Best Short Stories Omnibus - Volume 3

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER IX.

THE REVELATION.

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She woke suddenly with the sense that somebody was by her, and found Horace seated by her bed. She had fallen asleep in the brightness of the morning, overcome with fatigue, and also partly calmed by having confided her secret to another: even when it is painful, when it is indiscreet, it is always a relief. The bosom is no longer bursting with that which it is beyond its power to contain. She woke suddenly with that sense of some one looking at her which breaks the deepest sleep. She was still in her dressing-gown, lying upon her bed. "Horace!" she said, springing up.

"I am so glad you have had a sleep. Don't jump up like that; you look so tired, mother, so worn out."

"Not now, my dear; I feel quite fresh now. Did you enjoy your evening?"

"What does it matter about my evening?" he said, almost sternly. "Mother, do you know that old Fareham came up by the night train?"

"Yes, Horace," she said, turning her head away.

"You knew? Do you think you are treating me fairly—I that am more interested than any one? What is the matter? The business has gone wrong. Do you mean to say that my father—my father——?"

Poor Horace's voice faltered. That it should be his father was the extraordinary thing, as it always is full of mystery to us how misfortune, much less shame, should affect us individually. He looked at his mother with a look which was imperative and almost commanding, not perplexed and imploring, as it had been before. Mr Fareham's arrival had thrown light, as Horace thought, on the mystery—light which to him, as a young man destined to be a merchant prince, and to convey to the world higher ideas of commerce altogether, was more dreadful than anything else could have been. He thought he saw it all; and that as no one would be so deeply affected as he, his mother had been weakly trying to hide it from him. Horace felt that his spirit would rise with disaster, and that he was capable of raising the house again and all its concerns from the ground.

And for a moment she caught at this new idea. To her own feminine mind disaster to the business was as nothing in comparison with what had happened. If others could make him believe this, it would be a way out of the worse revelation. This was how she contemplated the matter. She said, "It was I who sent for Mr Fareham. He is a very old friend, and his interests are all bound up with ours."

"Then that is what it is. He has been speculating. Oh, how could you conceal such a thing from me? How could you keep me in the dark? Mother, I don't mean to be unkind, but this is nothing to you in comparison with what it is to me. You don't care for a man's credit," said Horace, rising and striding about the room, "or the reputation of the firm, or anything of real importance, in comparison with his health or his comfort or some personal matter. His health—of what consequence is that in comparison? Mother, mother, I shall find it hard to forgive you if you have let our credit be put in danger without warning me."

This reproach was one that she had not looked for, and that took her entirely by surprise. She looked up at him, still feeling that what there was to say was worse, far worse than anything he could imagine, yet startled and confused by his vehemence. "I—I—don't think the credit of the house will suffer," she said, faltering a little.

"It is not so bad as that? But then why did you send for old Fareham? You ought to have taken no step without consulting me. I understand this sort of thing better than you do," he said, with an impatience which he could not suppress. "Mamma, I beg your pardon; everything else I am sure you know better—but the business! Don't you know I have been brought up to that? I mind nothing so much as the credit of the house."

"Nothing, Horace?" she said, faintly.

"Nothing," he repeated with vehemence, "nothing! Of course," he added after a moment, "if papa were ill I should be very sorry: but he must not play with our credit, mother—he must not; that is the one thing. What has he been doing? Surely not anything to do with those new bubble companies?"

"Oh, Horace, how can I tell you? Wait till Mr Fareham comes back."

"He has gone to see papa, then? I thought it must be that; but why, why not tell me? I am not very old, perhaps, but I know about the business, and care more for it than any one else. I would make any sacrifice, but our credit must not be touched—it must not be touched."

"Compose yourself, Horace; it need not be touched, so far as I can see."

This calmed him a little, and he sat down by her, and took pains to explain his views to her. "You see, mamma," he said kindly, but with a little natural condescension, "ladies have such a different way of looking at things. You think of health and comfort and good temper, and all that, when a man thinks of his affairs and his reputation. You would be more distracted if the governor" (at home Horace never ventured on this phrase, but it suited the atmosphere of town) "had a bad accident, or got into a snappish state, than if he had pledged the credit of the firm. It is nice in you to think so, but it would be silly in a man."

"You think then, Horace, that nothing can be so bad as trouble to the firm. You think that loss of money——?"

"Loss of money is not everything," he said, testily. "I hope Lycett-Landon's could lose a lot of money without being much the worse. The fact is, you don't understand. It is always the personal you dwell upon. I am not reproaching you, mamma; it is your nature." He patted her hand as he said this, and looked at her with a half-smile of boyish wisdom and superiority, very kindly compassionating her limited powers.

This silenced her once more: and so they remained for some time, he sitting thoughtfully by her, she reclining on the bed looking at him, trying to read the meaning in his face. At last she said tremulously, "I am not quite so bad as you think: but perhaps a matter that touched our family peace, that sundered us from each other—disunited us——"

He kept on patting her hand, but more impatiently than before. "Nothing could do that—permanently," he said. And he asked no more questions. He was a little, a very little, contemptuous of his mother. "I ought to have gone along with old Fareham. We should have talked it over together. I suppose now I must have patience till he comes back. When do you think he will come back? Can't I go and join him there? Oh, you think papa wouldn't like it? Well, perhaps he might not. It is rather hard upon me, all the same, to wait on and know nothing."

"Don't you think if you were to take a walk, Horace, or go and see the pictures——?"

"Oh, the pictures! in this state of anxiety? Well, yes, I think I will take a walk; it is better than staying indoors. And don't you make yourself unhappy, mother. It can't have been going on very long, and no doubt we shall pull through."

Saying this with a cloudy smile, Horace went away, waving his hand to her as he went out. She then got up and dressed with a stupefied sensation, taking all the usual pains about her toilet, though with a sense that it was absolutely unimportant. She could not remember what day it was, or what month, or even what year. She was conscious of having received a remorseless and crushing blow, but that was all; when she had left home or whether she would ever go back to it, she could not tell; neither could she form the least idea of what was going to happen when old Mr Fareham came back. She forgot that she had not breakfasted, and even, what was more wonderful, that to save appearances it was necessary to make believe to breakfast. Everything of the kind was swept away. She went into the sitting-room and sat down at the window like an abstract woman in a picture. It was very strange to her to do nothing; and yet she never thought of doing anything, but sat down and waited—waited for something that was about to happen, not knowing what it might be.

She had not waited long when one of the hotel servants knocked at the door, and, opening it, admitted a stranger whom she had never seen before—a small, thin woman in a widow's dress, who stood hesitating, looking at her with a pair of anxious eyes, and for the first moment said nothing. Mrs Lycett-Landon was roused by the unlooked-for appearance of this visitor. She rose up, wondering, at such a moment, who it was that could have come to disturb her. The stranger was very timid and shy. She hung about the door as if there were a protection in being near it.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "I don't even know by what name to speak to you. But one of my daughter's maids saw you yesterday get into a cab, and then we heard you had come here."

"I think I understand; your daughter is——?"

"Mrs Landon, madam, where you called yesterday. You asked for me, and then went away without seeing me. I could not help feeling anxious. You may think it presuming in me to track you out like this, but I do feel anxious. We were afraid perhaps that my son-in-law——"

She had a wistful, deprecating look, like that of a woman who had not received much consideration in the course of her life. She watched the face of the person she addressed with an anxiety which evidently was habitual, as if to see how far she might go, to avoid all possible offence. Mrs Lycett-Landon returned the look with one which was full of alarm, almost terror. It seemed impossible that she could get through this interview without revealing everything; and the small, anxious, hesitating figure looked so little able to bear any shock.

"Will you sit down?" she said, offering her a chair.

The stranger accepted it gratefully, with a timid smile of thanks. She seemed to take this little civility as a good omen, and brightened perceptibly. She was very carefully, neatly dressed, but her crape was somewhat rusty, and the black gown evidently taken much care of. She twisted her hands together nervously.

"We were afraid," she repeated, "that perhaps Mr Landon—had got himself into trouble with his own family because of his marriage; and that you had come perhaps—to see. We were so delighted that you should have come; and then when we found you had gone away——"

Her voice trembled a little as she spoke. She watched every movement of the face which regarded her with such strange emotion, ready to stop, to modify any word that displeased.

"Then did you let him—did you give him your daughter—without any inquiries, without knowing anything——?"

"Oh, madam," the widow cried, clasping and unclasping her nervous hands, "perhaps I was imprudent. But at his age one does not think of the family approving. If he had been a younger man——But who could have any right to interfere at his age?"

"That is true—that is very true!"

"And you see it came upon me, you might say, unexpectedly. I saw that he was getting fond of Rose; but I never thought, if you will excuse me for saying so, that she would marry a gentleman so much older—and then it was so sudden at the last. He had leave from his office, and the opportunity of getting away——"

"Leave from his office!" The listener could not help repeating this with a curious cry of indignation. It gave her a shock, in the midst of so many shocks. As for the widow, this interruption confused her. She trembled and stumbled in her simple tale.

"And so—and so—it was settled at last in a hurry. I have not very strong health, and I was very glad that Rose should be settled. Oh yes, I was glad that she should have some one to take care of her in case anything happened. I had confidence that you could feel for me as a mother; perhaps you are a mother yourself."

The widow stopped short when she had made this suggestion, with a momentary panic; for Rose's idea had been that the lady who had appeared and disappeared so suddenly was a sister, perhaps a maiden sister. Her mother judged otherwise, but then paused, afraid.

"Yes, I am a mother myself."

"I thought so—I thought so! and I felt sure you would feel for me as a mother. It was Rose I had to think of. As for his family, at his age, you will understand——But it makes my poor girl very unhappy to think she may have been the means of separating him from his relations. I tell her a wife is more to a man than any other relation. But still, if it could be possible to make a reconciliation—if you would be so kind as to help us——"

The nervous hands clasped together; the little hesitating woman looked with a face full of prayer and entreaty at the lady who sat there before her, like an arbiter of fate. If she could have known how the heart was beating in that lady's breast! Mrs Lycett-Landon did not speak for some time, not being able to command her voice. Then she said, tremulously, but with a great effort to be calm—

"You don't know what you ask. I am the last person——"

"Oh, madam!"

She had an old-fashioned, over-respectful way of using this word. And there was no fear or suspicion of the truth, though much anxiety, in her eyes.

"Oh, madam! you have a kind face; and who should be the one to make peace but such as you, that can feel for a young creature, and knows what is in a mother's heart?"

The words were scarcely out of her lips when Horace entered hastily, asking, before he saw that any stranger was present—

"Mother, has Fareham come back?"

"No, Horace; but you see I am engaged."

"I beg your pardon," he said, surprised by the look of agitation in the stranger's face. But he was terribly excited. "I won't stay a moment; but do please tell me papa's address. I cannot wait and knock about all day. Old Fareham is so tedious; he will take hours about it. Tell me my father's address."

Horace was not without wiles of his own. He thought it more likely that he should extract this address when somebody was there.

"Horace, I am engaged, as you can see."

"Only a moment, mother; it was something flowery—Laburnum, or Acacia, or something. If I go to the office I can get it in a moment."

The little widow rose up; something strange and terrible came over her face.

"Young gentleman," she said, "are you any relation to Mr Lycett-Landon? You will tell me if no one else will."

"Relation?" said Horace, with a laugh, "oh yes; only his son, that is all!"

"And this lady? This lady is——?"

"My mother; who else should she be?" the youth said.

There was a moment during which the two women stood gazing at each other in an awful suspension of all sound or thought. And then the visitor uttered a great and terrible cry, and fell down at their feet upon the floor.