FRED went to his mother’s room, about which an agitated crowd had already gathered, the two girls and their maid, and an anxious domestic or two from downstairs, besides Mrs. Dalyell’s own maid, who was with her mistress. Foggo stood outside on the staircase, anxious to know if he should go for the doctor, and still more anxious to know what had happened, for there was already a conviction in the house that it was not mere illness which had produced that shriek which startled everybody. Mrs. Dalyell was not the kind of woman to shriek from physical pain, and there had been a whisper in the house that the horseman had been heard in the avenue, which, naturally, was a preparation for trouble. Fred, however, was not admitted till some time later, of which the poor young fellow was glad: for he was in no condition to meet his mother in the nervous and excited state in which she must be, while he himself was so shaken and miserable from the same cause. He went to his own room and endeavoured there to calm himself, and thrust away the appalling question that was now before him. How lately he had said to himself that his father’s previsions had all been mistaken, and instead of having to take upon himself the anxieties and cares of the head of the house, to break off his studies and turn his thoughts to the grave side of life, he had only been more free, more independent, than before, since he had succeeded his father as Dalyell of Yalton. Ah! but who could have thought of this, this further chapter of disaster, unimaginable, incurable, which would involve the name of Dalyell of Yalton in dishonour and shame—the name his ancestors had borne in credit and pride, the name that poverty and ruin could not have stained, but which must now perish amid records of deceit and fraud. Fred’s very heart seemed to shrink and wither up within him when he thought of what he had now to do. It would be his to put the stamp of shame upon that name—to expose the whole disgraceful story, the dishonest means by which downfall had been staved off, only to fall more dreadfully upon the unhappy and innocent now. No, he must not palter with right and wrong, he must not allow any sentiment of pity either for the criminal or for himself to steal in. The criminal! Now that Fred had time to think, that criminal—whose very name he could not endure to think of—whom he had denounced and disowned with such force and almost hatred—had looked at him, oh, with such fatherly eyes! He had scarcely said anything, not a word in his own defence. Fred felt that if he had stayed another minute his courage would have failed him, and the old dear familiar image would have regained its power. The criminal!—worse than a fraudulent bankrupt, almost worse than a suicide, and yet so like—oh, so like——! Oh, he must not think, he must not allow himself to fail in his duty. In a week’s time—that was what he had said—to give full time for that fugitive to escape, that he might not be taken or injured, or brought to justice. In a week’s time! There must be no paltering with duty. It was clear before him what he had to do.
And then there began to pluck as it were at the skirts of Fred’s mind thoughts of what this thing was, of what it must have cost. Had not the man died, had he not more than died? It was not suicide, but it was worse. He had given his life while still a living man. Strange words crept into Fred’s mind, which did not come there of themselves, as if some one had thrown them into the surging sea of passion and pain which was within him. Greater love hath no man than this. Oh, silence, silence! these words were said of another, a greater—one Divine. Greater love hath no man than this: they came back and back: as if they could be applied to a man who was a sinner, who had committed a fraud, and deceived his fellow men! Had he deceived them? Had he not died? Died more terribly, more completely than the man in the family grave in Yalton churchyard, who was not Robert Dalyell. Which would one choose if one had to choose? Surely the home in the churchyard, the tablet on the wall—and not the life of an outcast, the death in life of a man who had no identity, who had neither name nor fame. Fred’s young soul was rent asunder by these thoughts. There had been no relenting in him, no pity. But now outraged nature avenged herself. Oh, how cruel he had been, how harsh!—not a word of kindness in him, not a softening touch. And he ought not to think of nature now, he ought not to be moved by kindness. He ought to subdue all relenting. In a week’s time! He must set his face like brass. He must think of nothing that could make him fail.
It was late when Fred was called to his mother, and he went down as timid as a child called to an interview of which it knows nothing, but that it must involve terrific consequences. He had looked at himself anxiously in the glass before he obeyed the summons, wishing that he knew some way of making himself look less pale, his eyes less excited. The girls knew ways of doing this, Fred believed, but he did not know. He plunged his head into cold water to relieve the heaviness and heat he felt, as of something bursting from his forehead; and then he went downstairs, slowly labouring to collect his thoughts to think what he should say. Mrs. Dalyell was in bed, her head with the background of the red curtains looking at the first glance almost ghastly, her face very pale, her eyes excited like his own. She grasped him by both hands and made him sit down by her. The candles were still burning, but a faint glimmer of blue showed between the curtains. She kept holding his hand, but it was a minute or two before she spoke.
“Fred, do you know if I said anything? What did I say? What did they tell you? Did they say that I——?” She gasped for breath, and could not finish the sentence, but did so with her eyes and with the pressure of her hand.
“I heard nothing, mother, but that you fainted.”
She pressed his hand tightly again and said, “I didn’t faint. I let them think so—to conceal—Though I was scarcely conscious of what I was doing, I felt it gleam through me that to let them think I was unconscious was best. But I never was unconscious for a moment, Fred—you understand what I am saying?—nor was I asleep, nor could I have been dreaming. You hear what I am saying, Fred?”
“Yes, mother: but don’t, for heaven’s sake, excite yourself; it may make you ill again.”
“What will make me ill? I want you to understand. I’ve not been ill, only—that they might have no suspicion. Fred, above all things I want you to understand that I am in my full senses, meaning every word I say.”
“Yes, mother,” he said, pressing her hand.
She renewed her grip upon it, as if she were holding fast to something lest she should be carried away. “Well!” she said, with a long-drawn breath. Then looking him fall in the eyes as if to defy misunderstanding: “Fred,” she said, “I have seen your father!”
“Mother!” he cried.
“Hush—this was what I was afraid of—that you would think me out of my senses. Look at me. I am not calm, perhaps, but I am as steady as you are.” (That was not saying much; but absorbed in her own extraordinary sensations, Mrs. Dalyell fortunately did not notice Fred.) “I was not thinking of him, nor even questioning as I sometimes do. I was more quiet than usual: when, just there, where the curtain is, I saw your father!”
“You must have been over-excited, mother, though you did not know it. My coming home and the girls’ talk—and all of us making ourselves disagreeable—without knowing it your mind must have——”
“My mind was quite calm. I made allowance for you children. I could have sympathised with you. But don’t go away with any such idea. I saw your father—as plain as I ever saw him in my life.”
What could Fred say? He patted her hand to soothe her, and shook his head gently; he could not trust himself to speak.
“It all passed in a moment,” she went on. “He said something. I feel sure he used the word marriage, but I was too much startled to make out, and I was so foolish as to give that cry. I can’t tell you what a dreadful feeling came upon me. I am not a woman to scream, but I could not help it. And he disappeared, and they all came rushing in.”
“It must have been an optical illusion, mother—that’s what they call those sort of things. You were disturbed by all of us, and your imagination got excited.”
“Don’t speak such nonsense to me. I saw your father as I see you. Fred, that’s not half I’ve got to tell you.” She closed her fingers more and more closely upon his hand, and drew him close to her. “He was changed,” she said almost in a whisper. “He was not as he used to be.” She put her face nearer to her son’s. “An apparition would have been nothing in comparison. It would have been not wonderful, considering everything. But this: Fred”—she drew him quite close and her fingers were upon his hand like iron—“Fred, your father had grown a beard!”
“Mother!” he cried again.
“You think I’m mad, and I don’t wonder: but there’s more in what I say than you think, Fred: a man who was dead could not do that. Fred, find me words. I don’t know what to say. There is more in this than we know.”
They looked at each other, the eyes of the one shooting light and meaning into those of the other. How could the boy stand the keen scrutiny of his mother’s eyes? He faltered before her and tried to avert them, but failed. At last he faltered, “Mother! I think your guess is right!”
She seized him by the shoulder with her other hand and shook him in the vehemence of her passion. “Have you known this all along? Have you known and never said a word?”
“No,” he said; “how could you think it? Could I have been a party to a fraud? But I saw him too—to-night.”
Mrs. Dalyell’s hands relaxed; she fell back upon her pillow, and, covering her face with her hands, began to cry and moan. “Oh, how shall I ever look him in the face! How shall I ever look him in the face!”
Fred was prepared for many things on his mother’s part. He was prepared to see her burst into indignation like his own; he could have understood her stern and angry, or he could have understood her grieved and miserable. He could even have understood it—had she been unreasonably and foolishly glad. But ashamed, asking how she could look him in the face!—this was beyond the knowledge of her son. After a little she calmed down and said with the echo of a sob, “We will have something to forgive each other—on both sides.”
“Mother,” cried Fred, “do you realise all the difference it will make?”
She was silent for a moment, with a flush upon her face. “Oh, my dear,” she cried, with a look of awe, “how can we ever be sufficiently thankful that we knew in time!”
This was all she could think of, it seemed; and poor young Fred had to return to his own troubled thoughts by himself without help from his mother. She entertained, it would seem, no doubt as to her duty towards her husband. The fraud did not weigh on her mind. He had come back—that was all.