It would, she saw, be a question of choice, and from the instant of that clear vision her life was spent in the search for compromise, something that would enable her to be loyal to Tony and to all that his life must mean to him, and something that should veil that life from his father. She was, with all her might, “keeping the house together,” and it was no easy business; but it was not until the present crisis that it seemed an impossible one.
She had always known that the moment when love came would be the moment of most extreme danger.
She had vowed to her gods, when she saw what her own marriage had made of her life, that her son should absolutely have his way; he should choose, and she would be the very last person in the world to stop him. She had hoped, she had even prayed, that the woman whom he should choose would be some one whom her husband would admit as possible. Then the strength of the house would be inviolate and the terrible moment would be averted. That was, perhaps, the reason that she had so readily and enthusiastically welcomed Alice Du Cane. The girl would “do” from Sir Richard’s point of view, and Lady Gale herself liked her, almost loved her. If Tony cared, why then . . . and at first Tony had seemed to care.
But even while she had tried to convince herself, she knew that it was not, for him at any rate, the “real thing.” One did not receive it like that, with that calmness, and even familiar jocularity, when the “real thing” came. But she had persuaded herself eagerly, because it would, in nearly every way, be so suitable.
And then suddenly the “real thing” had come, come with its shining eyes and beautiful colour; Tony had found it. She had no hesitation after that. Tony must go on with it, must go through with it, and she must prevent Sir Richard from seeing anything until it was all over. As to that, she had done her best, heaven knew, she had done her best. But circumstances had been too strong for her; she saw it, with frightened eyes and trembling hands, slipping from her grasp. Why had Tony been so foolish? Why had he stayed out again like that and missed dinner? Why was he so disturbed now? It was all threatening to fall about her ears; she saw the quarrel; she saw Tony, arrogant, indignant, furious. He had left them, never to return. She saw herself sitting with her husband, old, ill, lonely, by some desolate fireside in an empty house, and Tony would never return.
But she continued to discuss aeroplanes; she knew another thing about her husband. She knew that if Tony was once married Sir Richard might storm and rage but would eventually make the best of it. The house must be carried on, that was one of his fixed principles of life; Tony single, and every nerve should be strained to make his marriage a fitting one, but Tony married! Why then, curse the young fool, what did he do it for? . . . but let us nevertheless have a boy, and quick about it!
Provided the girl were possible—the girl must be possible; but she had Maradick’s word for that. He had told Alice that she was “splendid!” Yes, let the marriage only take place and things might be all right, but Sir Richard must not know.
And so she continued to discuss aeroplanes. “Yes, there was that clever man the other day. He flew all round the Crystal Palace; what was his name? Porkins or Dawkins or Walker; she knew it was something like Walker because she remembered at the time wondering whether he had anything to do with the Walkers of Coming Bridge—yes, such nice people—she used to be a Miss Temple—yes, the Daily Mail had offered a prize.”
At the same time, Tony’s face terrified her. He was standing by the window talking to Alice. She had never seen him look like that before, so white and grave and stern—years older. What had he been doing last night?
She gave Mrs. Lawrence her third cup of tea. “Yes, but they are such tiny cups—oh! there’s nothing. No, I’ve never been up in a balloon—not yet—yes, I’m too old, I think; it doesn’t do, you know, for me at my age.”