Mary Gray

K >> Katharine Tynan >> Mary Gray

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However, the thing impressed her. It worked by slow degrees into her
mind. She had listened often to such foolish heresies as that which
declared brains more important than rank or wealth. In a general way she
had not dissented. Brains were very important. Gerald had thought a good
deal of brains. If he had lived he had meditated a book on Napoleon's
Wars. She had often met writing and painting and musical people in her
friends' drawing-rooms. They had not appealed to her nor she to them.
But she had grown accustomed to their presence there and to meeting them
on an equality to which in her heart she had never subscribed.

However, she had the wisdom to see that there was no use in holding out
against her son and to console herself with the idea that Mary was going
to be a personage, even apart from the incredible social promotion of
marrying Sir Robin Drummond. So she actually reached the point of coming
in person to Wistaria Terrace to make a formal recantation of her
opposition to the marriage, and to take Mary to her imposing,
black-bugled breast.

To be sure the little house had almost driven her back from its
threshold. She filled the small shabby hall, she fell over the brushes
left by the general servant who had been scrubbing the oilcloth, not
expecting her ladyship; she sat uncomfortably on the green rep chairs of
the drawing-room staring at a Berlin-wool banner-screen which
represented a poodle with beads for his eyes, at the silver shavings in
the grate, and the school drawings, finished by the nuns, of the younger
Misses Gray. There were certain aspects of that drawing-room dear to
Mrs. Gray which Mary had been too tenderhearted to try to alter.

There Mary had found her and had been moved in her innermost humorous
sense; but she had been glad to be friends with Robin's mother, and so
had done her best to advance the reconciliation.

Lady Drummond had a surprising proposal to make. It seemed that her
friend, Lady Iniscrone, had placed at Miss Gray's disposal for the
wedding the big house on the Mall formerly occupied by Lady Anne
Hamilton. Lady Iniscrone wrote that they had heard of Miss Gray from a
friend of Lady Agatha Chenevix, and had felt interested in her progress
ever since. Of course, remembering the tie which had existed between
Lord Iniscrone's aunt and Miss Gray, Lord and Lady Iniscrone could never
be without interest in Miss Gray's progress.

Mary smiled a smile of fine humour over the reading of the letter. At
first she was in the mood to refuse. But, being her father's daughter,
and so endowed with that sense of the comedy as well as the tragedy of
life which makes it easy to regard things and persons equably, she
consented at last. She would have preferred to be married from Wistaria
Terrace, but she had no difficulty in making a concession to Robin's
mother.

So the wedding-breakfast was spread in the dining-room where she and
Lady Anne used to have their meals together. Mrs. Gray held a terrified
reception of the few fine folk whom Lady Drummond had declared it
necessary to ask in the long drawing-room with the three windows where
Lady Anne used to sit with little Fifine in her lap.

Mary had wished to be married from the poor little house where she had
grown up, but on her wedding day she felt that she had done as Lady Anne
would have wished. There was nothing changed in the house: the
old-fashioned substantial furniture, the faded carpets and curtains,
were just the same. There were one or two familiar faces among the
servants. After all, Lord and Lady Iniscrone had used the house little,
since Lord Iniscrone had developed a chest affection which kept him
following the sun round the world for three-fourths of the year.

The marriage had taken place earlier at the big, dim old church behind
which Wistaria Terrace hid itself away, and the few fine folk were not
bidden to the wedding but to the reception. A great many glittering
things were spread out on the tables in the long drawing-room. It was
surprising how many well-wishers the new Lady Drummond seemed to have in
the great world. Sir Denis Drummond had come over for the wedding, and
Nelly was a bridesmaid, with Mary's type-writing sister, Marcella. She
was a different Nelly from her of a couple of months earlier, her
delicacy gone, her old pretty bloom come back, her eyes bright as of
old.

"Mrs. Langrishe wants me to return to her!" she confided to Mary, "but
we are going to Sherwood Square. You know, _he_ is on his way home. In a
week or two he will be on the sea. He must come to me, not find me there
waiting for him. Do you know, Mary, that though his mother and sister
have taken me to their hearts, he has not written me a line? You don't
suppose, Mary, that he could be going to keep silence _now_?"

"Of course not," said Mary. "Seeing what you have suffered for him----"

"He must never know that," Nelly said, with gentle dignity, "until he
has spoken. What should I do, Mary, if he never spoke? But I think
everyone would keep my secret, even his sister and mother. I asked them
not to speak of me in their letters. I am in suspense, Mary."

"It will not be for long," the happy bride assured her. As though she
were wiser than another in knowing the way of any particular man with
any particular maid!

CHAPTER XXVII

THE INTERMEDIARY

Some time in December Captain Langrishe came home.

Nelly knew the day and the hour that he was expected, but she was as
terrified of meeting him as though she had not had so much assurance of
his love for her. She knew the events of the day as though she had been
present at their happening. Cyprian Rooke's brother, a young,
distinguished doctor well on his way to Harley Street although only a
few discriminating people had found him out, had gone down to
Southampton with Mrs. Rooke and her mother to meet the invalid, who even
yet must bear traces of the terrible illness through which he had
passed. Nelly could see it all, from the moment the big boat came into
Southampton Docks till the arrival in London. Captain Langrishe was
going down to his sister's cottage in Sussex. The mother and sister, who
already claimed Nelly as their own, had been eager for her to be there
on their arrival, or to come later. But Nelly was adamant.

"He must come to me," she said. "And I think the one thing I could not
forgive is that anyone should interfere: _anyone_, even you two whom I
dearly love. Promise me that you will not."

They had promised her. They were women of discretion; and they felt that
now he was come back to them things might safely be left to take their
own course. To be sure, as soon as he could he would go to Nelly as to
his mate, naturally, joyfully. In an early letter, written before
Nelly's embargo, Mrs. Rooke had told him that Nelly's engagement had
been broken off. Later, she had conveyed the news that Robin Drummond
had consoled himself with rapidity, and was to be married to the Miss
Gray whose book on the conditions of women's labour among the poor had
made such a stir, and not only in political circles. Godfrey Langrishe
in his letters had not commented on these communications.

"Let Godfrey be!" said the sister, who knew him with the thoroughness of
a nursery companion. "He will do his own wooing. He would not thank us
for doing it for him."

All next day Nelly waited. After the very early morning she did not dare
go outdoors lest he should come in her absence. The General went off to
his club to be out of the way. At a quarter to seven he opened the door
with his latch-key and came in, more than half-expecting to find an
overcoat which did not belong to him in the hall. There was none; and he
went on to the drawing-room with a vague sense of disappointment.
Langrishe must have been and gone.

In the drawing-room he found Nelly alone.

"Well, papa," she said, as he came in, and offered no further remark.

"No one been, Nell?" he asked, with a little foreboding.

"No one."

"Ah, well, to be sure the boat must have arrived late. They may not have
got back to town till to-day."

The next day passed in the same way, and the next day. The fourth day
Nelly went out and did her Christmas shopping. She held her head high
now, in a spirited way which hurt her father to see, for her face was
very pale. That evening she put on a little scarlet silk dinner-jacket,
in which the General declared that she looked every inch a soldier's
daughter. But the brilliant colour only made her look paler by contrast.

On the fifth day the General, instead of going to his club, went to see
Mrs. Rooke and fortunately found her at home. He hardly knew the little
woman, but she was a friend of Nell's and had been good to her. Besides,
he was so bent upon getting to the root of the business about Langrishe
and Nell that he felt no embarrassment on the subject of his errand.

"My dear," he said, bowing over Mrs. Rooke's pretty hand--he had a
charming way with women--"I have come without my daughter knowing.
Perhaps she would never forgive me if she knew. Tell me: what is the
mystery about your brother? Why has he not been to see us?"

"I am so glad you came to ask me, Sir Denis," Mrs. Rooke replied. "I was
just about to go to Nelly. Godfrey is so obstinate. The doctors cannot
say yet if he is going to be a cripple or not. His sword-arm was almost
slashed through. Jerome Rooke, my brother-in-law, says it will be all
right. On the other hand, Sir Simon Gresham shakes his head over it.
Godfrey is to see him again in a few weeks' time. He is waiting for his
verdict before he speaks to Nelly. My opinion is that if the verdict is
adverse he will never speak at all."

"Why, God bless my soul, then!" shouted the General in his most
thunderous voice, "he must speak before! he must speak before!
Everything must be settled. They shall hear Sir Simon's verdict
together."

Those people had been right who had called Sir Denis unworldly. Mrs.
Rooke blinked her pretty eyes before his outburst.

"You know, of course, Sir Denis, that his profession will be closed to
him in case his arm doesn't get well. Godfrey has always felt that he
had too little to offer your daughter. But now--it will be a maimed life
if the worst happens. Both my mother and I appreciated Godfrey's
reasons. We could not say that he was not right. Poor Godfrey! I don't
know what he will do if he loses his profession. You know he was devoted
to his work."

"I know, ma'am." The old soldier's eye lit up with a sudden spark. "In
any case, with the help of God, he will have Nell to comfort him. Your
brother's address is----"

"You are going to him?"

"It seems the one thing to do. I've no pride about offering my girl
where I know she is deeply loved."

"You are a trump, General!" Mrs. Rooke said, with sparkling eyes.

"Thank you, ma'am," the General answered, blushing like a school-boy. "I
was never one to sit with folded hands. The Lord didn't make me like it.
And I've asked His direction, ma'am; I've asked His direction humbly,
and I hope humbly that He is granting it to me."

"Well, God speed you!" Mrs. Rooke said. "Godfrey will be good to Nelly,
Sir Denis. He has always been so trustworthy. And he has had so many
hard knocks. He deserves happiness in the end."

"He shall have it, with the help of God."

The General never made any forecast without the latter proviso, although
that was often said only in the silence of his heart.

The railway journey, unlike the last made in the cause of Nelly's
happiness, went without a hitch. The day was a beautiful, bright,
sunshiny one, with clear skies overhead. The General had the carriage to
himself, so that he was able to sit with both windows open as he liked
it. He felt the winter air quite invigorating as the train rushed
through the pale golden landscape. Robins were singing in the bare
trees, which showed their every twig outlined delicately against the
pale sky. The brown coppices and hedges by which the train hurried were
bright with the scarlet of many berries.

The General, sitting up spare and erect--he had never lolled in his
life, and held all such soft ways only suitable for ladies--contrasted
the journey with the last; and took the radiant day like a good omen. He
wished Nell could have been with him to have the roses blown in her
cheeks by the delicious fresh wind. However, he was going to bring her
home roses, pink roses; the white rose in his Nelly's cheek did not at
all please him.

The little house was quite near the railway, a gabled, two-storied
cottage with diamond-paned windows, and creepers and roses all over its
walls. Even yet on the sheltered side there was a monthly rose or two on
the leafless bushes. The house basked in the sun; and Mrs. Langrishe's
red-and-white collie came to meet the General, wagging his tail with a
friendly greeting.

The maid who opened the door smiled on him. She knew him for Miss
Nelly's father; and Nelly had a way of making herself beloved by
servants wherever she went, and not only because she was ready always to
empty her little purse among them.

Mrs. Langrishe? Mrs. Langrishe was out, but was expected in to lunch.
The Captain had just come in. Would Sir Denis see him?

Sir Denis would see the Captain. He followed the maid through the clean,
orderly little house, every inch of it shining with the perfection of
cleanliness, to the study at the back which opened on the garden.
Captain Langrishe was sitting in a chair in a dejected attitude at the
moment the General first caught sight of him. He sprang to his feet,
turning red and pale when he saw who his visitor was.

"Well, my lad," the General said, taking the uninjured left hand in a
cordial grip. "And how do you feel?"

Langrishe looked up at him with shy eyes.

"To tell the truth, Sir Denis, not very cheerful. I have been, in fact,
keeping company with the blue devils pretty well since I came home. You
know----"

"Yes, I know. We must hope for the best. But, if you can't carry a sword
any longer, why it must mean that the Master of us all has another post
for you. And now, why didn't you come to Sherwood Square?"

"I couldn't, with this in suspense," Langrishe stammered. "It is most
kind of you to come to see me."

"My dear boy," the General put his hand on Langrishe's shoulder, "you
must come, with this in suspense. Do you know that my girl has looked
for you day after day?"

The young man flushed and stared at the General's kind face in
bewilderment.

"I would rather die than cause her a minute's pain," he said, with quiet
fervour.

"You have caused her a good many," the General said grimly. "Not
willingly, I am sure of that, or I wouldn't be here. Haven't you heard
how she suffered? Why, God bless my soul, I was afraid at one time that
I might be going to lose her; and all through you, young man--all
through you. Now I'll have no more shilly-shally. If Nell is fond of you
and you are fond of Nell----"

"God knows how I love her!" Langrishe cried out, a glow of passion
lighting up his worn, dark face. "But you don't understand, Sir Denis. I
feel sure you don't understand. I have nothing in the world but my
sword. My uncle, Sir Peter, gave me that. He gave me nothing else. Lady
Langrishe, who nursed my uncle through an attack of the gout before he
married her, has just presented him with an heir. I have no hopes from
my uncle. If I lose my sword-arm I lose everything. I am likely to lose
my sword-arm, Sir Denis."

"Whether you do or whether you do not is in the hands of God," the
General said. "I don't think Nell will mind very much if your sword-arm
is ineffectual or not. You've done enough for honour, anyhow. And I'm
not going to betray any more of the child's secrets. You'd better come
and hear them yourself. I'll tell you what: come on Christmas Day. Come
to lunch and bring your bag with you. I daresay you won't want to cut
your visit short?"

"You really mean it, Sir Denis?"

"Mean it, my lad? I've meant it for a long time. I've watched your
career, Langrishe. I know pretty well all about you. You'd never give me
credit for half the cunning I've got." The General rubbed his hands
softly together and tried to look Machiavellian, failing ludicrously in
the attempt. "There's no man I would more willingly trust my girl to.
Why, I went after you to Tilbury when you were going out--to find out
what you meant. I'll tell you about it."

For the moment the General forgot completely how he had man[oe]uvred in
the second place to marry Nelly to Robin Drummond. In fact, he didn't
remember about it till he was going home, and then, after a momentary
shamefacedness about his unintentional disingenuousness, he decided,
like a sensible man, that there was no use talking about that now.

Before that time, however, he had lunched with Mrs. Langrishe and her
son after a talk with the latter. Now that he had succeeded in breaking
down the lover's scruples, Godfrey Langrishe was only too anxious to
fling himself into the next train and be carried off to his love. But
the General would not have it so, though he was pleased at the young
man's impatience.

"It wants but five days to Christmas Day," he said. "Come then. You can
spare him, ma'am?" to Mrs. Langrishe.

"I have had to spare him for less happy things," the mother responded
cheerfully.

There was no happier old soldier in all his Majesty's dominions than was
Sir Denis Drummond on his homeward journey. In fact, he found himself
several times displaying his gratification so evidently in his face that
people smiled and looked significantly at each other. One lady whispered
to another of the Christmas spirit.

It was by a stern effort of his will that he composed his face as he
went up the stairs of his own house. He didn't deceive Pat, who had
admitted him--for once the General had forgotten his latch-key. Pat
reported to Bridget:

"Sorra wan o' me knows what's come to the master; he's gone up the
stairs, and the heart of him that light that his foot is only touchin'
the ground in an odd place."

"'Twill be somethin' good for Miss Nelly then," Bridget replied sagely.

The General schooled his face to wear an absurdly transparent look of
gloom as he entered the drawing-room, but it was quite wasted on Nelly,
who didn't look at him. She had a screen between her face and the fire
as she sat in her fireside chair, and her little pale, hurt, haughty
profile showed up clearly against the peacock's feathers of the screen.

The General had meant to have some play with Nell, but that forlorn look
of hers went to his heart.

"I saw Langrishe to-day, Nell," he said. "He's coming for Christmas. We
can put him up--hey?"

"Papa!"

He heard the incredulously joyful half-whisper, and he felt the pang
that comes to all fathers at such a moment. Nell was not going to be
only his ever again. He had been enough for her once on a time; yet,
here she was, come to womanhood, breaking her heart for a stranger.

"If I were you, Nell," he said gently, "I'd be seeing about my
wedding-clothes."

CHAPTER XXVIII

NOEL! NOEL!

Captain Langrishe arrived only just in time for lunch on the Christmas
Day. By the time he had been shown his room and had deposited his bag
and returned to the drawing-room it was time for the luncheon-bell.

The meeting between Nelly and himself would have seemed to outsiders a
cold one. To be sure, it took place under the General's eye. One might
have supposed that the General would have absented himself from that
lovers' meeting, but as a matter of fact he did not. Nelly's flush, the
shy, burning look which Langrishe sent her from his dark eyes, were
enough for the two principals. For the rest, all seemed to be of the
most ordinary. No one could have supposed that for the two persons
mainly concerned this was the most wonderful Christmas Day there ever
had been since the beginning.

During lunch Langrishe talked mainly to the General. They had plenty to
talk about. The General found it necessary to apologise to Nelly for
"talking shop," an apology which was tendered in a whimsical spirit and
received in the same. Pat, waiting at table, quite forgot that he was
Sir Denis Drummond's manservant, listening to the stirring tale; and was
once again Corporal Murphy, back in "th' ould rig'mint." In fact, he
once almost forgot himself so far as to put in an eager comment, but
fortunately pulled himself up in time. He mentioned afterwards to
Bridget that the Captain's talk had nearly brought him to the point of
"joinin'" again. "Only that I remembered that at last you'd consinted to
my spakin' to Sir Denis I couldn't have held myself in, Bridget, my
jewel," he said. "But the thought of gettin' kilt before ever I'd made
you Mrs. Murphy was too much for me."

There was considerable excitement in the servants' hall over Captain
Langrishe's presence. Pat, of course, knew all about him since he
belonged to "th' ould rig'mint"; but it was through Bridget's feminine
perspicacity that it broke on the amazed couple that it was for him Miss
Nelly had been breaking her heart all the time.

"It 'ud do you good," said Pat, "to see the way she carries her little
sojer's jacket, and the holly berries on her pretty head like a crown."

To be sure, the younger ones of the servants' hall were talking too, and
they even approached Pat, who outside the duties of his office was not
awesome, for the satisfaction of their curiosity.

"Just wait," said Pat oracularly, "an' ye'll see what ye'll see."

The speech meant nothing to Pat's own mind except that they would be all
wiser later on. However, it went nearer the mark than he had intended.

The afternoon of Christmas Day was always the occasion for a Christmas
Tree. Everyone in the house was remembered in the distribution of
presents, even the dogs. The tree was set up in the servants' hall and
the General had never omitted to distribute the presents himself in all
the years they had been at Sherwood Square. He had mentioned the tree to
Langrishe at lunch, apologising for asking his assistance at so homely
an occasion. His eye twinkled as he said it; and rather to Nelly's
bewilderment the young man blushed like a girl. Apparently he had heard
of the Christmas Tree before, for he made no comment.

After lunch the lovers were a little while alone. Sir Denis had his
secrecies about the Tree, gifts which had to go on at the last moment
and to be placed there by himself. When he came back to the drawing-room
he was aware from the looks of the young couple that everything had been
satisfactorily arranged between them. He looked as cheerful himself as
anyone could desire. While he put those last touches to the Tree he had
been thinking how good it was that he was going to have his children to
himself, no troublesome Dowager with her claims and exactions to come
between them. For a long time to come, anyhow, Langrishe must be off
active service; and they would all be together in the kind, spacious old
house. And presently there would be Nelly's children. Please God he
would live to deck the Tree for the delight of Nelly's children! It was
the thought of the golden heads of the little lads and lasses yet to be
dancing about the Tree that brought the dimness to his eyes, the look of
happy dreams to his face.

The Tree was far from being a perfunctory, haphazard affair. Everything
had been thought out and planned beforehand. The servants sat in a
circle with eager, expectant faces. In front of them was a circle of
dogs. The dogs' presents were not much of a novelty. A new collar for
one, a new basket for another, a medal for the oldest of the dogs; the
possible gifts were very soon exhausted, but they made hilarity, and the
dogs barked as they received their gifts as though they understood and
enjoyed it all, as no doubt they did.

There was a delightful sensation for the servants' hall when the gold
watch which had been hanging near the top of the tree was handed down,
and its inscription proved to be: "To Bridget Burke, on the occasion of
her marriage to Patrick Murphy, with the affection and esteem of the
master and Miss Nelly." The servants' hall broke into cheers. They had
all known that there was something between Bridget and Pat, but the
thing had hung fire so long that it might well have hung fire for ever.
Pat's present was a ten-pound note for the honeymoon. Mr. and Mrs.
Murphy were to have a fortnight together after their marriage in some
seaside place, before settling down to their old duties. Sir Denis had
made Pat the offer of a cottage in the country, but this Pat had
refused, to his master's great relief. "Sure, what would you do without
me?" he said. "I was thinking the same myself," responded the General.

The General had it in his mind that presently, when those children came,
it might be necessary to give up Sherwood Square and live in the country
for their sakes. A little place in Ireland now, the General thought,
where there was always plenty of sport and good-fellowship. However,
that might wait. But the thought was a sweet one, to be turned over in
the old man's mind.

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