The Larchers had been anxious to meet James, and he was curious to know what they were like. There was at the back of his mind also a desire to see how they conducted themselves, whether they were still prostrate with grief or reconciled to the inevitable. Reggie had been an only son--just as he was. James sent no message, but arrived unexpectedly, and found that they lived some way from the station, in a new, red-brick villa. As he walked to the front door, he saw people playing tennis at the side of the house.
He asked if Mrs. Larcher was at home, and, being shown into the drawing-room the lady came to him from the tennis-lawn. He explained who he was.
"Of course, I know quite well," she said. "I saw your portrait in the illustrated papers."
She shook hands cordially, but James fancied she tried to conceal a slight look of annoyance. He saw his visit was inopportune.
"We're having a little tennis-party," she said, "It seems a pity to waste the fine weather, doesn't it?"
A shout of laughter came from the lawn, and a number of voices were heard talking loudly. Mrs. Larcher glanced towards them uneasily; she felt that James would expect them to be deeply mourning for the dead son, and it was a little incongruous that on his first visit he should find the whole family so boisterously gay.
"Shall we go out to them?" said Mrs. Larcher. "We're just going to have tea, and I'm sure you must be dying for some. If you'd let us know you were coming we should have sent to meet you."
James had divined that if he came at a fixed hour they would all have tuned their minds to a certain key, and he would see nothing of their natural state.
They went to the lawn, and James was introduced to a pair of buxom, healthy-looking girls, panting a little after their violent exercise. They were dressed in white, in a rather masculine fashion, and the only sign of mourning was the black tie that each wore in a sailor's knot. They shook hands vigorously (it was a family trait), and then seemed at a loss for conversation; James, as was his way, did not help them, and they plunged at last into a discussion about the weather and the dustiness of the road from Ashford to their house.
Presently a loose-limbed young man strolled up, and was presented to James. He appeared on friendly terms with the two girls, who called him Bobbikins.
"How long have you been back?" he asked. "I was out in the Imperial Yeomanry--only I got fever and had to come home."
James stiffened himself a little, with the instinctive dislike of the regular for the volunteer.
"Oh, yes! Did you go as a trooper?"
"Yes; and pretty rough it was, I can tell you."
He began to talk of his experience in a resonant voice, apparently well-pleased with himself, while the red-faced girls looked at him admiringly. James wondered whether the youth intended to marry them both.
The conversation was broken by the appearance of Mr. Larcher, a rosy-cheeked and be-whiskered man, dapper and suave. He had been picking flowers, and handed a bouquet to one of his guests. James fancied he was a prosperous merchant, who had retired and set up as a country gentleman; but if he was the least polished of the family, he was also the most simple. He greeted the visitor very heartily, and offered to take him over his new conservatory.
"My husband takes everyone to the new conservatory," said Mrs. Larcher, laughing apologetically.
"It's the biggest round Ashford," explained the worthy man.
James, thinking he wished to talk of his son, consented, and as they walked away, Mr. Larcher pointed out his fruit trees, his pigeons. He was a fancier, said he, and attended to the birds entirely himself; then in the conservatory, made James admire his orchids and the luxuriance of his maidenhair.
"I suppose these sort of things grow in the open air at the Cape?" he asked.
"I believe everything grows there."
Of his son he said absolutely nothing, and presently they rejoined the others. The Larchers were evidently estimable persons, healthy-minded and normal, but a little common. James asked himself why they had invited him if they wished to hear nothing of their boy's tragic death. Could they be so anxious to forget him that every reference was distasteful? He wondered how Reggie had managed to grow up so simple, frank, and charming amid these surroundings. There was a certain pretentiousness about his people which caused them to escape complete vulgarity only by a hair's-breadth. But they appeared anxious to make much of James, and in his absence had explained who he was to the remaining visitors, and these beheld him now with an awe which the hero found rather comic.
Mrs. Larcher invited him to play tennis, and when he declined seemed hardly to know what to do with him. Once when her younger daughter laughed more loudly than usual at the very pointed chaff of the Imperial Yeoman, she slightly frowned at her, with a scarcely perceptible but significant glance in Jamie's direction. To her relief, however, the conversation became general, and James found himself talking with Miss Larcher of the cricket week at Canterbury.
After all, he could not be surprised at the family's general happiness. Six months had passed since Reggie's death, and they could not remain in perpetual mourning. It was very natural that the living should forget the dead, otherwise life would be too horrible; and it was possibly only the Larchers' nature to laugh and to talk more loudly than most people. James saw that it was a united, affectionate household, homely and kind, cursed with no particular depth of feeling; and if they had not resigned themselves to the boy's death, they were doing their best to forget that he had ever lived. It was obviously the best thing, and it would be cruel--too cruel--to expect people never to regain their cheerfulness.
"I think I must be off," said James, after a while; "the trains run so awkwardly to Tunbridge Wells."
They made polite efforts to detain him, but James fancied they were not sorry for him to go.
"You must come and see us another day when we're alone," said Mrs. Larcher. "We want to have a long talk with you."
"It's very kind of you to ask me," he replied, not committing himself.
Mrs. Larcher accompanied him back to the drawing-room, followed by her husband.
"I thought you might like a photograph of Reggie," she said.
This was her first mention of the dead son, and her voice neither shook nor had in it any unwonted expression.
"I should like it very much."
It was on Jamie's tongue to say how fond he had been of the boy, and how he regretted his sad end; but he restrained himself, thinking if the wounds of grief were closed, it was cruel and unnecessary to reopen them.
Mrs. Larcher found the photograph and gave it to James. Her husband stood by, saying nothing.
"I think that's the best we have of him."
She shook hands, and then evidently nerved herself to say something further.
"We're very grateful to you, Captain Parsons, for what you did. And we're glad they gave you the Victoria Cross."
"I suppose you didn't bring it to-day?" inquired Mr. Larcher.
"I'm afraid not."
They showed him out of the front door.
"Mind you come and see us again. But let us know beforehand, if you possibly can."
* * *
Shortly afterwards James received from the Larchers a golden cigarette-case, with a Victoria Cross in diamonds on one side and an inscription on the other. It was much too magnificent for use, evidently expensive, and not in very good taste.
"I wonder whether they take that as equal in value to their son?" said James.
Mary was rather dazzled.
"Isn't it beautiful!" she cried, "Of course, it's too valuable to use; but it'll do to put in our drawing-room."