There was a little irony in the last words, for Lady Markland had, if the truth must be told, a foible that way, and liked, as so many women do, the idea of having a large correspondence, and took pleasure in keeping it up. She answered eagerly that she had no letters to write (though not without a glance at her table where one lay unfinished) and would like his reading above everything: which was so far true that it was a sign of peace, and an occupation which he enjoyed. She got her work while he got the book, not without a horrible sense that Geoff, always wakeful, would have heard her come in, and would call for her, nor without a longing desire to go to him, if only for a moment, which was what she had intended to do. Perhaps it was to prevent this that Theo had been so ready with his offer, and so sensitive was he to every impression that the poor lady felt a thrill of terror lest her half-formed intention, or Geoff’s waking, might thrill through the atmosphere to her husband’s mind, and make him fling down the book with impatience. She got her work with a nervous haste, which it seemed he must divine, and seated herself opposite to him. “Now, I am ready,” she said.
Poor Lady Markland! He had not read a page—a page to which she gave the most painful attention, trying not to think that the door might open any moment, and the nurse appear begging her to speak a word to Lord Markland—when a faint cry reached her ears. It was faint and far away, but she knew what it was. It was the cry of “Mamma,” from Geoff’s bed, only given forth, she knew, after much tossing and turning, and which a year ago she would have heard from any corner of the house and flown to answer. She started when she heard it, but she had been so much on the alert, and prepared for some interruption of the kind, that she hoped Theo did not see the little instinctive movement “Mamma!” She sat with a nervous thrill upon her, taking no notice, trying to listen, seeing in the dark the little sleepless boy tossing upon his uneasy pillow, and calling in vain for his mother, but resisting all the impulses both of heart and habit. If only Theo might not hear! After a while, however, Theo’s ear caught the sound. “What’s that?” he said sharply, stopping and looking at her across the table. Alas! the repressed agitation in her smile told its own story to Theo. He knew that she pretended to listen, that she knew very well what it was. “That” she said, faltering. “What? Oh! it sounds like Geoff calling—someone.”
“He is calling you; and you are dying to be with him, to rush upstairs and coax and kiss him to sleep. You are ruining the boy.”
“No, Theo. It is probably nurse he is calling. He sleeps so badly,” she said, with a broken voice, for the appeals to mamma came quicker, and she felt as if the child was dragging at her very heartstrings.
“He would have slept better, had he been paid less attention to; but don’t let me keep you from your boy,” he said, throwing down the book on the table. She made an attempt at an appeal.
“Theo! please don’t go away. I will run for a moment, and see what is the matter.”
“You can do what you please about that: but you are ruining the boy,” said Warrender. And then he began to hum a tune, which showed that he had reached a white heat of exasperation, and left the room. She sat motionless till she heard the street door closed loudly. Her heart seemed to stand still: yet was there, was it possible, a certain relief in the sound? She stole upstairs noiselessly and into Geoff’s room and threw herself down by the bedside. “Oh, Geoff, what is the matter?” she asked: though her heart had dragged her so, there was in her tone a tender exasperation too.
“I can’t sleep,” the boy said, clinging to her, with his arms round her neck.
“But you must try to sleep—for my sake. Don’t toss about, but lie quite still, that is far the best way.”
“I did,” said Geoff, “and said all the poetry I knew, and did the multiplication table twice. I wanted you. I kept quiet as long as I could—but I wanted you so.”
“But you must not want me. You are too big to want your mother.”
“I shall never be too big, I want you always,” said Geoff, murmuring in the dark, with his little arms clinging close round her neck.
“Oh, Geoff, my dearest boy! but for my sake you must content yourself—for my sake.”
“Was he angry?” the child asked, and in the cover of the darkness he clenched his little hands and contracted his brows; all of which she guessed, though she saw not.
“That is not a question to ask,” she said. “You must never speak to me so; and remember, Geoff—they say I am spoiling you—I will never come when you call me after tonight.”
But Lady Markland’s heart was very heavy as she went downstairs. She had put her child away from her; and she sat alone in the large still drawing-room all the evening, hearing the carriages come and go outside, and hansoms dashing up which she hoped might be coming to her own door. But Theo did not come back. This was one of many evenings which she spent alone, in disgrace, not knowing how to get her pardon, feeling guilty, yet having done nothing. Her second venture had not brought her very much additional happiness so far.
XLVIII
“Two little girls. He came over to tell us yesterday. Poor Theo! He is pleased, of course, but I think half ashamed too. It seems a little ridiculous
