“In winter, perhaps, a little, when there is much rain.”
And then there was a long pause. When they came within sight of the pond, which glistened under the moonlight, reflecting all the trees in irregular masses, and showing here and there a big white water-lily bud couched upon a dark bank of leaves, he spoke again: “I don’t think it can be very healthy, either, to have the pond so near the house.”
“You have always had your health, all of you,” she said.
“That is true; but not very much of it. We are a subdued sort of family, mother.”
“That is because the Warrenders—” She stopped here, feeling the inappropriateness of what she was about to say. It very often happens that a wife has but little opinion of the race to which her husband belongs. She attributes the defects of her own children to that side instinctively. “It is character,” she said, “not health.”
“But all the same, if we had a little more air and a little less shade—”
He was becoming bolder as he went on.
“Theo,” she said tremulously, “it is too soon to begin to talk of that.”
And then there was a pause again. When they came to the edge of the pond, and stopped to look at the water-lilies, and at the white flood of the moonlight, and all the clustering masses of the trees that hung round as if to keep it hidden and sheltered, it was she who spoke: “Your father was very fond of this view. Almost the last time he was out we brought him here. He sat down for a long time, and was quite pleased. He cared for beautiful things much more than he ever said.”
The thought that passed through Theo’s mind was very rapid, that it might well be so, seeing nothing was ever said on the subject; but his remark was, “Very likely, mother,” in a soft and soothing voice.
“I should be very sorry to see any—I mean I hope you will not make much alteration here.”
“It is too soon,” he said hastily, “to speak of that.”
“Much too soon,” she replied, with a quick sense of shame, taking her son’s arm as they turned back. Even to turn back made the burden heavier, and dispelled the little advantage which they had got by the walk.
“There will be, I suppose, a great number of people—on Friday.”
“Yes, I think a great number; everybody about.”
“What a nuisance! People might have sense enough to know that at such a moment we don’t want a lot of strange faces peering at us, finding out how we bear up.”
“My dear, it would have pleased him to know everybody would be there.”
“I suppose so,” said Theo, in a tone which was half angry and half resigned.
“We will have to take a little thought how they are to go. Lord Markland must come first, after the relations.”
“Why? They never took much notice of us, and my father never liked him. I don’t see why he should come at all.”
“Oh yes, he will come, and your dear father would have liked it. The Warrenders have always thought a great deal of such things.”
“I am a Warrender, I hope, and I don’t.”
“Ah, Theo, you! But you are much more like my family,” she said, with a little pressure of his arm.
This did not give him so much pleasure as it did her; for, after all, however near a man may be to his mother’s family, he generally prefers his own, and the name which it is his to bear. They got back under the thick shadow of the trees when the conversation came to this point, and once more it was impressed upon both that the path was very damp, and that even in June it was difficult to get through without wet feet; but Mrs. Warrender had felt herself checked by her son’s reply about the alterations, and Theo felt that to betray how much he was thinking of them would be horrifying to his mother: so they both stepped into the marshy part without a word.
“You are still decided to go on Friday—you and the girls?”
“Surely, Theo: we are all in good health, Heaven be praised! I should not feel that I had done everything if I did not go.”
“You are sure it will not be too much for you, mother?”
This question went to her heart. She knew that it ought to be too much for her. Had she been the wife she ought to have been, the widow with a broken heart, then, perhaps, there might have been a doubt. But she knew also that it would not be too much for her. Her heart ached for the ideal anguish, which nobody looked for, nor would have understood. “He would have liked it,” she said, in a subdued voice. That, at least, was quite true: and to carry out all his wishes thus faithfully was something, although she could not pay him the homage which was his due—the supreme compliment of a broken heart.
At last Friday came. It was a dull day, of the colour most congenial to such a ceremony. A gentle shower fell upon the wreaths and crosses that covered the coffin. There was a large assembly from all the country round, for Mr. Warrender had been a man who never harmed anybody, which is perhaps a greater title to respect than those possess who have taken more trouble. When you try to do good, especially in a rural place, you are sure to stir up animosities; but Mr. Warrender had never stirred up anybody. He was greatly respected. Lord Markland was what the farmers called “a wild young sprig,” with little regard to the proprieties; but he was there, and half the
