“Winifred never asked your opinion, my dear!—and I expect you know him a great deal better than either of us.”
“I never knew him before this year. That’s a very little while. I—I’m sure he’s difficult to know. Perhaps he’s one of the people—who”—she laughed—“who want keeping.”
“That’s it!” cried Lady Marcia, delighted. “Of course that’s it. It’s like a rough fruit that mellows. Anyway I’m not going to damn him for good at twenty-three, like Winifred. Well, Sir Arthur was very badly thrown, coming home from hunting, six years ago now and more, when Douglas was seventeen. It was in the Christmas holidays. They had had a run over Leman Moor and Sir Arthur and Douglas got separated from the rest, and were coming home in the dark through some very lonely roads—or tracks—on the edge of the moor. They came to a place where the track went suddenly into a wood, and a pheasant was startled by the horses, and flew right across Sir Arthur, almost in his face. The horse—it was always said no one but Sir Arthur Falloden could ride it—took fright, bolted, dashed in among the trees, threw Sir Arthur, and made off. When Douglas came up he found his father on the ground, covered with blood, and insensible. There was no one anywhere near. The boy shouted—no one came. It was getting dark and pouring with rain—an awful January night—I remember it well! Douglas tried to lift his father on his own horse, but the horse got restive, and it couldn’t be done. If he had ridden back to a farm about a mile away he could have got help. But he thought his father was dying, and he couldn’t make up his mind, you see, to leave him. Then—imagine!—he somehow was able—of course he was even then a splendid young fellow, immensely tall and strong for his age—to get Sir Arthur on his back, and to carry him through two fields to a place where he thought there was a cottage. But when he got there, the cottage was empty—no lights—and the door padlocked. He laid his father down under the shelter of the cottage, and called and shouted. Not a sign of help! It was awfully cold—a bitter north wind—blowing great gusts of rain. Nobody knows quite how long they were there, but at last they were found by the vicar of the village near, who was coming home on his bicycle from visiting a sick woman at the farm. He told me that Douglas had taken off his own coat and a knitted waistcoat he wore, and had wrapped his father in them. He was sitting on the ground with his back to the cottage wall, holding Sir Arthur in his arms. The boy himself was weak with cold and misery. The vicar said he should never forget his white face, when he found them with his lamp, and the light shone on them. Douglas was bending over his father, imploring him to speak to him—in the tenderest, sweetest way. Then, of course, when the vicar, Mr. Burton, had got a cart and taken them to the farm, and a carriage had come from Flood with two doctors, and Sir Arthur had begun to recover his senses, Douglas—looking like a ghost—was very soon ordering everybody about in his usual lordly manner. ‘He slanged the farmer,’ said Mr. Burton, ‘for being slow with the cart; he sent me off on errands as though I’d been his groom; and when the doctors came, you’d have thought he was more in charge of the case than they were. They thought him intolerable; so he was. But I made allowances, because I couldn’t forget how I had seen them first—the boy’s face, and his chattering teeth, and how he spoke to his father. He’s spoilt, that lad! He’s as proud as Satan. If his father and mother don’t look out, he’ll give them sore hearts some day. But he can feel!—and—if he could have given his life for his father’s that night, he would have done it with joy.’—Well, there it is, Connie!—it’s a true story anyway, and why shouldn’t we remember the nice things about a young man, as well as the horrid ones?”
“Why not, indeed?” said Connie, her chin on her hands, her eyes bent on the ground.
Lady Marcia was silent a moment, then she said with a tremulous accent that belied her height, her stateliness and her black satin gown:
“You see, Connie, I know more about men than Winifred does. We have had different experiences.”
“She’s thinking about the General,” thought Connie. “Poor old dear!” And she gently touched her aunt’s long thin hand.
Lady Marcia sighed.
“One must make allowances for men,” she said slowly.
Connie offered no reply, and they sat together a few more minutes in silence. Then Connie rose.