"My darling," she said; "they told me you had gone away, that I couldn't see you."
He bent over the bed, and took her hand.
"I thought I would just come along and say goodnight," he said, She nodded her head, and then winked, pointing to the door.
"Such extraordinary people," she whispered. "I think they're all mad. The maid, I'm sure she's a nurse, insisted on taking my temperature. I suppose it's one of these new hydros I've heard about, but I never heard that the casino had anything to do with one before. Mrs. Price says I can go to the roulette rooms in the morning."
"Yes, dear."
"Is it all going to be very expensive? You know what a fool I am about money.".
"No, darling. I'm arranging for that."
"Dear boy, so good to me always. But I should have been quite all right at the villa, you know. There was no need for you to fuss." She tumbled her coins back into her bag. "Mrs. Price says they have a queer system here," she said. "They give you so many chips, and you don't have to give up your money in exchange.
Sounds crazy to me. What about the boys, Henry darling? Will somebody remember to feed the boys?"
"What boys?"
"The dogs, sweetheart. They'll miss me so, they won't understand why I don't come back. A week will seem a long time."
Henry did not say anything. He stood there, holding his mother's hand.
"Put Johnnie's photograph on the mantelpiece," she said suddenly, "so that it faces me. Yes, that's better. He always looked so sulky in uniform, and so lovable… Henry."
"Yes, mother."
"Take care of that boy of yours. I didn't take care of Johnnie." She was staring up at him, her green eyes wide and frightened. "I can't forget it, you know," she said; "that's why I go to the casino. One must do something. John was such a darling-your father, I mean. So gentle, so kind. He understood so much. I've been very lost without him, very lonely. You were all such little boys when he died.
Sometimes I think it would have been better if I'd married again." Then she smiled, she ran her fingers through her hair. "What an idiot I am!" she said, "raving on like an old lunatic. I tell you what, Henry. I'm damned if I'm going to let these people get my money, even if their system is a new one. I'll show them how to play roulette. They won't get the better of me here as they did at the casino."
The nurse came in, and stood by the bed.
"Now, Mrs. Brodrick," she said, "we've got to think about that big wash, haven't we?"
Fanny-Rosa winked at Henry.
"Such a fool!" she whispered; "treats one like a baby. What does it matter though, if it keeps her amused?"
Henry kissed the top of her head. He knew he would never see her again.
"Goodnight, darling, and sleep well," he said.
For a moment she clung to him, and then she laughed, and let him g.
"Life is so amusing," said Fanny-Rosa; "try not to look serious, Henry boy. Thinking never did anybody any good."
She followed him with her eyes as he went out of the room…
The doctor was still waiting outside the door.
"You see," he said, "she is quite comfortable, quite settled. There is nothing whatever for you to worry about.
And I understand Mrs. Price has made certain arrangements for her extra comforts."
"Thank you," said Henry, "thank you… yes."
He shook hands with the man, he took his hat and stick. He climbed into the waiting fiacre.
Adeline Price was sitting in the corner.
"I paid the other one," she said. "It seemed pointless to keep the two. Well, did she seem all right?"
"Yes," he said, "yes, I think so."
The driver whipped up his horse. They drove away down the long, dark avenue.
"You must be very tired," said Henry.
"Not a bit. I want my dinner, though. I expect you do too."
The fiacre turned out of the avenue into the road.
The heavy gate clanged behind them.
"I was wondering, while I sat waiting," said Adeline Price, "whether there is anything else I can do for you. What are your plans?"
Henry turned to her in the darkness.
"Plans?" he said wearily. "I have none.
What plans should I possibly have?"
The horse trotted down the cobbled stones. The driver cracked his whip. In the distance the sea broke upon the shore. He thought of the long train journey, the sea crossing, the house in Lancaster Gate, and Molly, and Kitty, and Hal, and the poor little lame Lizette. He felt very lonely, very tired.
"I suppose," he said slowly, "you wouldn't care to marry me, would you?"
BOOK FIVE
Hal, 1874–1895
THE BEST PART ABOUT ETON, thought Hal, was that they left you alone, You could scrape along through your day, doing a minimum of work, and nobody bothered very much whether you lived or died. There were numberless rules and regulations, of course, and certain hours when you had to be in certain places, but in spite of these things there was a freedom that made for contentment.
He could walk about alone, and no one would ask him what he was doing or where he was going. And he had a room to himself. That, perhaps, was the best of all. One or two of his own pictures hung upon the wall, signed with his initials in the corner, H. E. L.
B. One of the fellows asked who had painted them, and he lied instantly, saying they had been painted by an uncle who had died. Somehow, he did not feel the paintings were good enough to acknowledge as his own. But when he was in the room alone, at night, he would take his candle and look at them closely with secret pride. They were his creation, the things he had made with his hands, and because he had made them himself he loved them. One day he would make paintings which he could show to everyone, but until that day came it was best to conceal what he did, in case people laughed and did not understand.
Mamma had never laughed. She had always understood.
And now that she was not with him any more he wanted his father to take her place, so that whatever he achieved might be an offering to him, a pride and a delight. And he would have the certainty of never failing because his father would have faith in him. The trouble was that he felt shy of his father. They might sit in the drawing-room of the London house together and neither speak a word, father reading the Times, and Hal staring at his boots. And when his father did speak it would be in a jovial, hearty manner, the manner grown-up people so often assumed to boys in the same way that they did to dogs. It was like the way a person patted a dog's coat and said "Good fellow," and then forgot him the moment afterwards. Sometimes his father would say, "Well, Hal, how's the painting?", making an effort to be interested, but because the effort was obvious and the question a hopeless one to answer, Hal would say, "All right, thank you," and then fall once more to silence, feeling gauche and dull.
His father would wait a few minutes, expecting Hal to enlarge upon the subject, and then when nothing happened he would pick up his paper again, or talk about something else to the girls.
The mid-term break, or long leave as they called it, came early in March, and would coincide with his father's return from France. He had been away from England nearly two months.
"Father's coming home tonight," said Molly, who with Miss Frost, and Kitty, and the small Lizette, met Hal at the station, "and he's bringing someone with him, but he won't say who. All very mysterious. Even Miss Frost doesn't know.
I think it's Grannie, but Frostie says it can't be, as father said in his last letter that she was ill."
"Whoever it is must be very important," said Kitty, "because he or she is to have the large room next to father's. I wish it could be Uncle Tom or Aunt Harriet. It's such ages since we saw them last."