“Of course, darling. And if you don’t come back, I will take care of them, always.”
“But, mother,” said Jack, and there were tears in his eyes, “you don’t know, you don’t realize. I mean—she’s; a dear little thing—but you couldn’t be happy with her. She’d get most frightfully on your nerves. She’s just—just a silly little dancer who has got into trouble.”
Jack was clear-sighted. Every vestige of fairyland had vanished. And she was deeply thankful that they should see alike, while she answered, “It’s not exactly a time for considering one’s nerves, is it, Jack? I hope I shan’t get on hers. I must just try and make her as happy as I can.”
She made it all seem natural and almost sweet. The tears were in his eyes, yet he had to smile back at her when she said, “You know that I am good at managing people. I’ll manage her. And perhaps when you come back, my darling, she won’t be a silly little dancer.”
They sat now for a little while in silence. While they had talked, a golden sunset, slowly, had illuminated the western sky. The river below them was golden, and the wintry woodlands bathed in light. Jack held her hands and gazed at her. Love could say no more than his eyes, in their trust and sorrow, said to her; she could never more completely possess her son. Sitting there with him, hand in hand, while the light slowly ebbed and twilight fell about them, she felt it to be, in its accepted sorrow, the culminating and transfiguring moment of her maternity.
When they at last rose to go it was the hour for Jack’s departure, and it had become almost dark. Far away, through the trees, they could see the lighted windows of the house that waited for them, but to which she must return alone. With his arms around her shoulders, Jack paused a moment, looking about him. “Do you remember that day—when we first came here, mummy?” he asked.
She felt in him suddenly a sadness deeper than any he had yet shown her. The burden of the past she had lifted from him; but he must bear now the burden of what he had done to her, to their life, to all the future. And, protesting against his pain, her mother’s heart strove still to shelter him while she answered, as if she did not feel his sadness, “Yes, dear, and do you remember the hepaticas on that day?”
“Like you,” said Jack in a gentle voice. “I can hardly see the plants. Are they all right?”
“They are doing beautifully.”
“I wish the flowers were out,” said Jack. “I wish it were the time for the flowers to be out, so that I could have seen you and them together, like that first day.” And then, putting his head down on her shoulder, he murmured, “It will never be the same again. I’ve spoiled everything for you.”