It was about seven o'clock in the evening. Mrs. Clinton stood for a moment on the pavement, on which the light of a street lamp shone and was reflected from the wet stone, and paid her cabman. Then she turned to the tall dull house and rang the bell. In this house, in one of the narrow streets just off St. James's, Dick had had rooms for many years, but his mother had not been able to correct the cabman when he had first stopped at a wrong number. She had time to reflect on this fact before the door was opened to her. Captain Clinton was not in, said the man, but he generally came in to dress not later than half-past seven; and she said she would go to his room and wait.
The hall was narrow and dimly lighted. On a table under a tiny gas-jet were a dozen or so of bedroom candlesticks, and hanging on the wall a rack for letters and telegrams. The stairs were darkly druggeted. The man opened a door on the first floor, turned on the light and retired1, and she found herself in a furnished apartment such as is occupied by men of fashion in London. There was nothing to mark it off from superior furnished apartments anywhere. The furniture was of the solid Victorian type, the paper on the walls ugly, the carpet of a nondescript colour. There was a gilt2 clock on the mantelpiece and two coloured glass vases. The pictures had no value or beauty. On a marble-topped sideboard were a collection of gloves, caps, and hats, the silk ones beautifully ironed and brushed, and on the sofa were two or three carefully folded overcoats. These were all that spoke3 of Dick's occupancy of the rooms, on which otherwise he had made no sort of personal impress in a tenancy ranging over twelve years. There were no books, and not even a photograph belonging to him. Yet he paid the rent of a good house for this room and a bedroom behind the grained and varnished5 folding-doors, and was quite content with them. There was no bathroom in the house, and he had to go out for all his meals except breakfast; but he was valeted as well as if he had been at home.
Mrs. Clinton sat down in an easy-chair before the fire and looked around her once, her gaze resting for a minute on the closed doors between the two rooms. She might have wished to see what sort of bedroom Dick occupied, but she did not do so. She sat still and waited for half an hour, and then Dick came in. She heard him humming an air as he ran upstairs, but when he entered the room and saw her, half risen from her chair to receive him, he stopped short in utter surprise. "Why, mother!" he exclaimed, and for a moment his face was not welcoming. Then he came forward and kissed her. "Whatever wind blows you here?" he asked lightly.
"I am staying with Eleanor Birkett," she said. "I have come up to engage a governess for the children."
"Time to break them in, eh?" he said. "How are the young rascals6? Still raking in coins for their camera?"
She allowed herself a faint smile. "They are very well," she said.
"Well, shall we go and have a little dinner somewhere together, or are you dining in Queen's Gate?"
"I said I might not be back to dinner," she said. "I didn't know whether you would be engaged or not."
"No, I was going to dine at the club. That's capital. I'll just go and shift, if you don't mind waiting, and in the meantime you consider what Epicurean haunt you would like to go to." He went into his bedroom, giving her no time to say anything further if she had wished to, and left her to sit by the fire again and wait for him.
He came out again in a quarter of an hour, during which time she had heard splashings and movements, but no further humming of airs. "Verrey's, I think," he said. "You'll want to go somewhere quiet, eh?"
"Dick," she said, "I should like to have a little talk with you before we go out."
He was already putting on his scarf. "Let's dine first, mother," he said. "It's just upon eight, and I'm hungry. We can come back here afterwards, if you like."
Perhaps it was better that he should dine first, especially if he was hungry. "Very well," she said, and rose to go with him.
Driving through the streets, sitting over their dinner for an hour, and driving back again, nothing was said between them of what was certainly occupying Mrs. Clinton's mind, and must have been in Dick's. It was difficult for her to talk; they had so little in common besides the externals of home life, and at every turn in the conversation something came up that must not be said if there was to be no mention yet of the only thing that mattered at Kencote. But Dick seemed determined7 that there should be no mention of it, and by and by they got on to the subject of the twins and their new governess, and then the conversation was easier. She told him about the ladies she had interviewed, and he laughed at her descriptions of them. "Capital, mother!" he said. "You ought to write it all down." He was pleased with her. She was entertaining him, where he had thought she would be a drag on his well-meant efforts to entertain her. And because he was very well disposed towards her, it was gratifying to be able to feel that they were getting on happily together. His manner became warmer as the dinner proceeded, reflecting his feelings, which also became warmer. They had some quite sensible conversation about the twins and their education. Dick thought that the governess who had taught in the High School—Miss Phipp—was the right one. "They want discipline," he said. "That's what's missing in girls' education, especially when they are taught at home. It won't do those young women any harm to be made to grind at it. I'm for the school-marm, mother."
As they waited for a minute for a cab to be called up to take them back to Jermyn Street, Dick said, looking at her appreciatively, "What a pretty gown that is, mother! I've never seen it before." She flushed with pleasure, but said nothing. He handed her into the cab, and took his seat beside her. "We must have another little evening together before—— When are you going back, by the by?"
"To-morrow," she said.
"What a pity! Can't you stay till the next day, and come and do a play? I've got to-morrow night free."
But she said she must go back, and he did not press her further.
When they reached Dick's rooms and got out of the cab he told the man to wait and then turned to the door with his latch-key in his hand. "Please send him away," said Mrs. Clinton. "I came on purpose to have a talk with you, Dick."
"You needn't hurry away, mother," he said. "But you will want a cab by and by to go home in."
"I shan't feel comfortable while the minutes are ticking away," she said. "You can get me another one presently."
Dick laughed at her, but he paid the cabman, and they went up to his room together.
"Now, then, little mother," he said, as he took off his overcoat and scarf, "let's have it out. I'll mix myself a little liquid refreshment8, and if you don't mind my smoking a cigar, I shall be in a mood to give you my whole attention."
Now that the time had come to speak she was nervous, and did not know how to begin. Dick, apparently9 thoroughly10 at his ease, good-humoured with her, but not prepared, it seemed, to take her very seriously, lit another cigar, poured himself out whisky and undid11 the wire of a soda-water bottle before she spoke, and as she was beginning he spoke himself. "I'm going to be married next month," he said; "will you come to my wedding?" As he spoke the cord of the soda-water bottle flew out with a pop, and he said, "Steady now, steady!"
There was a pause, filled only with the sound of the water gurgling into the glass. Then Mrs. Clinton spoke. "Oh, Dick!" she said, "why do you treat me like this?"
He threw a glance at her, half furtive12. He had never heard her speak in that tone. She was looking at him with hurt eyes. "I am your mother," she said. "Do you think I have no feeling for my children? Have I been such a bad mother to you that it is right to put me aside as if I were of no account when a crisis comes in your life?"
He walked to the chair on the opposite side of the fire to hers, his glass in his hand, and sat down. There was a frown on his face. Like his father, he hated a scene, unless it was one of his own making, and especially he hated a scene with a woman. But it was true that he had treated his mother as if she were of no account. In the presence of the pain which her face and her voice had shown, he felt a sense of shame at the easy mastery he had displayed towards her during the evening, putting her wishes and her feelings aside, thinking only that it was rather tiresome13 of her to have intruded14 herself into his plans, and that her intrusion must be repelled15 with as little disturbance16 as possible.
She spoke again before he could reply to her. "You are always very charming to me, Dick—on the surface. You treat me with the greatest possible politeness, always, as you have done this evening. I know that many young men do not behave with such courtesy towards their mother, especially those who do not live in the same world as they do. But that charming behaviour is a very poor return for what a mother does for her children when they are wholly dependent on her. You used to come to me with all your troubles when you were a little boy, Dick. Am I so changed that you must shut me out of your life altogether, now?"
Conflicting emotions caused him intense discomfort17. "No, mother, no," he said. "But——"
She took him up. "But you don't want me any longer," she said, "and you haven't enough kindness in you to think that I may want you."
Underneath18 her smooth-flowing speech there was bitterness, almost cruelty; certainly cruelty, if deliberately19 to pierce self-satisfaction is cruel. For if there were any qualities in Dick against which he might have thought that no accusation20 could lie, they were his attitude towards women and the essential kindness of his heart. But she had shown him that external courtesy towards her had only hidden a deep discourtesy, and his kindness was base metal, not kindness at all.
But she had aroused, if not resentment21, opposition22. Her words had stung. If she wanted anything from him, that was not the way to get it. "Oh, come now, mother," he said, with some impatience23. "I——"
But she would not let him go on until she had said all that she had to say. "If you don't care for me, Dick, if you have lost all the love you had for me when you were a child, then I know it is of no use saying these things. Words can't bring back love, nor reproaches. And after all, it wasn't about myself that I came here to speak to you. Your indifference24 has caused me pain, but I should not have taxed you with it now; I should have kept silence as I have done for many years, if it had not been that my love for you has been there ready for you if you had ever wanted it, and I thought you might want it now. But I can do nothing to help you if you won't let me a little way into your heart. I must just stand aside and see the breach25 between you and your father widen, when it might be healed, and you could restore him to happiness as well as take your happiness yourself."
Dick's face became harder as she mentioned his father, who had not been mentioned between them during the evening. "What can you do with him?" he asked, with a shade of scorn in his voice. "He is utterly26 unreasonable27. He gets an idea into his head, and nothing will get it out."
Her voice was softer as she replied. "Dick dear, you know that isn't true."
He stirred uneasily in his chair. "It is true in this case," he said. "I suppose you mean that as a rule if you give him his head about anything you can pull him up and make him go the other way if you treat him carefully. I know you can, as a rule. This is an unfortunate exception to the rule."
"You have driven him into opposition by everything you have done," she said. "If you had been a little patient——"
"Oh, I was as patient as possible, at first," he interrupted her. "But he went beyond everything. The only thing was to go away until he had come to his senses. From what I have heard, through Walter, he is worse than ever. He is going to cut me off with a shilling. Well, let him. I can't imagine anything that will bother him more during the rest of his life than to have the prospect28 of Kencote divided up after his death. I can't imagine him thinking of such a thing. I'm not thinking of myself and what I'm going to get when I say it's a wicked thing to do. He's always looked upon the place as a sort of trust. It is a trust, and he is going to betray it for the sake of scoring off me. He must know that a threat of that sort would be the last thing to move me. It is spite, and spite that hurts him as much as it hurts me."
"Oh, Dick! Dick!" she said.
He gave another uneasy hitch29 to his body. Her gentle admonition showed him as no argument could have shown him from what source his speech had come.
"Of course I'm sore," he said, answering her implied reproach. "Any man would be sore in such a case. I believe you have seen Virginia. I ask you plainly, mother, if you are on his side—the sort of mud he throws at her—you know. Because if you are——"
"No, Dick dear," she said. "I have seen her, and I am not—not on his side, in that."
Her words, and the tone in which they were spoken, softened30 his anger. "You would welcome her as my wife?" he asked.
"Oh yes, I would," she said. "And I will, Dick, when this trouble is over. If she will love me I will love her. Yes, I have seen her, twice."
"Thank you very much, mother," he said quietly, after a short pause.
"Dick," she began again, "you know your father. You know how unhappy it must make him to be parted from you. You are bearing very hardly on him."
"And he on me, mother," said Dick. "What do you want me to do? Give up Virginia? You haven't come here to ask me to do that?"
"No, not that, Dick."
"Or to wait for a year? That's Walter's scheme—at least, I believe it's Herbert Birkett's. Very kind of him to take a hand in the discussion. But I'm not going to wait a year. I'm not going to wait any time. Why should I? If I make concessions31 of that sort I'm giving away my case, I'm admitting that there's some sense in the objections made—some reason in them. There's none. I won't submit Virginia to the indignity32. I'm sorry now I ever got her down to Meadshire. I did that because I knew what—what his prejudices would be, and I thought he should have a chance of getting over them."
"Then you did think, at first, that there was something to be said for his prejudices."
"Er—yes—to the extent that if I had put it baldly that I was going to marry a widow, an American, who had been for a time on the stage—years ago—although I confess I didn't think that would be known—there might be trouble. I thought then, and I think now, that if he had given her a fair chance—if he had got to know her, he couldn't possibly take the line he has. There isn't a soul down there—I've heard all about it—who isn't at her feet. It makes me furious—I hardly let myself think about it—that he should behave as he does. No, mother, it has gone too far. There is nothing I can do now, after all that has happened, that wouldn't be an admission of weakness."
She did not speak immediately. "Have you made up your mind," she asked, "to cut yourself off from all of us—never to come to Kencote again until your father dies—never to see him again?"
"Not to make the first advance, Dick. If you marry now, without his consent, definitely against his wishes, he will make the alteration34 as to the succession that he has threatened. That will be between you. He will be very unhappy—for the rest of his life—but he will have taken a step that will make it ten times more difficult for you to come together than it is now, and——"
"As far as the alteration in his will goes," Dick broke in on her, "I have thought all that over. As I say, it's a step he has no right to take under the circumstances, but if it is to come, if I am to come into the place—or what's left of it—with my wings clipped for money, then I say I'm ready to face it, and I don't mind as much as I thought I should. Perhaps I've thought too much about money—having everything cut and dried, and nothing to do for it. It was that that made me make the mistake of getting Virginia to go down to Blaythorn. I was afraid of what might happen—what he might do. It was rather mean, in a way. I don't care what he does. At least, I care, but it isn't a thing one ought to think too much about. Other fellows work to give their wives a home. I'm going to do that, and I like the idea of it."
"I think that is a good thing to do," she said rather slowly. "But—well, you mustn't mind my speaking, plainly, Dick—I think, too, that in your case you may make too much of it. I mean that your mind is probably full of it now, and it is a great relief to you that you have found a way out of what might have been a serious difficulty, and that you are not dependent on your father in your marriage. But there is Kencote to be thought of. You are the eldest35 son, and your natural place in the world is there. At present, with your new happiness coming to you, you are able to detach your mind from it. But when the novelty of your new life has worn off——"
"Oh, mother, I am not a child," he interrupted her. "I know there is Kencote to be thought of, but not for many years yet—at least, I hope so. And if I am to be partially36 disinherited, you know"—he looked at her with a smile—"I think I had better detach my mind from it as much as possible, don't you?"
Again she was silent for a time, and then she said, "Do you remember when you were a little boy, Dick, and we were together in the garden one summer evening, and I was telling you about the Clintons, who had lived at Kencote for so many hundreds of years, and you asked me why some people lived in beautiful places like that and others were poor and had no nice homes? And your father had come out to join us—he was a young man then—and he answered your question, and told you that things were arranged like that, and some day Kencote would be yours, and you must learn to love every acre of it, and know all the people who lived about you and do the best you could for them when you were grown up and were the master of Kencote."
"Yes, I remember quite well," said Dick. "It was the first lesson I had in the duties of a landowner."
"We were very happy then," she said. "We used to talk over things together, and father took a pride in you, and did all he could to make your childhood happy and make you take a pride in Kencote."
"Yes, he did," said Dick. "He gave me a very good time as a boy. And so did you, mother. I remember our talks in the garden and in the old schoolroom, and going to church with you, and about the village. I shall never forget those days."
"You grew up at Kencote," she said. "I know you have always loved it, and have come home to us whenever you could. Dick, you can't give it up, and give us up, your parents who both love you. You will make yourself unhappy, as well as us."
He was thoughtful and uneasy. "Of course, it's a blow," he said. "I do love the place."
"And us too, Dick, don't you—a little?"
"Oh, mother!" he said. "You have always been very good to me. Perhaps I've been rather a brute37 to you—taking things for granted, and not showing that I remembered. I do remember, you know. I had a good time as a child, and I owe a lot to you."
"And to father too," she said. "Think of all he did for you and how proud he has always been of you. He has made a mistake now—I think he has, and I tell you so—but, Dick, you are not going to punish him—and me and yourself—by destroying, for always, everything that keeps us united as a family?"
Again he moved uneasily. "Well, what on earth am I to do?" he asked. "I've told you what I feel about it all."
"Well, don't you feel exactly as your father does? Aren't you acting38 just as you blame him for acting? Don't you see how like you are to him in many ways?"
"The poor old governor!" said Dick. "I'm sorry for him in a way. But I hope I don't act with quite such disregard for common sense as he does."
"You act from pique39. He thinks you are in the wrong, and won't give way, although he would like to. And you think he is in the wrong and you won't move towards him. There's something better even than common sense, Dick, which he shows and you don't. It is love."
"I don't think you can reasonably say he has shown me much of that lately, mother," said Dick.
"You keep away from him," she said. "If you were to come home you would see how he has been longing4 for you, and you would be sorry for him. Even if people wrong us, if they love us and we see it, it is not difficult to forgive them. If you would come home I think all your anger would disappear, however much you may think you are justified40 in it. I have never seen your father so unhappy and so troubled. For his sake, Dick, for the sake of all that he has done for you, come home to us. That was what I came here to ask of you."
He was silent for some time, struggling with himself. "I'll come," he said shortly, "but you must tell him, mother, that I am going to be married soon. I can't come to enter into that question again with him. It is settled."
"Very well," she said quietly, and there was silence between them for a time.
"And now tell me of your plans, Dick," she said presently in a lighter41 tone. "You must remember that I have heard nothing, and I want to hear everything."
"Oh, I'm going up to Yorkshire next week to get the house ready. Virginia is coming with me and we are going to stay with Spence. It is a nice old stone house with a big garden and a view of the moors42, and the sea beyond. Look here, mother, can't you do anything? You have brought me round, you know. I'm going to do what you want, against my own inclinations43. I shan't be very comfortable at Kencote. Can't you go and see Virginia? It's rather hard luck for her, poor girl, to be treated as if she were a pariah44 by all my people. Something's owing to her, and a good deal, I think."
"I should like very much to know her," she said. "Whether I can go definitely against your father's wishes, whether I should do any good by doing so, is a difficult question to decide."
"Well, I suppose I can see that," he said. "You have got to live with him. But if we are to make it up at all, he and I, which I own I haven't much hope of, there'll have to be give and take on both sides. You ought not to get me down to Kencote and then take his part against me."
"We must wait a little," she said. "What I can do I will do. Oh, Dick dear, I am so glad you are going to be happy. I have thought about you such a lot."
He came over to her and kissed her. "You're a good little mother," he said. "I wish I'd carried you off bodily to see Virginia when she first went down there. You would have got on well together."
"Oh, and we shall," she said, "as soon as these unhappy difficulties are over. Now I shall go back home with a quiet mind. I'm sure, Dick, if you are patient with your father, all the difficulties will melt away. It rests with you, dear boy, and I'm sure you will act wisely. Now I must be going back, if you will send for a cab for me."
"I'll take you back," said Dick. "I want to tell you all about everything, mother."
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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underneath
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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accusation
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resentment
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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utterly
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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softened
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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37
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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38
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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40
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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41
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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42
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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43
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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