"Had it been likely to do so, Lady Chava.s.se, I should have sent him to one long ago."
She gathered her mantle of purple velvet about her as she rose up, and went out of the room in silence, giving Duffham her hand in token of friendship.
Duffham opened the front-door, and was confronted by a tall footman--with a gold-headed cane and big white silk calves--who had been waiting in the air for his lady. She took the way to the Grange; the man and his protecting cane stepping grandly after her.
"Sir Geoffry Chava.s.se."
Buried in her own reflections by the drawing-room fire, in the coming dusk of the winter"s evening, Miss Layne thought her ears must have deceived her. But no. It was Sir Geoffry who advanced as the servant made the announcement; and she rose to meet him. Strangely her heart fluttered: but she had been learning a lesson in calmness for many years; he had too, perhaps; and they shook hands quietly as other people do. Sir Geoffry threw back his overcoat from his wasted form as he sat down.
Wasted more than ever now. Some weeks have gone on since my lady"s impromptu visit to Mr. Duffham"s tea-table; winter is merging into spring; and the most sanguine could no longer indulge hope for Sir Geoffry.
"You have heard how it is with me?" he began, looking at Mary, after recovering his short breath.
"Yes," she faintly answered.
"I could not die without seeing you, Mary, and speaking a word of farewell. It was in my mind to ask you to come to the Grange for half-an-hour"s interview; but I scarcely saw how to accomplish it: it might have raised some speculation. So as the day has been fine and mild, I came to you."
"You should have come earlier," she murmured. "It is getting late and cold."
"I did come out earlier. But I have been with Duffham."
Moving his chair a little nearer to hers, he spoke to her long and earnestly. In all that was said there seemed to be a solemn meaning--as is often the case when the speaker is drawing to the confines of this world and about to enter on the next. He referred a little to the past, and there was some mutual explanation. But it seemed to be of the future that Sir Geoffry had come chiefly to speak--the future of Baby Arthur.
"You will take care of him, Mary?--of his best interests?" And the tears came into Mary Layne"s eyes at the words. He could not really think it necessary to ask it.
"Yes. To the very utmost of my power."
"I am not able to leave him anything. You know how things are with us at the Grange. My wish would have been good----"
"It is not necessary," she interrupted. "All I have will be his, Sir Geoffry."
"_Sir_ Geoffry! Need you keep up that farce, Mary, in this our last hour? He seems to wish to be a soldier: and I cannot think but that the profession will be as good for him as any other, provided you can _like_ it for him. You will see when the time comes: all that lies in the future. Our lives have been blighted, Mary: and I pray G.o.d daily and hourly that, being so, it may have served to expiate the sin--my sin, my love, it was never yours--and that no shame may fall on him."
"I think it will not," she softly said, the painful tears dropping fast.
"He will always be regarded as Colonel Layne"s son: the very few who know otherwise--Mr. Duffham, Colonel and Mrs. Layne, and Lady Chava.s.se now--will all be true to the end."
"Ay. I believe it too. I think the boy may have a bright and honourable career before him: as much so perhaps as though he had been born my heir. I think the regret that he was not--when he so easily might have been--has latterly helped to wear me out, Mary."
"I wish you could have lived, Geoffry!" she cried from between her blinding tears.
"I have wished it also," he answered, his tone full of pain. "But it was not to be. When the days shall come that my mother is alone, except for Lady Rachel, and grieving for me, I want you to promise that you will sometimes see her and give her consolation. Something tells me that you can do this, Mary, that she will take it from you--and I know that she will need it sadly. Be kind to her when I am gone."
"Yes. I promise it."
"You are the bravest of us all, Mary. And yet upon you has lain the greatest suffering."
"It is the suffering that has made me brave," she answered. "Oh, Geoffry, I am getting to realize the truth that it is better to have too much of suffering in this world than too little. It is a truth hard to learn: but once learnt, it brings happiness in enduring."
Sir Geoffry nodded a.s.sent. He had learnt somewhat of it also--too late.
"I have begun a confidential letter to Colonel Layne, Mary, and shall post it before I die. To thank him for----"
The words were drowned in a gleeful commotion--caused by the entrance of Arthur. The boy came dashing in from his afternoon"s study with the curate, some books under his arm.
"I have not been good, Aunt Mary. He said I gave him no end of trouble; and I"m afraid I did: but, you see, I bought the marbles going along, instead of in coming back, as you told me, and---- Who"s that!"
In letting his books fall on a side-table, he had caught sight of the stranger--then standing up. The fire had burnt low, and just for the moment even the young eyes did not recognize Sir Geoffry Chava.s.se. Mary stirred the fire into a blaze, and drew the crimson curtains before the window.
"What have you come for?" asked the little lad, as Sir Geoffry took his hand. "Are you any better, sir?"
"I shall never be better in this world, Arthur. And so you gave your tutor trouble this afternoon!"
"Yes; I am very sorry: I told him so. It was all through the marbles. I couldn"t keep my hands out of my pockets. Just look what beauties they are!"
Out came a handful of "beauties" of many colours. But Mary, who was standing by the mantelpiece, her face turned away, bade him put them up again. Arthur began to feel that there was some kind of hush upon the room.
"I have been talking to Miss Layne about your future--for, do you know, Arthur, you are a favourite of mine," said Sir Geoffry. "Ever since the time when my horse knocked you down--and might have killed you--I have taken a very warm interest in your welfare. I have often wished that you--that you"--he seemed to hesitate in some emotion--"were my own little son and heir to succeed me; but of course that cannot be. I don"t know what profession you will choose, or may be chosen for you----"
"I should like to be a soldier," interrupted Arthur, lifting his sparkling eyes to Sir Geoffry"s.
"Your ideas may change before the time for choosing shall come. But a soldier may be as brave a servant of G.o.d as of his queen: should you ever become a soldier, will you remember this truth?"
"Yes," said Arthur, in a whisper, for the grave tones and manner impressed him with some awe.
Sir Geoffry was sitting down and holding Arthur before him. To the latter"s intense surprise, he saw two tears standing on the wasted cheeks. It made him feel a sort of discomfort, and he began, as a relief, to play with the chain and seal that hung on the baronet"s waistcoat. A transparent seal, with a plain device on it.
"Should you like to have them when I am gone, Arthur--and wear them in remembrance of me when you are old enough? I think it must be so: no one can have a better right to them than my little friend who once nearly lost his arm by my carelessness. I will see about it. But I have a better present than that--which I will give you now."
Taking from his pocket the small Bible that had been his companion for some months, he put it into Arthur"s hands, telling him that he had written his name in it. And the child, turning hastily to the fly-leaf, saw it there: "Arthur Layne. From G. A. C." Lower down were the words: "Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
"Jesus said that!" cried the boy, simply.
"Jesus Christ. My Saviour and yours--for I am sure you will let Him be yours. Do not part with this Book, Arthur. Use it always: I have marked many pa.s.sages in it. Should it be your fate ever to encamp on the battle-field, let the Book be with you: your guide and friend. In time you will get to love it better than any book that is to be had in the world."
The child had a tender heart, and began to cry a little. Sir Geoffry drew him nearer.
"I have prayed to G.o.d to bless you, Arthur. But you know, my child, He will only give His best blessing to those who seek it, who love and serve Him. Whatsoever may be your lot in life, strive to do your duty in it, as before G.o.d; loving Him, loving and serving your fellow-creatures; trusting ever to Christ"s atonement. These are my last solemn words to you. Do you always remember them."
His voice faltered a little, and Arthur began to sob. "Oh, Sir Geoffry, must you die?"
Sir Geoffry seemed to be breathing fast, as though agitation were becoming too much for him. He bent his head and kissed the boy"s face fervently: his brow, his cheeks, his lips, his eyelids--there was not a spot that Sir Geoffry did not leave a kiss upon. It quite seemed as though his heart had been yearning for those kisses, and as though he could not take enough of them.
"And now, Arthur, you must do a little errand for me. Go over to Mr.
Duffham, and tell him I am coming. Leave the Bible on the table here."
Arthur went out of the house with less noise than he had entered it. Sir Geoffry rose.