"About my father?"
"No; I have told you all there is to tell. Believe me, I have kept nothing back."
"What then?"
"Have you thought of what this calamity has meant for others beside your father? Have you thought what effect it might have upon your mother?"
"She is not ill?"
"No," said Vickars solemnly, "she is not ill. She is ill no longer.
She is at rest."
"O Vickars!--not dead?"
"Let us use a better word--at rest. She is where she has wished to be these many weary years."
"And I did not know it. O mother!--mother!"
Vickars turned his face away from that sacred grief. After a few moments he said, "Can you bear that I should tell you about it?"
"Yes. Tell me."
"I think she was never the same after you left, Arthur. I told you she came to see us, didn"t I? After that first visit she came often. She honoured us with her confidence. Little by little we learned her story--the story of a saintly heart at war with circ.u.mstance. I believe the one supreme force that enabled her to live was the purpose to redeem you from the kind of life that threatened you. She summed herself up in that purpose. When it was once achieved, her hold on life gradually relaxed. She had no wish to live longer, composed herself for the grave, and spoke cheerfully of her departure. Let this be your great comfort, my dear boy--she was absolutely sure of you, of your ability, I mean, to live the high life she had always coveted for you. Her joy in dying was that you were safe."
"When ... when did it happen?"
"On the day your father was arrested. She never knew that, G.o.d be thanked. She went quite quietly, without pain. She simply slept, and woke--somewhere else."
"O my poor father!"
"Yes. It is right you should think of him. All his life fell at one blow. There is a sweetness in your grief--you had been the one happiness of her closing years; but think of the bitterness that was in his."
"Why was I not told?" he cried fiercely.
"You had enough to bear. We knew you would come home, and we waited."
"But you terrify me. How much more are you keeping back? Is Elizabeth safe? Is there any other cup that I must drink?"
"Hush! hush! I give you my word I have told you everything. Don"t make it hard for me, Arthur. It sounds a poor thing to say that I have acted for the best, but it is the only thing left to say."
"Forgive me. I know you have."
So that inner voice which had told him that he would see his mother"s face no more had spoken truly. How vividly he recalled that night of moonlight, that earnest pleading voice, that solemn farewell! But, as the anguish of the shock subsided, he found nothing left but softened thought, and the beginnings of a sad pathetic grat.i.tude. She had never known the worst, for which he, too, could say, "G.o.d be thanked!" One significant phrase of Vickars vibrated through his mind like a chord of music--"she composed herself for the grave." He could see the tired hands meekly folded, the threads of life dropping one by one from the weary fingers, a holy softness on her face, the first wave of the Eternal peace rippling round the heart. That was not death--no, mere rest. And there came to him, too, like a sudden revelation, a thought which he was never to forget, the divine essential sacrifice in the lives of all good women. To live not only for others but in others, to toil and be forgotten, to be content that something fashioned from her own mind and flesh by prayer and tears and humble renunciation would live when she was gone, a flower drawing strength and loveliness from her own buried life--that was woman"s lot, a thing divine as the Cross itself, and like the Cross, the expression of the eternal sacrifice of self.
"G.o.d help me to be worthy of such a sacrifice," he prayed. "But there never yet lived a man who was worthy of what a mother does for him.
G.o.d help me to remember, and to see in all women something holy, for her dear sake."
The train was rapidly nearing Paddington. The blue sky was tinged with smoky grayness, the green fields were discoloured, and long rows of mean, shabby houses took the place of white cottages under hanging woods.
"And now, pull yourself together," Vickars said. "G.o.d help you in the next few hours."
"I think He will," said Arthur simply.
"I forgot to tell you, Bundy expects you to stay with him. He has a kind of palace somewhere in Kensington, I believe."
"I don"t think I can do that."
"No, I don"t think I would. You should be with your father to-night."
"If..." and the rest he dared not utter.
"You mustn"t think of that. I feel morally sure that he will be acquitted. And then he will want you badly. You understand?"
"Yes. I understand."
The train glided into Paddington. Bundy saw him at once as he stepped from the train. His honest face was flushed, his eyes bright with excitement.
"I have a carriage ready!" he cried. "Be quick!"
"Where are we going?"
"To the Old Bailey. The jury are now considering their verdict. If we drive fast, we shall be just in time."
XXI
THE VERDICT
The carriage rolled out of Paddington into the familiar London streets.
The gaiety of summer clothed the city. High white clouds sailed in a sea of blue, houses were gay with window flowers, women in bright clothing, themselves like flowers, gave colour to the streets. In Oxford Street flags were flying, the signals of a recent victory in Africa. There was an indescribable sense of resurrection in the air, as if not alone the earth, but the hearts of men and women had won release from some deep grave of fear. Arthur watched the scene with dull, unseeing eyes; and to his morbid sensitiveness it seemed as though London laughed in mockery of his grief.
Vickars sat beside him in silence; Bundy watched the two anxiously, his eyes full of tears. He wished to say something comforting; and from time to time made some casual remark, but uttered it hesitatingly, with an apologetic smile. It was precisely like the action of a good friendly dog, who lays his warm head on his master"s unresponsive hand, and watches him with wistful eyes, delicately fearful of intrusion on a grief he cannot comprehend. It was evident, however, that Bundy had something which he really wished to say, and at last it came.
"You"ll be wondering, after what I said to you in New York, why I haven"t helped your father?"
"No. I"ve never thought about it, except to know you would be as good as your word."
"And so I would have been. But----"
"You needn"t explain. There is too much love between us for that."
"But I must. And I would rather do it at once and get it over. Your father refused all help. You, know his pride, and he"s prouder now than ever he was. One might almost suppose it pleased him to stand alone, to fight with his back to the wall, to defy the world to do its worst on him. And I believe that is what he really does feel."
"I think I can understand."
"Then you"ll understand why I could not help him, why no one could. I offered him anything he liked to ask, and this is what he said: "No, Bundy; I"ve brewed the cup, and I"ll drink it. I don"t want any sugar in it. No one shall ever say that Archibold Masterman was a coward."
That was what he said to me, and he said it like a fallen emperor. It was foolish, but there was something great in it too. I felt that it was great."