“I am quite able,” said Mrs. Warrender. She had been schooling herself to the endurance which still seemed to be expected of her, but the moment an outlet seemed possible the light kindled in her eye. “I think with Theo that it is far better to decide whatever has to be done at once.” Then she cried out suddenly, carried away by the unexpected unhoped-for opportunity, “O children, we must get away from here! I cannot bear it any longer. As though all our own trouble and sorrow were not enough, this other—this other tragedy!” She put up her hands to her eyes, as though to shut out the sight that pressed upon them. “I cannot get it out of my mind. I suppose my nerves and everything are wrong; all night long it seemed to be before me—the blood on his forehead, the ghastly white face, the labouring breath. Oh, not like your father, who was good and old and peaceful, who was just taken away gently, led away—but so young and so unprepared! Oh, so unprepared! What could God do with him, cut off in the midst of—”
Minnie got up hastily, with her smelling-salts, which always lay on the table. “Go and get her a glass of water, Theo,” she said authoritatively.
Mrs. Warrender laughed. It was a little nervous, but it was a laugh. It seemed to peal through the house, which still was a house of mourning, and filled the girls with a horror beyond words. She put out her hands to put their ministrations away. “I do not want water,” she said, “nor salts either. I am not going into hysterics. Sit down and listen to me. I cannot remain here. It is your birthplace, but not mine. I am dying for fresh air and the sight of the sun. If you are shocked, I cannot help it. Theo, when you go back to Oxford I will go to—I don’t know where; to some place where there is more air; but here I cannot stay.”
This statement was as a thunderbolt falling in the midst of them, and the poor woman perceived this instinctively. Her son’s impatience had been the spark which set the smouldering fire in her alight, but even he was astounded by the quick and sudden blaze which lit up the dull wonder in his sisters’ faces. And then he no longer thought of going to Oxford. He wanted to remain to see if he could do anything—perhaps to be of use. A husband’s uncle does not commend himself to one’s mind as a very devoted or useful ministrant, and even he would go away, of course; and then a man who was nearer, who was a neighbour, who had already been so mixed up with the tragedy—that was what he had been thinking of; not of Oxford, or his work.
“It is not worth while going back to Oxford,” he said; “the term is nearly over. One can read anywhere, at home as well as—I shall not go back at present.” He was not accustomed yet to so abrupt a declaration of his sentiments, and for the moment he avoided his mother’s eye.
Minnie went back to her seat, and put down the bottle of salts on the table, with an indignant jar. “I am so glad that you feel so, Theo, too.”
Mrs. Warrender looked round upon her children with despairing eyes. They were all his children—all Warrenders born; knowing as little about her and her ways of thinking as if she had been a stranger to them. She was indeed a stranger to them in the intimate sense. The exasperation that had been in her mind for years could be repressed no longer. “If it is so,” she said, “I don’t wish to interfere with your plans, Theo; but I will go for—for a little change. I must have it. I am worn out.”
“Oh, mamma, you will not surely go by yourself, without us! How could you get on without us!” cried Chatty. She had perhaps, being the youngest, a faint stir of a feeling in her mind that a little change might be pleasant enough. But she took her mother at her word with this mild protest, which made Mrs. Warrender’s impatient cry into a statement of fixed resolution: and the others said nothing. Warrender was silent, because he was absorbed in the new thoughts that filled his mind; Minnie, because, like Chatty, she felt quite apart from any such extraordinary wishes, having nothing to do with it, and nothing to say.
“It will be very strange, certainly, for me to be alone—very strange,” Mrs. Warrender said, with a quiver in her voice. “It is so long since I have done anything by myself; not since before you were all born. But if it must be,” she added, “I must just take courage as well as I can, and—go by myself, as you say.”
Once more there was no response. The girls did not know what to say. Duty, they thought, meant staying at home and doing their crewelwork; they were not capable of any other identification of it all at once. It was very strange, but if mamma thought so, what could they do? She got up with nervous haste, feeling now, since she had once broken bounds, as though the flood of long-restrained feeling was beyond her control altogether. The natural thing would have been to rush upstairs and pack her things, and go off to the railway at once. That, perhaps, might not be practicable; but neither was it practicable to sit quietly amid the silence and surprise, and see her wild, sudden resolution accepted dully, as if a woman could contemplate such a severance calmly. And yet it was true that she must get fresh air or die. Life so long intolerable could be borne no longer.
“I think in the meantime,” she said, with a forced smile, “I shall go upstairs.”
“You were up
