“She was not a hostess then. It is kind of her to think of it. So you have been drinking tea as you dislike it, for all these weeks?”
“Well, let us say as I once liked it.”
“I did not know you were so childish.”
“They say we are all children to our mothers. So perhaps this is an illustration of it.”
“Why did you not tell me, Miss Wolsey?”
“I did not think of it,” said Hester, who had done so and thought better of it.
“You need your mother to care for you, my son. I should not have let you drink distasteful tea, if I had known.”
“Well, I will depend on you in future, Mother, and feel I am wise to do so.”
Plautus jumped on to Rosebery’s knee, causing him to start and exclaim.
“My son is not used to animals,” said Miranda.
“Hardly to an animal who joins the family at table,” said Rosebery, keeping his tone light, and caressing Plautus.
The latter put his face over the edge of the table and regarded the fare without emotion.
“There is nothing he likes but the milk,” said Hester.
Plautus reached her side, waited for his supply of this, and gave his being up to it.
“Now does a human creature yield himself so wholeheartedly to anything?” said Emma.
“Hardly to anything to eat, in public,” said Rosebery.
“He ought to have his meals in the kitchen,” said Miss Burke.
She took up the saucer, and it appeared to lift Plautus’s head up with it and draw him in its wake.
“When you have supplied his needs, Miss Burke,” said Rosebery, on her return, “what reward does he make you?”
“He relies on me to go on supplying them.”
“And that is a reward surely,” said Hester. “I am always grateful for it.
“I am not so easily grateful,” said Miss Burke.
“I trust that does not imply that you have met small cause for gratitude?” said Rosebery.
“Why should it do so?” said his mother.
“It might suggest that easy gratitude had been expected.”
“It does not do to be afraid to be grateful. We all have our reasons for being so.”
“Mother, you bade me keep an eye on the time. And I have the ungrateful task of saying it is running short.”
“Well, our pleasant day must end,” said Miranda. “And it has been very pleasant, Miss Wolsey. We thank you indeed for letting us see your home and helping us to know you better. And we are most glad to have met Miss Greatheart, and hope we may welcome her at our own home very soon.”
“And there is the other member of the household,” said Hester, lifting Plautus and offering his paw.
“Yes, I must not forget the cat. I am sure it is a most fortunate animal,” said Miranda, not suspecting that the paw was at her disposal, and gathering her wraps. “Come, my son, we have no time to lose.”
She went down the path, swift and upright, but betraying that it cost her an effort to be so. Rosebery followed at once, to leave Hester to her farewells. At the gate he turned in serious recollection to take leave of Miss Burke, an observance no one else had omitted.
“So we see Hester following her employer with quiet dignity,” said Emma. “Why is dignity always quiet? Perhaps it is a good thing that it is. And is it ever shown in fortunate circumstances? Perhaps it is not necessary then. I am glad Mrs. Hume has no curiosity unsatisfied. We should always consider a guest. Why do she and her son like each other so much?”
“I wonder if they really do,” said Miss Burke.
“I wondered whether to wonder that. But it did not seem to be necessary. Perhaps they like each other too well. But there did not seem any sign of it. Is it possible that they are just a devoted mother and son? Or can’t people be that?”
Chapter VI
“Yes, I have had a good day, Julius, a day of interest and pleasure; it is true. But I have to see it as the last piece of pleasure I shall have. I am tired and spent after it, and can hardly give you my account. Well, Miss Wolsey has a good home, and a good friend, and everything that goes with them; and, oddly enough, a housekeeper who came about the post as my companion; you may remember her, a nondescript woman whose name was Burke. She seems to have spoken in my favour, a thing I should not have expected. I made a better impression on her than she on me. But I am inclined to alter my opinion. She is more of a person than I thought.”
“Well, you could not know she took that view of you. I remember that you could not.”
“I think, Father, that she appears a good deal of a person,” said Rosebery, entering behind his mother. “I regard it as a signal instance of the magnanimity that may mark the narrow walks of life. We have not the monopoly of such things.”
“Did you think we had?”
“I think we are inclined to associate certain qualities with certain conditions. And they may be fostered by them. That is why this example stands by itself.”
“It was certainly kind,” said Miranda. “But it cost her nothing. We need not make too much of it.”
“Mother, surely the less it cost her, the more it speaks for her. We may be in more danger of making too little of it. How many of us, struggling along an uncertain path, would pause to give a thought to our more fortunate fellows by the way? More fortunate; that is the point to mark. The service, though small, should rank high in the account of human merit. I wish it could win recognition.”
“Well, you have given it your own, and can do no more. You can turn your thoughts to your mother. I have something to say to you, my son. Come closer to me and hear it. It is not a sad thing in itself or to me, but sad, I fear, to you. It is the sadness we knew was coming nearer. Yes, my days are numbered, Rosebery; not as they must be for the old, but actually for me. My heart has done its work, and can do no more. And I daresay it has done enough. The doctors were plain with me, when they saw I would brook nothing else. They wanted to see you or your father, but I could say my own word. And now I have said it, no more must be asked of me. My life is spent, and I must lean on others at the last.”
Miranda’s voice broke on a querulous note, but with no undertone of despair. She had had her time, and would see nothing tragic in its close.
The two men came to her side.
“Miranda, my wife, so it has come, what we have seen ahead. I hoped I should overtake it, but it has held its own. For both of us it is the end.”
“Not for you. You have further to go, though perhaps not so far. You will have the children. For you it is not the worst. It is for my son that it is that.”
“Mother, it is. But I would not have it otherwise. It is the mark of what I have had. Together we have gone our way; together we will go on, even though with a veil between; even though the one be taken and the other left.”
“The days will pass,” said Miranda, in a quiet tone. “They will not be many or long. The weakness will come and go, and will come for the last time. And everything else will have done the same. Things have gone easily with me; they are to go easily to the end.”
“You see it, Miranda. You are one by yourself,” said Julius.
“They will go hard with me, Mother. I must say the word of myself. There must still be truth between us.”
“We have always leant on you, my wife. We must have your comfort for your leaving us. You must help us with it.”
“Some women might do so. I know it has been done. Dying persons have ordered their own deathbeds. But it is not to be so with me. The time is not our own. I shall go without warning, to you or myself. If there is anything to say, it should be said.”
“Mother, there has been no secret between us. There is none now. My mind and heart are open to yours. Nothing holds us from each other.”