CHAPTER LVII
And, after all, I failed! I did not die. I got better, though not quite well, for my lungs remained delicate, and in October Mrs. Carroll took me to be examined by a specialist. I was examined, sounded, tapped, a sample of my blood taken, and other odious things done to me, before it was finally decided that I must go abroad. I listened to the discussion that followed, taking no part in it myself, but simply sitting on the sofa in the consulting-room.
“For the winter, I suppose?”
“For the winter certainly.”
“And afterwards?”
“Afterwards? I’m afraid it is impossible to say. There is no use making promises which may never be fulfilled. Would there be anything to prevent his living abroad always, supposing it should be the best thing for him?”
“There is only the difficulty of his future――that is, of a profession. He was to have gone to Oxford next year.”
“I see. It is certainly unfortunate. But apart from that, there is nothing?”
“To prevent his living abroad? Not that I know of.”
There were such things as tutors, it then appeared; young gentlemen of excellent scholastic attainments, just fresh from one or other of the Universities, who could be induced to combine the rôles of travelling-companion, mentor, and pedagogue.
And on this hopeful note we came away. We had lunch in town, and caught the next train home. When we arrived at Newcastle we took one of the station cars. I was staying at Derryaghy to complete my convalescence; so Mrs. Carroll stopped at our house to give my father the news, telling me to drive on by myself. The October sunlight, still with a little of the warmth of summer in it, slanted through the trees, as I drove in at the lodge-gate. There was a charming autumnal languor in the still air――a kind of dreamy, happy beauty, which made me think of some verses of La Fontaine’s:――
“J’étais libre et vivais seul et sans amour; L’innocente beauté des jardins et des jours Allait faire à jamais le charme de ma vie.”
And, far out on the dark sea, a white sail gleamed in the sun.
The thought of leaving it all behind me, and of passing the rest of my life in exile, was too painful to dwell upon; yet I knew that, once I went away, I might very easily never be back. It had struck me that the doctor had been anything but optimistic, and I knew this meant that my chance must be a pretty poor one.
I went upstairs to my own room. I sat down in my old window-seat and began a letter to Owen, which I did not finish, for it occurred to me that, later on, I might have more definite news to give him; and, at any rate, if I were going away, he must come down first to stay with me. With my incomplete letter before me I sat dreaming. I wondered if, in years to come, another boy would have this room as his own, and sit in this window-seat; and if his thoughts would for a moment perhaps touch mine? All _my_ thoughts would be dead then; my dreams vanished; the life that had unfolded here be gone out. A feeling of sadness stole over me. I had been a very little chap when I had first taken possession of this room. If the ghost of that little boy, who had been me, could only come back, how I should have hugged him! For I loved him: he seemed quite different from the “me” who was thinking about him now. Only he was gone, and just one person in the world knew anything about him, and he, too, I supposed, as years passed would forget....
* * * * *
“Why are you sitting up here in the cold, child?”
Mrs. Carroll had opened the door and was speaking to me. “How long have you been here? Come down to tea.”
I looked round and saw that the room had filled with dusk. “Oh, not very long.” I smiled. “I’m not cold.” But I shivered slightly as I spoke.
“That means you have been here ever since you came in. It is really very wrong of you, Peter. The fire is laid, and all you had to do was to put a match to it.”
I followed her downstairs. There was no one in the drawing-room, and I was glad we were going to be by ourselves. I sat on the hearth-rug, hugging my knees, gazing into the red, glowing grate.
“Is Miss Dick out?” I asked.
“She went out to tea.”
I waited till the servant had come in and cleared away the tea-things. Then I said, “I have something to tell you.”
Mrs. Carroll, her plump, rather large hands moving swiftly and deftly amid soft, fleecy wool, was knitting what looked remarkably like an under-garment for me. “Yes, dear,” she replied.
But instead of proceeding I asked a question: “Won’t it cost a great deal, my going away――with a tutor, and all that?”
“Not very much. It is of no importance.”
“But you will be paying for it, won’t you?” I urged.
“My dear child, why do you want to discuss such things now?”
“I have a reason.”
“I don’t think it can be a good one.”
“If I were related to you――if I were your nephew――it would be different.”
“What would be different?”
“If I were worth it it would be different too. But I’m not.”
“Aren’t you?” Her needles clicked placidly.
“Why should you think me so?”
“Because, I suppose, from the days when you were quite a little boy, you have been the principal thing I have had to think about. There was a time when I tried very hard, and very selfishly, I’m afraid, to be allowed to look after you altogether, when I wanted this house to be your home.”
“Suppose I told you that all this――all my illness――was not accidental?”
Mrs. Carroll displayed no alarm. “I don’t know what you mean, Peter, I’m sure,” she said, gently, disengaging her ball of wool from Miss Dick’s cat, who had stretched out a tentative paw.
“I mean that I did it myself,” I answered, bringing it all out at last. “I did it on purpose.... I wanted to die, to kill myself, and I thought of this way. I went out and lay on the golf-links one whole night, in the rain, with nothing on but my night-shirt; and next morning I took ill.”
Mrs. Carroll said nothing, but she had stopped knitting. I felt her hand rest on my head.
“Is that true, Peter?” she asked at last, after a long pause, and in a low voice.
“It’s true.” I stared into the fire.
She was again silent, but she did not draw away her hand. “Why did you do this?” she asked presently.
“Because I felt miserable.”
“But――but it was a dreadful thing to do! Don’t you know that?” Her voice trembled slightly.
I got on my knees. I put my arms round her neck and pressed my cheek against hers. “I have spoiled everything, I made a mess of everything,” I muttered quickly. “I am not very old, but I have made a mess of any life I have had.”
She drew my head down on her breast and held me close. For some time she did not speak.
“It will all come right, if you try,” she said at last. “The beginning is not everything.”
“It is not for myself I care. It is for you.”
“For me, then.” She paused. “But for me you are what you have always been and always will be, since I have no boy of my own. You are my son, the one being whom I love. Your future is what I think of and make plans for; and whenever I pray it is that you may be happy.”
THE END
_Wyman & Sons Ltd., Printers, London and Reading._
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Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Inconsistent hyphenation and compound words were made consistent only when a predominant form was found.