do as I wish in thismatter. I will take the responsibility with the doctor. I want to bealone with my boy for fifteen minutes. Then he will go away and you maycome."
The nurse could do nothing but retire, though much against her betterjudgment. Harold seated himself close to the bed and held one of hismother's hands in his cool, firm clasp.
"What is it, dearest?" he asked. "What is troubling you?"
Then she told the story, the whole of it, not sparing her own wrongtraining of the girl, concluding with her disappointment in her adopteddaughter. The lad leaned over and kissed his mother tenderly. "You meantso kindly," he said, "when you took an orphan into your home and gave herevery opportunity to make good."
He hesitated and the woman asked: "Harold, did you know? Did you everguess? You do not seem surprised."
"Yes, dearest. Long ago. Not just at first, of course, for I was onlyfive when Gwynette came into our home and she was three, but later, whenI was grown, I knew that she was not my own little sister, or she wouldhave come to us as a wee baby."
"Of course, I might have known that you would reason it out when you wereolder. I wish now that you had spoken to me about it, then I could haveasked your advice sooner."
"My advice, mother?"
"Yes, dear lad. It is often very helpful to talk a problem over withsomeone whose point of view naturally would be different. You might havesaved me from many mistakes. What I wish to ask now is this: If I canobtain the permission of the Warners (we made an agreement long years agothat the secret was never to be revealed by any of us), but if now theythink it might be best, would you advise me to tell Gwynette the truth?"
The lad looked thoughtfully out of the window near. His mother waitedeagerly. She had decided to abide by his advice whatever it might be. Atlast he turned toward her. "Knowing Gwynette's supreme selfishness, Ifear that whatever love she may have for you, mother, would be turned tovery bitter hatred. She would feel that you were hurling her from aclass, of which she is snobbishly proud, down into one that she considersvery little better than serfdom. I hardly know how she would take it. Shemight do something desperate." The boy regretted these words as soon asthey were spoken. The woman's eyes were startled and because of her greatweakness she began to shiver as though in a chill. The repentant ladknelt and held her close. "Mother, dear, leave it all to me, will you?Forget it and just get well for my sake." Then with a break in his voice,"I wouldn't want to live without _you_, dearest." A sweet calm stole intothe woman's soul. Nothing else seemed to matter. She rested her cheekagainst her son's head as she said softly: "My boy! For your sake I willget well."
Harold, upon leaving his mother, went at once to his room, and, throwinghimself down in his comfortable morris-chair, with his hands thrust deepinto his trouser pockets, he sat staring out of a wide picture-window. Hedid not notice, however, the white-capped waves on the tossing, restlesssea. He was remembering all that had happened from his little boyhood,especially all that associated him with the girl he had long realizedcould not be his own sister.
Had he been to her the companion that he might have been, indeed that heshould have been, even though he knew she was not his father's child? No,he had really never cared for her and he had avoided her companionshipwhenever it was possible. Many a time he had known that she was hurt athis lack of devotion. Only recently, when he had so much preferred takingSunday dinner at the farm, and had actually forgotten Gwyn until thehaughty girl had reminded him that it was his duty to take her wherevershe would like to dine, he had recalled, almost too late, that it wouldbe his mother's wish, and now, that his father was gone, his mother wasthe one person whom he loved above all others. His conclusion, after halfan hour of relentless self-examination, was that he was very much toblame for Gwynette's selfishness. If he had long ago sought herconfidence, long ago in the formative years, they might have grown up inloving companionship as a sister and brother should. This, surely, wouldhave happened, a thought tried to excuse him to himself, if she had beenan own sister. But he looked at it squarely. "If my mother wantedGwynette enough to adopt her and have her share in all things with herown son, that son should have accepted her as a sister." Rising, hewalked to the window, and, for a few moments, he really saw thewind-swept sea. Then, whirling on his heel, he snapped his fingers as hethought with a new determination. "I shall ask our mother (he purposelysaid 'our') to give me a fortnight to help Gwyn change her point of view,before the revelation is made to her. The fault, I can see now, has notbeen wholly her own. Mother has shown in a thousand ways that I am theone she really loves. Not that she has neglected Gwyn, but there has beena difference." He was putting on his topcoat and cap as he made thedecision to take a run up to the seminary and see how his sister wasgetting on.
As he neared his mother's room, the nurse appeared, closing the doorbehind her so softly that the lad knew, without asking, that the invalidwas asleep. Miss Dane smiled at the comely youth.
"My patient is much better since you came home. I believe you were thetonic, or the narcotic rather, that she needed, for she seems soothed andquieted."
The lad's brightening expression told the nurse how great was his lovefor his mother. She went her way to the kitchen to prepare astrengthening broth for the invalid to be given her when she shouldawaken, and all the while she was wondering why a son should be sodevoted and a daughter seem to care so little. It was evident to the mostcasual observer that Gwynette cared for no one but herself.
Harold was soon in his little gray speedster and out on the highway. Hethought that, first of all, he would dart into town and buy a box ofGwyn's favorite chocolates. She could not but greet him graciously whenhe appeared with a gift for her. On the coast highway, near SantaBarbara, there was a roadside inn where motoring parties lunched andwhere the best of candies could be procured. As he was about to completehis purchase, a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with the build of acollege athlete, entered carrying a suitcase. He inquired when the nextbus would pass that way, and, finding that he would have to wait at leastan hour, he next asked how far it was to the farm of Silas Warner. Haroldstepped forward, before the clerk could reply, and said, "I am going inthat direction. In fact I shall pass the farm. May I give you a lift?"
"Thanks."
Together they left the shop and were soon speeding along the highway,neither drea
ming of all that this meeting was to mean to them.