WHAT THE MOON AND RIVER SAID
'Were you asleep, dear?' said Mrs. Gregory gently.
As she spoke she cast her eye timidly round the room. It fell on the writing-drawer, which Tom had not been able to shut on account of the quantity of papers. 'You have been busy?' she said with a vague smile.
'My business will keep,' he answered. 'Only some papers, mother—about the property, I suppose. Mr. Cherry gave them to me this morning. They were with the will—addressed to me.'
'How strange! And you have read them?'
'Not yet. They seem rather elaborate. I expect they will take time.'
Mrs. Gregory brightened. 'Then they must keep,' she said cheerfully, 'for I want you. Lady Winter and her son are in the drawing-room. They have come on purpose to congratulate you, and I should like you to see them.'
'Very well, mother. Just let me make myself tidy first.'
'All right, dear, and I will entertain them. You know,' she lingered, looking at him wistfully, 'Lady Winter has always been so nice to me; and Sir Reginald knows everyone. He could help you on in society. You will make yourself pleasant to them—for my sake?'
'My dear mother,' said the boy, turning his strained-looking eyes upon her, 'I will do my best. No one can do any more.'
With a little sigh she left him and returned to her visitors.
Society has some curious arrangements. It reverses, as a general rule, the Scriptural order. Those who honour themselves it delights to set on high in its banquets, while the humble are allowed to fill perpetually the low seats that they have chosen. Lady Winter honoured herself, and her honour was accepted as the true estimate of her worth. She seldom paid calls. She received them. Her parties were general, for if anyone who could by any possibility be said to belong to society had been shut out there would have been painful heart-burnings, and her neighbours, many of whom were far richer than herself, were flattered when she accepted little services, such as the use of their carriages, and presents of flowers and fruit, game and vegetables. Besides preserving this comfortable worship she could do three things well. She could dress so as to hide the ravages of time; she could manage a small income with grace and success; and she could say pretty things with an abandon that marvellously enhanced their charm. She had in consequence many friends. Amongst these Mrs. Gregory, as she was telling her to-day, had always taken a high place. Some people might have thought that the change in their fortunes had quickened the flame of friendship. Mrs. Gregory did not. She was a simple woman, and Lady Winter, as she had told her son, had always been very nice to her.
But her face flushed a little at the kind words.
'And to think that you are rich!' said Lady Winter.
'It isn't me,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'It is my boy.'
'But it is the same thing, of course. An only boy—and one so devoted. Ah! you may smile. We all know. I only wish my Reginald were half as nice to me! Well, as you know, I don't think much of riches myself. I had them once. Sir Thomas was a millionaire when we married—supposed to be one at least. Poor man! he thought nothing good enough for me—nothing! I tried to protest. It was of no use. If I didn't accept the lovely things he gave me it made him miserable. The riches took flight, and, curiously enough, I am as happy. A few years and it will not make much difference whether we have been rich or poor. We all stand on the same ground at last. But,' as the door opened, 'here is your son. My dear boy,' holding out an exquisitely gloved hand, 'allow your mother's old friend to congratulate you on your good fortune. I know someone,' with a flattering smile, 'who will be enchanted to hear it. But I think I shall keep her out of the way a little while.'
'Good fortune, indeed!' The voice came from the depths of a low lounging-chair, in which a long-limbed, handsome youth was reclining. This was Sir Reginald Winter. He rose languidly, and went forward to meet Tom. 'When my mother has done,' he said with his sleepy smile, 'perhaps I may be allowed to shake hands with you. Many happy returns of the day! Isn't that the proper form? By Jove, though,' laughing, 'if you had more than one, there wouldn't be room for anyone else. I hear you are a millionaire.'
'I think he scarcely knows how he stands,' said Mrs. Gregory nervously.
'Of course not,' said Lady Winter. 'I believe you only heard of it yourselves last night. Some of the Eltons told us. Charming people the Eltons! I am positively in love with those dear girls. But such gossips. Ah!' lifting up her grey-gloved hands, 'how they can talk! If I had secrets I had rather confide them to the town-crier than to that amiable family.'
'But this is no secret,' said Mrs. Gregory, the colour mounting to her face.
'Tom's good fortune! Oh dear no; why should it be? I only wished to explain how it was that we knew so early. You know,' in a low voice, 'I couldn't help being a little excited. We are both mothers—both left alone early. I have so often sympathised with you in your anxieties——'
'I know—I know,' answered Mrs. Gregory affectionately. 'And I can't tell you how pleasant your sympathy is to me. We have so many kind friends here. Their interest and affection have touched me deeply.' She cast an appealing glance at Tom, who looked painfully wooden and irresponsive. 'I am sure my son feels with me,' she added.
This seemed to arouse Tom, for he murmured something indefinite about being much obliged.
'Never mind,' whispered Lady Winter to Mrs. Gregory. 'Young men are all alike. They don't care for congratulations. Reginald was just the same. When my poor old aunt died the other day, you know, and left him that little bit of money, and people told me how glad they were, he behaved quite naughtily. "Really," he said at last, "I wish she hadn't; I'm sick of hearing of it."'
'Then I think he was very ungrateful,' said Mrs. Gregory severely. 'A pretty sort of place the world would be if we had no one to rejoice and grieve with us!'
'That is the woman's view, my dear friend. But men, you know——'
'Men!' echoed Mrs. Gregory scornfully. 'Boys!'
'Oh come! my friend Tom is not quite a boy,' said Lady Winter, with a smile of exquisite graciousness towards that irresponsive person.
'Well done, mother. I shall treasure that up,' laughed Sir Reginald. 'I am called a boy often enough, Mrs. Gregory, and I am ages older than Tom. I say, Gregory, what do you say to a stroll and a weed? A fellow is taking my new outrigger up and down. I should like you to see it.'
'Take Sir Reginald to the summer-house. Tom,' said Mrs. Gregory; 'it has such a cheerful look-out. And bring him back to tea. Yes, Lady Winter, you must stay, both of you. The boys will like to have their chat out quietly, and Lady Elton and two of the dear girls are coming in presently.'
'But we shall be too many for you.'
'Not at all. I must tell you,' whispered Mrs. Gregory as Tom went off with Sir Reginald, 'that I had in additional help to-day. Such a smart little servant; a capital cook, and knows how to wait at table. She was five years in her last place, and has such a character! It seemed almost a Providence, if it isn't irreverent to say so. It was my dear boy'—she looked out with dewy eyes to where she could see her son's tall slender figure on the sunlit lawn. 'He says I have slaved for him long enough, and now I shall have everything done for me. No one would believe what a heart that boy has. Positively, I am afraid of what he may think of doing now he is rich.'
'It is very nice to see young people like that,' said Lady Winter pleasantly. 'Reginald is wonderfully soft-hearted too. But I have tried to bring him up reasonably, and I do believe he has no crazes. Seriously, I don't think your boy could have a more suitable friend just now. You see Reggy has sown his wild oats. I am bound to confess that the crop was innocent enough, but it cost me something. Now he is as steady as old Time.'
'I am very glad that the two boys should be together,' said Mrs. Gregory simply.
Here, to the annoyance of Lady Winter, who had more to say about Tom, Lady Elton and two of her girls, Maud and Trixy, were shown in.
Lady Elton had been feeling a little nervous all the morning, wondering what she should say; but the moment she saw Mrs. Gregory all her nervousness fled. Her sweet face flushed a rosy red, as she went forward impulsively, holding out her two hands. 'Dear friend!' she said, 'we are so glad—so very glad—to hear of your good fortune.'
'I knew you would be,' said Mrs. Gregory, and, forgetting the dignity of their respective positions—a General's wife and a millionaire's mother—they kissed each other again and again, like two schoolgirls.
Maud meanwhile stood aside, and waited her turn. She was a handsome girl of the aggressive type. No one would pass her over in a crowd. She had flashing brown eyes, a profusion of silky brown hair, which she wore, after the fashion of the time, in a sparkling beaded net, regular features, and a determined mouth and chin.
Maud was never nervous. She considered herself equal to every conceivable emergency. When Mrs. Gregory turned to address her she had her little speech ready. 'We were delighted with father's good news last night,' she said, smiling prettily, 'and we hope you and Tom will be very happy.'
'"We" includes me,' said Trixy. 'Maud speaks so well, you know. We always let her speak for us. But I really am tremendously glad.'
'Thank you, dears,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'I love to feel that you are glad. We are so like one family that I feel as if it ought to be good news to you all. And now,' looking towards Lady Winter, 'what do you all say? Shall we sit out on the lawn until tea? It is just pleasant now.'
'If you ask me, I should like nothing better,' said Lady Winter, rising gracefully.
'But where is he—Tom, I mean?' said Lady Elton, as they went out. 'I heard he had come back from town.'
'Reginald has carried him off for a smoke and a chat,' said Lady Winter. 'I expect they will join us presently. But young men will have their quiet hour in the evening.'
'I see them!' cried Trixy. 'They are just outside the summer-house. I'll run and tell Tom you are here, mother.'
'No, no!' and 'Wouldn't it be rather a pity?' came simultaneously from Lady Elton and Lady Winter. But Trixy did not hear them. She knew instinctively that her friend Tom wanted deliverance, and she was off across the garden with the speed of a lapwing.
So far the conversation had been rather a one-sided business. Sir Reginald had talked. He was giving information. Tom had listened. He had heard of magnificent chambers in town going for a song; of shootings and fishings to be had for very little more than the asking; of horses perfect in wind and limb, concerning whose purchase Sir Reginald would be glad to interest himself; of cellars of priceless wines waiting for a buyer; of furniture, china, pictures, bric-à-brac to be had at phenomenally low prices—of a world, in fact, that was offering itself for purchase. The curious thing was that none of these interesting pieces of intelligence seemed to move him. He sat, as Sir Reginald said afterwards, like a wooden image, gazing at nothing. He would not even take the excellent cigar he was offered. Then, just as his companion hoped he was becoming a little interested, the wild little Elton girl rushed down upon them, and his opportunity was at an end.
Tom showed plenty of animation to Trixy; and when he heard that Lady Elton had come over to the cottage with her, he said he would go back to the upper lawn and see her. 'What will you do, Winter?' he said.
'Oh, thanks. Don't mind me. I'll finish my cigar out here, and join the rest of you later,' said Sir Reginald.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly by. Tea, which was a composite meal such as women love, proved a complete success. Nothing could have been prettier, Lady Winter said graciously.
After tea Tom devoted himself to Lady Elton, Sir Reginald made Maud happy by talking down to her sleepily, Lady Winter chatted amiably to Mrs. Gregory, and Trixy teased everyone in turn.
Presently came some music—the drawing-room music of that period, which was before the days of amateur artists. Maud, thinking of handsome, languid Sir Reginald, warbled a sentimental love ditty; Mrs. Gregory was induced to play an old-fashioned fantasia; and Trixy rattled her last piano piece, making her mother hot and cold by turns as she stumbled over the difficult passages.
The Winters left early. She was enjoying herself so much, Lady Winter said, that she could stay all night; but she was bound not to keep late hours. She was going to have some visitors—one in particular, whom she believed they would like to meet, and she mentioned an early day for tea at their house, begging Lady Elton to come too, and to bring Maud and dear little Trixy with her.
To her son she said as they walked home: 'A little of that kind of thing goes a long way. I wonder if those dear good people will ever learn to be rich?'
'Tom won't. He is a regular muff,' said Sir Reginald. 'I shall take no more trouble about him.'
'Oh! but you will, dear,' said his mother sweetly. 'For Mrs. Gregory's sake. She is such a dear good soul! Not quite—well, you know what I mean; but very nice—' and she added after a pause, for her son had not thought it necessary to answer this appeal, 'I have written to Vivien. I rather think she will be with us to-morrow.'
'I must say, mother,' said Sir Reginald, 'that you don't allow the grass to grow under your feet. I shall be surprised if even Vivien, clever as she is, gets anything out of that moonstruck youth.'
'Well, we shall see,' said Lady Winter.
In the cottage the departure of the Winters brought a certain sense of relief, more especially to two of the party, Tom and Lady Elton.
There was a strong sympathy between these two. Sometimes, indeed, it made Tom's mother jealous to see her son hang about her old friend as he was doing to-night. After she had watched them for some time wistfully, she said, her voice quivering:
'Haven't you appropriated Lady Elton long enough, Tom? Come over here and entertain Maud and Trixy, and let me have her for a few moments.'
'I am afraid I am not in an amusing mood,' said Tom, rising with reluctance.
'When you are next in an amusing mood perhaps you will let us know,' said Trixy saucily.
'Those are things people ought to find out for themselves,' he said, taking a seat beside her.
'How can they,' said the child, 'if there are no indications——?'
'Which means that you have always found me dull.'
'No, no, no. But I can't say you are ever very funny.'
'You see, Trixy, you give no one a chance.'
'Bravo, Tom! not bad for a beginner,' cried Trixy, clapping her hands. 'Maud'—to her elder sister—'how ridiculously grave you look!'
'I see nothing to laugh at,' said Maud, whereupon the incorrigible child folded her hands and looked down her nose demurely. The copy of Maud's expression and attitude was so good that Tom could not help laughing.
'Stop a little longer; the young people are just beginning to enjoy themselves,' said Mrs. Gregory to Lady Elton.
'Thank you very much, but I am afraid we must really go,' she answered. 'The General will surely be at home by this. He took Grace up the river this afternoon.'
'And he wouldn't take anyone else,' said Trixy, who was still smarting under her grievance. 'I am sure they were going to talk secrets. Good-bye, Tom.'
'I mean to take you home as usual, Trixy.'
'Pray don't,' said Maud icily. 'It's only a step.'
A peal of laughter from Trixy greeted her speech.
'Maud,' she cried, 'you are too funny for anything. You will freeze us up to nothing. I feel the process beginning. Don't you, Tom?'
'Trixy, you wild little creature, do you mean to stay all night?' said Lady Elton, who was waiting hooded and cloaked in the verandah.
'No, mother, here I am,' said Trixy, 'and Maud is following me. Maud can't walk very quickly, you know. Good-night, dearest, sweetest Mrs. Gregory. Tom——'
'Tom will go with you, of course,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'Good-night, dears. Come and see me again soon. Yes, the night air is a little chilly, so I will shut the door. You may say good-night to me too, Tom. I am tired, and I think I shall go to my room at once.'
The door of the cottage shut, and all but Mrs. Gregory went out into the throbbing silence of the summer night. Its enchantment made even wild little Trixy quiet for a few moments. As she looked up and saw the little moon, half entangled in a web of rainbow-tinted clouds, floating like a spirit in the dark spaces of the starlit sky, she said in a stifled whisper that she didn't in the least wonder that looking at the moon made people feel sentimental. In the next instant, however, sentiment was put to flight.
A cheerful, sonorous voice, which they all knew, came ringing across the lawn, while from under the shadows of the witch-elms a little band of figures appeared. The General, and Grace, and Lucy, and Mildred had come out in search of them.
'Good evening, Tom; good evening, everybody,' said the General. 'We began to think you meant to keep my lady altogether, so we came out in a body to fetch her back.'
'It was unnecessary. I was taking the greatest care of her,' said Tom; 'but I am glad to see you all the same, General.'
'Thank you, my boy, thank you,' said the General cheerfully. 'Well, good-night to you!' And then he tucked his wife's hand under his arm—he was her true lover still, as he would be to the end of his days—whistled up the girls as if, stately Maud was saying to herself discontentedly, they were a pack of harriers, and started off at a quick pace for their own gate.
Tom fell behind with Grace. He did not know exactly how he had managed it, or whether any management at all had been required; but so it was that when they came out into the moonlit road, he and Grace were together. He looked down upon her with a beating heart. Words came thronging to his lips, but he could not speak them. She seemed to have moved further away from him than ever. This white light of moon and stars in which she walked was, to his excited fancy, like the mystic world that was her home, and she in her light garments, her pale gold hair all ruffled by the breeze, making an aureole like a saint's halo round her beautiful face, was as lovely, and alas! as unapproachable as a vision. Silently they go along the interval of road that separated Mrs. Gregory's grounds from those of General Elton. And now they are in the little dark shrubbery behind the lawn and rose garden.
Here Tom, who has been sighing like a furnace, pulls up in desperation, for he feels that his opportunity is slipping away from him.
'Are you tired?' he says in a shaken voice.
'Oh, no!' answers Grace, only a little more firmly. 'I am not at all tired.'
'Then won't you come down to the river for a few moments?' he says pleadingly. 'It looks so pretty in this light.'
His heart is thumping against his ribs, and there is a singing in his ears which nearly deafens him. He hears indeed so imperfectly that he is on the point of apologising humbly for having made a preposterous suggestion when he realises that Grace has fallen in with it, that she is, in fact, leading him to a little tangled path through the shrubbery that leads straight to the lower lawn. 'Mind how you go!' says the sweet voice. 'It is dark here, and the branches are low. To the right; now to the left. Trixy calls this the maze.'
In a few moments they emerge from the shrubbery, cross an interval of lawn, and stand on the bank above the river, at the very spot where Tom saw his vision of the night before.
'Isn't it lovely?' says Grace, in a low voice. 'Come here, under the willows, where the shadows are deep, and look down!'
'How dark and silent it is!' says Tom.
'Silent, but never still. I don't know how it is,' says Grace, with a little sigh, 'but flowing water always makes me feel tired.'
'It is the constant movement. I have felt that too. But sit down, darling. Don't look at it——'
She interrupts him a little impatiently. 'No; you don't understand. It is not that weariness; it is of the mind. I think of life; how it is going on, always, always. No rest, not for a single moment; dying, being born, loving, hating, thinking, fighting, suffering, sinning. It is terrible.'
'But it is beautiful too, Grace.'
'It may be, or perhaps indifferent. To one here and there; one like the river that receives but cannot give.'
'What do you mean, Grace?'
'I don't know that I quite know myself,' she says, wearily. 'But look at the river. It is very old, isn't it? I imagine how, when it began to flow, the big primeval world, with its forests and monsters, was about it—ages upon ages—and then came men and their inventions—huts and houses, and castles, and palaces, and cities, rising and falling as the river flows on, the old, old river. And sometimes I think of the dead it has hidden, of the tragedies it has seen, of the miseries it has stilled. And it is always the same; smiling in the sunlight, sleeping in the shadow, making pictures of the trees and flowers on its banks. Could one hope to like that?'
'But we do not see what the river does, Grace.'
'Some of us do. We carry in our hearts the passion and pain of the past. I had rather not, much rather. Sometimes I feel as if it would kill me, and then I long to be as this water is, smiling and insensible. But when they have touched you once,' says the girl, her voice vibrating strangely, 'you know that you can never be as you have been; never, never!' She turns her back to the river. 'Come back to the house,' she says abruptly. 'I hear my sisters laughing.'
'Must you go? Will you not give me two or three moments? I have so much to say to you. So much' (smiling a little piteously) 'that I scarcely know where to begin. Grace, dearest, my life is flowing on like the water in the river, and this little hand of yours can turn it whatever way it pleases.'
'Hush, hush!' says Grace. 'You must not say such things.'
'I must, for it is true. Grace! Grace! I love you.' He pauses. The light of the moon is veiled by clouds, so that he cannot see her face; but she is silent, and silence sometimes means more than speech. 'I am not worthy of you'—his words leap out fervently—'so unworthy that it is little short of madness to imagine you might care for me. But I love you. I know'—with a catching back of the breath—'there is nothing strange in that. Everyone who has seen you must love you. But I think—I think—no one will ever love you as I do. My heart, my soul, my life; everything I have and am are yours, if you will only take them.'
And here suddenly he stops, the eloquent words frozen on his lips. Grace has covered her face with her hands. 'What is it?' he whispers very low. He would draw one of those little hands down and cover it with kisses; but he dares not. In the next instant he is trembling. She has lifted her sad eyes; she is looking at him, looking at him—oh, God!—with the very eyes of his vision.
'I wish you had told me this before,' she says, brokenly. 'Is it only now you know that you love me?'
'No, no. I have known it always, the first moment I saw you. But why, in the name of heaven, do you ask me such a question?'
'It was a foolish question'—she is trying hard to speak calmly. 'Forget it.'
'I cannot, Grace; for pity's sake tell me!'
'Because, dear Tom—I will call you so this once—then it might have been; now it cannot.'
'You might have accepted my love, oh, Grace!'—he tries to seize her hands, but she will not give them.
'Not now, not now,' she says. 'It is too late.'
'But how can it be?' cries the poor fellow wildly. 'Grace, you are torturing me. Two days ago—such a short time—we seemed to understand one another quite well. I would have spoken then, but I had nothing to offer you. It was for your sake, darling, because I could not—dared not—run the risk of dragging you into poverty. My circumstances have changed, nothing else. And, dear, if you object to being rich, there is no need for us to spend our wealth as rich people generally do. For all I know I may be only steward of my inheritance. To-night when I leave you I am to read the papers which I believe will give me the real wish of him who left it to me. Grace, I shall go to them with such hope, such heart, such courage, if I take your promise with me. Answer me, my darling, may I believe, may I hope, that whatever I may be called upon to do may be done, not by me alone, but by you and me together?'
That question has never been answered. Grace had turned away from him. Suddenly she cries out and grasps his arm convulsively. 'Look! look! What is that?'
For an instant horror holds him spellbound. In the next he is rushing headlong across the garden, crying out 'Fire! Fire!