Hope took her unawares. This boy was transformed into a man of action; for only active men can glance from their own troubles to understand the weakness that is planted, like lavender, in the heart of every woman.
“I would God it needed us,” she said, with a touch of her old petulance. “Lancashire men can sing leal songs enough——”
“Can live them, too. The hills have cradled us.”
Lady Royd smiled, as if her heart were playing round her lips. “You’re no fool, son of mine,” she said. “I wish the Retreat were sweeping straight to Windyhough, instead of leaving us in peace. I wish you could be proved.”
Rupert glanced shyly at her. He was son and lover both, diffident, eager, chivalrous. “Suppose there’s no attack on the house, mother—suppose I were never proved? I have learned so much to-night—so much. Surely there’s something gained.”
It was a moment of simple, intimate knowledge, each of the other. And the mother’s face was flower-like, dainty; the spoilt wife’s wrinkles were altogether gone.
“It is my turn to ask why,” she said, with a coquetry that was rainy as an April breeze. “I’ve not deserved well of you, my dear—not deserved well at all, and have told you so; and you choose just this time—to honour me. Men are perplexing, Rupert. One never knows their moods.”
Her toy spaniel began barking from somewhere at the far end of the house; and the old inconsequence returned from habit.
“Oh, there’s poor Fido crying!” she said eagerly. “Go find him, Rupert. The poor little man is so sensitive—you know he’s almost human, and he is crying for me.”
And Rupert went out on the old, foolish quest—willingly enough this time. He had seen beneath the foolish, pampered surface of his mother’s character, and was content to hold secure this newborn love for her, this knowledge that she needed him. He was needed—at long last.