This mother, Emory had soon perceived, was of no real use to William, and at first she had thought that any connection between William and his mother must have ended with the physical cutting of the umbilical cord. Later she had seen that she had been wrong. Mrs. Lane had created a division in William. To her he owed his respect for wealth, for castles, for birth, for—
At this point Emory checked herself. She was being nasty, for did she not enjoy William’s wealth? Worse than that she was being unjust to him, whose soul hungered after higher things than those which he had. She wanted William to be really happy and not in the way that America meant happiness, which was something too fervid and occasional. She wanted William to be satisfied in ways that she knew he was not. She wanted his restless ambition stilled, and the vague wounds of his life healed. Some of them she had been able to heal merely by being what she was, English and his wife.
Hulme Castle was unusually beautiful on the afternoon when they were driven up the long winding road from the downs. The winter had been mild, the chauffeur said, explaining the amount of greenery about the old towers and walls.
Her parents were in the long drawing room, though it was not yet noon, and she was touched to think they were waiting for her, putting aside their usual morning pursuits.
“My dears—” she said, bending to kiss them.
William was quietly formal and nothing much was said. Her parents did not feel at ease with him, nor, as she saw, quite at ease even with her. Then Michael came in dressed in his riding things and ease flowed into the room with him.
“I say, you two — you haven’t been shown up to your part of the castle yet?”
“You told us not,” Lady Hulme reminded him.
“No. Come along. I wanted to show it to you,” Michael said.
They followed him, laughing at his impatience, and then Emory saw that even William, so scant in his praise of anyone, was touched by what Michael had done. He had really made a small private castle of one wing. It had its separate entrance, its own kitchen, and four baths.
“I shall be able to rest here, Emory,” William said so gravely that she perceived he needed rest.
“Come along, William,” Michael said when they had seen everything. “We’d better leave Emory for a bit with her mother. I have to ride to the next town to see about getting a tractor. I thought we’d get our luncheon there, perhaps. You could advise me — it’s an American machine.”
Emory laughed. “You’re not very subtle, Michael, but then you never were.” They laughed with her and went off, nevertheless, and she lunched with her parents.
The castle, she discovered, was in a strange state of flux. Her father, deeply angry over the increase in death duties, was threatening to move into the gate house with her mother and a couple of servants and let Michael take the castle and assume title so far as was possible. She listened to this talk at the immense dining table, her father at one end, her mother at the other, and she in between as she used to be.
“It’s hard on a man not being able to finish his days in his proper place,” the Earl said.
He fell into silence over his roast beef and port, a silence which his wife could not allow for long.
“What are you thinking of, Malcolm, pray tell?” Lady Hulme asked. She did not drink port for it made small red veins come out on her nose.
“Do you remember, my dear, that old chap we dug up in the church when we put. in the hot-water pipes?” the Earl asked with entire irrelevance.
“Father, what makes you think of him now?” Emory asked.
“He’d been lying there a hundred and fifty years, you know, and his bones were as good as anything, white as chalk, but holding together, you know,” the Earl replied.
Lady Hulme was diverted by the memory. She remembered perfectly clearly the June morning years ago when the men came to say that they had struck a coffin in Hulme Abbey and both of them had gone over to look at it. The coffin was only wood and was quite gone really except for bits of metal, but there in the dust lay the most beautiful silvery skeleton. Luckily it was not a Hulme ancestor but some physician who had served the family and had been given the honor of burial in the abbey.
“You don’t think that he took drugs or something that kept his bones hard?” she now asked.
“Might have,” the Earl conceded. “Still, perhaps it was only the dryness of the abbey, eh? Maybe the hundreds of sermons the vicars preached, eh?”
He choked on his own humor and exploded into frightful coughing. Lady Hulme waited. He choked rather easily nowadays, especially on port. When he subsided, red-eyed and gasping, she felt it wise to change the subject, lest he be tempted to another joke.
Before she could speak Emory lifted her head.
“Hark — Isn’t that the horses?” They listened.
“Yes,” she exclaimed. “It’s William.”
She got up with her stealing grace and went out, and Lady Hulme said aloud what she had been thinking.
“Do you like Emory’s husband — really, I mean?”
“How could anybody like him?” the Earl replied in a voice restored to common sense. “There is something feverish in him.”
“I thought he seemed as cool as anything today.”
“He is the sort that burns inside, you know, my dear, like that what’s-his-name from India that we dined with once at Randford. I don’t know how the Earl felt but I know I was jolly glad to be away after dinner.”
“What’s-his-name” was a small dark man named Mohandas Gandhi. He had come over to England for conferences and he had refused to wear proper clothes or eat proper food. The government had been compelled to recognize him, nevertheless, and there was a frightful picture of him taken with the King and wearing almost nothing — just the bed sheet or whatever it was that he wrapped about his nakedness. It did seem that when a man came to a civilized country he might behave better. When the Earl of Hulme had muttered as much behind his mustaches to the Earl of Randford, his host had smiled at him and murmured in reply:
“You are simple, my dear fellow. Gandhi is too clever for you. His hold on the masses of India is immense just because he won’t wear anything but the sheet. That’s what the peasants wear and they like to think that one of them wears a sheet right in the presence of you and me and even the King. It makes them trust him. If he put on striped trousers and a morning coat, they’d think he had betrayed them.”
The Earl of Hulme had been stupefied by such independence and now felt that if something had been done about it then India would not be dreaming today of getting away from the Empire. What would happen to the world if men were allowed to come into the presence of their betters dressed like goatherds? Upon that day he had stared a good deal at the small man whose perpetual smile was as cool as a breeze, and after an hour of this persistent gaze he had discerned beneath the coolness what he called the fever. He recognized it because he had seen it elsewhere. There had been a curate in his youth who had burned to improve the lot of the tenants, and he had seen the old Earl, his father, fly into fury.
“Read your Bible, sir!” the old nobleman had thundered at the tall, hungry-eyed curate. “Does it or does it not say that I am to put my tenants into palaces?”
“It says the strong must bear the burdens of the weak,” the foolhardy man had replied.
That was the curate’s end. He had killed himself as nicely as though a rope had been put about his neck. He had left in disgrace and was never heard of again. But young Malcolm, watching, had felt the fever burning inside that lean frame. On the last day, when he thought the curate had gone, he found himself face to face with him in the park. The chap had walked about to find him.