Эдвард Бенсон
The House of Defence. Volume 2
Poor old Mumbo-Jumbo, that fetish called Morality or Duty, which had been to her but a doll with a veil over its face, was showing signs of life, giving sudden, spasmodic movements, twitching at the veil. What its face was like she had really no idea, for in so many things she had practically been untempted. But all these years she had been kind, she had been generous, she had had the instinct for helping those who suffered. Perhaps the face would not be so very ugly.
The message that the two boys were to come down to tea had not been productive, up above, of any notable rapture. Raynham, aged eleven, had said, “Oh, bother!” and Henry had asked if they would have to stop long. Their mother was a radiant but rather terrifying vision to them. She was usually doing something else, and must not be interrupted. That summed up their knowledge of her.
Catherine remembered a pack of ridiculous cards which had once produced shouts of laughter when the children were playing with their father. They concerned Mr. Bones the butcher, and the families of other portentous and legendary personages. She remembered the day, too, a wet afternoon in July, when they had played with them, and went to a cupboard in the drawing-room where cards were kept, and among other packs discovered these joyous presentments. The children were going to have eggs also with their tea. That was a treat, too.
They came in immediately afterwards, rather shy, and very anxious to “behave.” But insensibly, with the instinct of children, they soon saw that “behaviour” was not required. The radiant vision begged a spoonful of Henry’s egg, and asked Raynham to spare her one corner of the delicious toast he had buttered for himself. He gave her the butteriest corner of all, and Henry parted with precious yolk.
There was news also. Father was away – and some nameless dagger stabbed her as she realised that this was the first they had heard of it – and had been ill. Then there was good news: he was ever so much better, and soon he was coming home, or perhaps mamma was going out to see him – yes, America. Millions of miles off. What ocean? Atlantic, of course. Even Henry knew that.
Soon there was no thought in the minds of the children as to how long it was necessary to stop. The wonderful cards were produced, and they all sat on the hearth-rug, and mamma was too stupid for anything. For she had the whole flesh-eating family of Mr. Bones the butcher in her hand and never declared it; so Henry, having, to his amazement, been passed Mr. Bones himself, bottled Mr. Bones up, although he wasn’t collecting him. This was a plan of devilish ingenuity, for had he passed Mr. Bones to Raynham, Raynham might have given him back to mamma, who, perhaps, then would have seen her foolishness.
The game was growing deliriously exciting when an interruption came, and Raynham again said, “Oh, bother!” But mamma did not get up from the hearth-rug, though the children were told to do so.
“Get up, boys,” she said, “and shake hands with Count Villars. But don’t let me see your cards. I am going to win. How are you, Count Villars? The boys are just home from school. This is Raynham, this is Henry. Do give yourself some tea, and be kind, and let us finish our game.”
Catherine again proved herself perfectly idiotic, and Henry threw down his cards with a shriek.
“All the Snips, the tailors!” he cried.
“Oh, bother!” shouted Raynham; “and I have all the Buns but one.”
“And I have all the Bones but one!” said their mother. “Now go upstairs, darlings, and take the cards with you, if you like.”
“And is father coming home?” asked Raynham.
“Perhaps I am going to him. I don’t know yet. Off you go!”
“And are we to shake hands again with him?” asked Henry in a whisper.
“Yes, of course. Always shake hands when you you leave the room.”
There was silence for a moment after the boys had gone. Catherine broke it.
“I have just had a telegram from America,” she said, “from Thurso himself. He is better. He says he is cured. He asks me if I will go there, or if he shall come back.”
She was still sitting on the hearth-rug, where she had been playing with her sons. But here she got up.
“I think I shall go to him,” she said quietly. “That will be the best plan for – several reasons.”
And then the situation, which she had thought of as being of the nature of Adelphi melodrama, broke down from the melodramatic point of view, and began to play itself on more natural lines. He should have been the villain of the piece, she the gutteral heroine. But he was not a villain any more than she was a heroine.
“I think I have always loved you,” she said. “But I can’t be mean. He says he is cured. And – he asks my forgiveness, though he had it already. He asks it, you see. That makes a difference. If I stopped here, if I – In that case I should be refusing it him. It would amount to that.”
Villars put down his cup, and looked at her, but without moving, without speaking.
“Say something,” she said.
He got up too, and stood by her.
“I say ‘Yes,’” he said.
Two days afterwards Catherine came up towards evening onto the deck of the White Star liner on which she was travelling. The sun had just sunk, but in the east the crescent moon had risen, while in the west, whither she was journeying, there was still the after-glow of sunset. She was leaving the east, where the moon was, but she was moving towards that other light. And she was content that it should be so. She would not have had anything different. The west, too, where she was going, had meant so much to Thurso; it had meant all to him. It was easier to weigh the moon than to weigh the veiled light of the sunken sun. She had renounced, blindly, it might be; but if for her, too, in the west, in the after-glow…