She laid her hand upon his arm, soothing him. “You must remember, that in the circumstances a woman is not her own mistress. Oh, Theo, that was always the difficulty I feared. You are so sensitive, so ready to start aside like a restive horse, so intolerant of anything that seems less than perfect.”
“Am I so, mother?” He gathered her hand into his, and laid down his head upon it, kissing it tremulously. “God bless you for saying so. My own mother says it—a fastidious fool, always looking out for faults, putting meanings to everything—starting at a touch, like a restive horse.”
How it was that she understood him, and perceived that to put his faults in the clearest light was the best thing she could do for him, it would be hard to tell. She laid her other hand upon his bent head. “Yes, my dear, yes, my dear! that was always your fault. If your taste was offended, if anything jarred—though it might be no more than was absolutely essential, no more than common necessity required.”
“Mother, you do me more good than words can say. Yes, I know, I know—I never have friends for that cause. I have always wanted more, more—”
“More than anyone could give,” she said softly. “Those whom you love should be above humanity, Theo: their feet should not tread the ground at all. I have always been afraid, not knowing how you would take it when necessary commonplaces came in.”
“I wonder,” he said, raising his head, “whether mothers are always as perfect comforters as you are. That was what I wanted: but nobody in the world could have said it but you.”
“Because,” she said, carrying out her role unhesitatingly, though to her own surprise and without knowing why, “only your mother could know your faults, without there being the smallest possibility that any fault could ever stand between you and me.”
His eyes had the look of being strained and hot, yet there seemed a little moisture in the corners, a moisture which corresponded with the slight quiver in his lip, rather than with the light in his eyes. He held her hand still in his and caressed it almost unconsciously. “I am not like you in that,” he said. Alas no! he was not like her in that: though the accusation of being fastidious, fantastic, intolerant of the usual conditions of humanity, was, for the moment, the happiest thing that could be said to him, yet a fault! a fault would stand between him and whosoever was guilty of it, mother even—love still more. A fault: he was determined that she should be perfect, the woman whom he had chosen. To keep her perfect he was glad to seize at that suggestion of personal blame, to acknowledge that he himself was impatient of every condition, intolerant even of the bonds of humanity. But if there ever should arise the time when the goddess should be taken from her pedestal, when the woman should be found fallible like all women, heaven preserve poor Theo then. The thought went through Mrs. Warrender’s mind like a knife. What would become of him? He had given himself up so unreservedly to his love, he had sacrificed his own fastidious temper in the first place, had borne the remarks of the county, had supported Geoff, had allowed himself to be laughed at and blamed. But now if he should chance to discover that the woman for whom he had done all this was not in herself a piece of perfection—His mother felt her very heart sink at the thought. No one was perfect enough to satisfy Theo; no one was perfect at all so far as her own experience went. And when he made this terrible discovery, what would he do?
In the meantime they went to luncheon, and there was talk of the repairs wanted in the house, and of what Theo was doing “at home.” He was very unwilling, however, to speak of “home,” or of what he had begun to do there. He told them indeed of the trees that had been cut down, over which Chatty made many exclamations, mourning for them; but even Chatty was not vigorous in her lamentations. They sat and talked, not interested in anything they were saying, the mother seated between them, watching each, herself scarcely able to keep up the thread of coherent conversation, making now and then incursions on either side from which she was obliged to retreat hurriedly; referring now to some London experience which Chatty’s extreme dignity and silence showed she did not want to be mentioned, or to something on the other side from which Theo withdrew with still more distinct reluctance to be put under discussion. It was not till this uncomfortable meal was over that Theo made any further communication about his own affairs. He was on his way to the door, whither his mother had followed him, when he turned round as if accidentally. “By the by,” he said, “I forgot to tell you. She will be here presently, mother. She wanted to lose no time in seeing you.”
“Lady Markland!” said Mrs. Warrender, with a little start.
He fixed his eyes upon her severely. “Who else? She is coming about three. I shall come back, and go home with her.”
“Theo, before I meet your future wife—You have never given me any details. Oh, tell me what has happened and what is going to happen. Don’t leave me to meet her in ignorance of everything.”
“What is it you want to know?” he said, with his sombre air, setting his back against the wall. “You know all that I know.”
“Which is no more than that she has accepted you, Theo.”
“Well, what more would you have? That is how it stands now, and may for months for anything I can tell.”
“I should have thought it would have been better to get everything settled quickly. Why
