And I could have sobbed aloud. Instead of making for the river, poor Phyllida was roaming distractedly towards the lodge. We heard her feet stumbling on and off the gravel, there came the moan of a tortured animal... The footsteps ceased abruptly, the white coat vanished... She had left the drive and turned away behind a clump of laurel. I heard her crying as though her heart would break...
"I can run no farther," I said to Will. "And an old woman like me is no good to her now. Go to her and comfort her. You have always loved her, so you will know what to say. If she breaks her heart, she will break yours too; you will never forgive yourself for abandoning her. Let her see that, however lonely and deserted she may feel, one staunch friend is true to her through all things. It is your right and privilege to share her sorrow and, if may be, to assuage it."
At such a time my boy did not need to be told twice. As I sank exhausted against a tree, he stole forward; I heard him calling her softly by name. If I could, I would have hurried out of ear-shot, for whatever he said was sacred to the two of them; but I expected every moment to faint with my unaccustomed exertion...
"Phyllida... Darling Phyllida," he began.
I do not mind telling you, because you are always discreet and, when reverence is demanded, you will be reverent... I thought I knew my boy, but there are depths of tenderness in a man which he never shews to his own mother...
"Phyllida, darling Phyllida, won't you let me comfort you? If you break your heart, you will break mine too. You know that I have always loved you, and that gives me the right to comfort you when you are unhappy. Whatever other people may do to you or say to you, I am always here for you to turn to..."
I cannot go on... Already I have said more than I ought. Will you think your old friend very foolish if she confesses that for a moment she forgot that she was old? Time slipped from my shoulders, and I saw once again a young girl in that very garden, not a hundred yards from where I was standing... Dear Phyllida, I suppose, would think her a very funny, old-fashioned creature, but I did not seem so then—certainly to Arthur... A young girl in a white dress with a young man pleading at her feet until his voice broke and he said: "It's no good, I can't go on." And then he threw his arms about me... And I remember my dear father coming on to the terrace and calling out to me. And Arthur seized my hand and strode forward with his head among the stars... Brackenbury—he is fourteen years my junior—was already in bed, but we insisted on going upstairs to tell him the news. Life was a very glorious thing that night. I walked on air; and, if any one had told me that it was a thing of greed and cruelty and ingratitude and mean passions, I should have laughed him to scorn...
Forgive me...
I am sentimental, no doubt, but if we have the opportunity of feeling our heart warming... Of late years... I have lost the thread... Ah, yes! I crept away, leaving them together, with the murmur of my boy's divine sympathy still in my ears. At first I walked aimlessly, trying to keep my mind blank until I was competent to think of anything. What would happen now? ... In time I found myself on the lawn once more, and the sight of the river reminded me of duty still left undone. I had to find Brackenbury and tell him that his child was safe and in good hands... I remember wondering, trying to make up my mind what I should think if this crise shewed Phyllida that it was Will she wanted to marry...
There was no one in sight. I walked cautiously to the river, expecting every moment to step over the edge... No sound of voices. I called: "Brackenbury!", "Arthur!", "Culroyd!". There was no answer. Do you know that quite unreasoning fear that sometimes overtakes one when one is in the dark and knows that one is not alone? And the river—like a looking-glass in a twilit room... I have a horror of any great expanse of water at night; it is so silent and merciless. "Culroyd! Brackenbury! Spenworth!," I called again—this time at the top of my voice. And then I am not ashamed to confess that I hurried back to the house as fast as my legs would carry me.