by George Eliot
CHAPTER L.
The great question in life is the suffering we cause: and the utmost ingenuity of metaphysics cannot justify the man who has pierced the heart that loved him.
--BENJAMIN CONSTANT.
When Denner had gone up to her mistress's room to dress her for dinner,she had found her seated just as Harold had found her, only with eyelidsdrooping and trembling over slowly-rolling tears--nay, with a face inwhich every sensitive feature, every muscle, seemed to be quivering witha silent endurance of some agony.
Denner went and stood by the chair a minute without speaking, onlylaying her hand gently on Mrs. Transome's. At last she saidbeseechingly, "Pray, speak, madam. What has happened?"
"The worst, Denner--the worst."
"You are ill. Let me undress you, and put you to bed."
"No, I am not ill. I am not going to die! I shall live--I shall live!"
"What may I do?"
"Go and say I shall not dine. Then you may come back, if you will."
The patient waiting-woman came back and sat by her mistress inmotionless silence, Mrs. Transome would not let her dress be touched,and waved away all proffers with a slight movement of her hand. Dennerdared not even light a candle without being told. At last, when theevening was far gone, Mrs. Transome said:
"Go down, Denner, and find out where Harold is, and come back and tellme."
"Shall I ask him to come to you, madam?"
"No; don't dare to do it, if you love me. Come back."
Denner brought word that Mr. Harold was in his study, and that Miss Lyonwas with him. He had not dined, but had sent later to ask Miss Lyon togo into his study.
"Light the candles and leave me."
"Mayn't I come again?"
"No. It may be that my son will come to me."
"Mayn't I sleep on the little bed in your bedroom?"
"No, good Denner; I am not ill. You can't help me."
"That's the hardest word of all, madam."
"The time will come--but not now. Kiss me. Now go."
The small quiet old woman obeyed, as she had always done. She shrankfrom seeming to claim an equal's share in her mistress's sorrow.
For two hours Mrs. Transome's mind hung on what was hardly ahope--hardly more than the listening for a bare possibility. She beganto create the sounds that her anguish craved to hear--began to imagine afootfall, and a hand upon the door. Then, checked by continualdisappointment, she tried to rouse a truer consciousness by rising fromher seat and walking to her window, where she saw streaks of lightmoving and disappearing on the grass, and heard the sound of bolts andclosing doors. She hurried away and threw herself into her seat again,and buried her head in the deafening down of the cushions. There was nosound of comfort to her.
Then her heart cried out within her against the cruelty of this son.When he turned from her in the first moment, he had not had time to feelanything but the blow that had fallen on himself. But afterward--was itpossible that he should not be touched with a son's pity--was itpossible that he should not have been visited by some thought of thelong years through which she had suffered? The memory of those yearscame back to her now with a protest against the cruelty that had allfallen on _her_. She started up with a new restlessness from this spiritof resistance. She was not penitent. She had borne too hard apunishment. Always the edge of calamity had fallen on _her_. Who hadfelt for her? She was desolate. God had no pity, else her son would nothave been so hard. What dreary future was there after this dreary past?She, too, looked out into the dim night; but the black boundary of treesand the long line of the river seemed only part of the loneliness andmonotony of her life.
Suddenly she saw a light on the stone balustrades of the balcony thatprojected in front of Esther's window, and the flash of a moving candlefalling on a shrub below. Esther was still awake and up. What had Haroldtold her--what had passed between them? Harold was fond of this youngcreature, who had been always sweet and reverential to her. There wasmercy in her young heart; she might be a daughter who had no impulse topunish and to strike her whom fate had stricken. On the dim lonelinessbefore her she seemed to see Esther's gentle look; it was possible stillthat the misery of this night might be broken by some comfort. The proudwoman yearned for the caressing pity that must dwell in that youngbosom. She opened her door gently, but when she had reached Esther's shehesitated. She had never yet in her life asked for compassion--had neverthrown herself in faith on an unproffered love. And she might have goneon pacing the corridor like an uneasy spirit without a goal, if Esther'sthought, leaping toward her, had not saved her from the need to askadmission.
Mrs. Transome was walking toward the door when it opened. As Esther sawthat image of restless misery, it blent itself by a rapid flash with allthat Harold had said in the evening. She divined that the son's newtrouble must be one with the mother's long sadness. But there was nowaiting. In an instant Mrs. Transome felt Esther's arm round her neck,and a voice saying softly--
"Oh, why didn't you call me before?"
They turned hand and hand into the room, and sat down on a sofa at thefoot of the bed. The disordered gray hair--the haggard face--thereddened eyelids under which the tears seemed to be coming again withpain, pierced Esther to the heart. A passionate desire to soothe thissuffering woman came over her. She clung round her again, and kissed herpoor quivering lips and eyelids, and laid her young cheek against thepale and haggard one. Words could not be quick or strong enough to utterher yearning. As Mrs. Transome felt that soft clinging, she said--
"God has some pity on me."
"Rest on my bed," said Esther. "You are so tired. I will cover you upwarmly, and then you will sleep."
"No--tell me, dear--tell me what Harold said."
"That he has had some new trouble."
"He said nothing hard about me?"
"No--nothing. He did not mention you."
"I have been an unhappy woman, dear."
"I feared it," said Esther, pressing her gently.
"Men are selfish. They are selfish and cruel. What they care for istheir own pleasure and their own pride."
"Not all," said Esther, on whom these words fell with a painful jar.
"All I have ever loved," said Mrs. Transome. She paused a moment or two,and then said, "For more than twenty years I have not had an hour'shappiness. Harold knows it, and yet he is hard to me."
"He will not be. To-morrow he will not be. I am sure he will be good,"said Esther, pleadingly. "Remember--he said to me his trouble wasnew--he has not had time."
"It is too hard to bear, dear," Mrs. Transome said, a new sob rising asshe clung fast to Esther in return. "I am old, and expect so littlenow--a very little thing would seem great. Why should I be punished anymore?"
Esther found it difficult to speak. The dimly-suggested tragedy of thiswoman's life, the dreary waste of years empty of sweet trust andaffection, afflicted her even to horror. It seemed to have come as alast vision to urge her toward the life where the draughts of joy sprangfrom the unchanging fountains of reverence and devout love.
But all the more she longed to still the pain of this heart that beatagainst hers.
"Do let me go to your own room with you, and let me undress you, and letme tend upon you," she said, with a woman's gentle instinct. "It will bea very great thing to me. I shall seem to have a mother again. Do letme."
Mrs. Transome yielded at last, and let Esther soothe her with adaughter's tendance. She was undressed and went to bed; and at lastdozed fitfully, with frequent starts. But Esther watched by her till thechills of morning came, and then she only wrapped more warmth aroundher, and slept fast in the chair till Denner's movement in the roomroused her. She started out of a dream in which she was telling Felixwhat had happened to her that night.
Mrs. Transome was now in the sounder morning sleep which sometimescomes after a long night of misery. Esther beckoned Denner into thedressing-room, and said:
"It is late,
Mrs. Hickes. Do you think Mr. Harold is out of his room?"
"Yes, a long while; he was out earlier than usual."
"Will you ask him to come up here? Say I begged you."
When Harold entered Esther was leaning against the back of the emptychair where yesterday he had seen his mother sitting. He was in a stateof wonder and suspense, and when Esther approached him and gave him herhand, he said, in a startled way--
"Good God! how ill you look! Have you been sitting up with my mother?"
"Yes. She is asleep now," said Esther. They had merely pressed hands byway of greeting, and now stood apart looking at each other solemnly.
"Has she told you anything?" said Harold.
"No, only that she is wretched. Oh, I think I would bear a great deal ofunhappiness to save her from having any more."
A painful thrill passed through Harold, and showed itself in his facewith that pale rapid flash which can never be painted. Esther pressedher hands together, and said, timidly, though it was from an urgentprompting--
"There is nothing in all this place--nothing since ever I came here--Icould care for so much as that you should sit down by her now, and thatshe should see you when she wakes."
Then with delicate instinct, she added, just laying her hand on hissleeve, "I know you would have come. I know you meant it. But she isasleep now. Go gently before she wakes."
Harold just laid his right hand for an instant on the back of Esther'sas it rested on his sleeve, and then stepped softly to his mother'sbedside.
* * * * *
An hour afterward, when Harold had laid his mother's pillow afresh, andsat down again by her, she said--
"If that dear thing will marry you, Harold, it will make up to you for agreat deal."
But before the day closed Harold knew that this was not to be. Thatyoung presence, which had flitted like a white new-winged dove over allthe saddening relics and new finery of Transome Court, could not findits home there. Harold heard from Esther's lips that she loved some oneelse, and that she resigned all claim to the Transome estates. Shewished to go back to her father.