Books: The Professional Aunt
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Mary C.E. Wemyss >> The Professional Aunt
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"I've got another! What did the skeleton --"
"Hugh," I said, "I want you!"
"I'm asking riddles, Aunt Woggles."
"Yes, but have you seen the tortoise?"
The situation was saved.
I look back to the rest of that afternoon, and it is all blur and
confusion. I remember the loveliness of the gardens, the peeps of
distant moorland through arches of pink ramblers. I remember how
the sun shone and how beautiful everything was, and above all and
through all those confused memories I hear the quiet, gentle voice
of Lady Mary as she talked to me of things of which I had thought
no one knew anything. She asked me, I remember, if I would like
to see the garden, and I loved her for her graciousness, her
affection, and for her love for my mother. I could see even in
the way she looked at me that it was of my mother he was thinking,
and I remember, in answer to her question whether I liked the
garden, saying I thought it was quite beautiful and so peaceful!
She said, "That is what I feel, the peace of it all. But you,
dear Betty, are too young to feel that. It is as we grow older
that the promise of peace holds out so much. But to the young,
life is before them!"
All that, I remember quite clearly, and a little more. I can
still see Lady Mary, so beautiful, so calm, so confident in the
peace which the future held for her. Then all of a sudden came
these words, "Betty, I liked your hero so much; what happened?"
It was a too sudden opening of prison doors. I was blinded by the
light. I could say nothing. My secret, I felt, was wrested from
me. I had ceased almost to try to hide it, it seemed so safe.
What -- could I say?
Lady Mary went on: "It is not from curiosity that I ask, but from
a very real and deep interest. Your dear mother used so often to
talk of your future. Her love for you was very wonderful, Betty."
I looked away to the purple hills and longed to escape, but she
laid her hand on mine with a gentle pressure. "I liked him so
much. His gentle chivalry appealed to me; it is a thing one does
not meet every day. Some one, I remember, described him as being
as hard as nails and full of sentiment, which was a charming
description of a delightful character and a rare combination. All
women, I think, would have their heroes strong, and the sentiment
makes all the difference in life. If it is money, Betty dear, as
I imagine it is, that must come right. It was money?"
"His father got into difficulties, no fault of his own, that - and
friends made mischief."
"And he is helping his father," continued Lady Mary. "And while
he is doing that, he thinks he has no right to bind a woman."
How could I say when I didn't know? "Men make that mistake; they
forget how much easier it is for a woman to wait bound than to be
free, not knowing. They don't distinguish between the woman who
wants to get married and the woman who loves. Remember, Betty,
how hard it must be for him. I am not sure that his is not the
harder part."
"If he cares," I said.
"I am sure he cares," said Lady Mary softly. "There are secrets
that are not mine, Betty, but there is one that is -- the money
shall come right. I had been looking out for a hero for some time
when I met yours. This is strictly between ourselves, and you
must remember that all my young people are so ludicrously well
off, that an old woman doing as she likes with her own will do no
one any harm. If I had had children, that, of course, would have
made a difference. To me, who have lived the quiet life I have
lately lived, the soldier, the man of action, appeals very
strongly. Much as I love this place, it seems to me that I should
love it still more if it came as quiet after a storm, a haven of
rest after the battle of life."
Then she spoke of Diana. "Hers is a wonderful character, and I
often think how beautiful it is that she should follow your dear
mother at Hames."
"You feel that?" I said.
"Very, very strongly, dear. How happy it must have made her to
feel that her grandchildren should have such a mother. I may be
wrong, and you will smile at an old woman's prejudice and think
that she is looking back with prejudiced eyes into that wonderful
past which is always so much better than any present. I am not,
but still it seems to me that Diana has something that all young
people have not got nowadays, a reverence for the old, an
admiration for the good, and a pity for the poor and distressed.
These things take you far through life, dear, and, combined with
her wonderful vitality and beauty, make her a power.
"Talking of your beautiful mother, it was said years ago that she
was the only woman of whom I had ever been jealous. I am old
enough to tell you these things. It is the privilege of the old
to enlist the sympathies of the young! But it was not true. I
had every reason to be jealous, as had most women I ever saw, but
jealousy in connection with anything so perfect as your mother, I
think, was not possible. Her beauty was of the kind which disarms
jealousy. It was beyond comparison or criticism. It seemed to
belong to another world, and yet she was so tender to the sinners,
so understanding, so full of loving kindness. Hers was a beauty
of the soul as well as the body, and that beauty is as remote from
the everyday prettiness as the earth is from the stars. Her
expression had something of the divine in it, as if she had seen
God face to face. I see the same look coming in Diana's face.
Old Sir George used to say it would be worth committing a sin to
be forgiven by your mother. He said her look was a benediction."
As I said good-by to Lady Mary, she held my hand and said, "Betty
dear, you will some day forgive an interfering old woman, and in
days to come, when you look to these distant hills, you will
remember this day with a kind thought for your beautiful mother's
old friend."
"Isn't Lady Mary a darling?" said Diana, as we walked home through
the scented lanes on that most wonderful of summer evenings. "You
look as if you had been seeing visions, Betty, quite dazed like,
as Nannie used to say."
"I often see visions," I said.
"Have you been crying, Aunt Woggles?" said Hugh. "Were all the
peaches gone when you got back?"
Betty slipped her little hand into mine. "You promised to let me
walk with you for a little. Shall we pick honeysuckle, supposing
we see any?"
"Yes, we will, darling."
"Supposing you can't reach it," she said.
"There is always some within reach."
"I suppose grown-ups can always reach things," said Betty.
Later, in the quiet darkness of the night, I could picture the
garden, the roses, the distant moor, Lady Mary's beautiful face,
but I could not bring myself to believe that I had really heard
those words, "I am sure that he cares."
Surely I had dreamed them, or Lady Mary had, because if they were
true, why had he said nothing? How should he have told her what
he could not tell me?
Chapter XVII
Then came that wonderful morning on which I read that Captain Paul
Buchanan was coming home, was expected to arrive that very day. I
opened the paper at breakfast, as usual and my eyes caught the
word that at any time had the power to set my heart thumping and
to send the blood rushing to my head, a word common enough, and
which to most people, beyond relating to a country always
interesting, means little -- Africa. It is curious that a day
that is to change the whole of one's life should begin exactly
like any other day. Of the most important things we have no
premonition, most of us.
That what I longed and prayed for every hour of my life should
come to pass was not wonderful, but that a day on which I was to
be called to make the greatest sacrifice of my life should steal
stealthily upon me seems strange.
That morning when I came downstairs, my little house in Chelsea
looked exactly like it always had done. The sun shone as the sun
does shine in the early winter in London, and no more, until after
I had read that paragraph; then, behold a new world was born. Why
had my eyes been blind to the gloriousness of the morning? Why
had I thought the day an ordinarily dull one with just the amount
of pale sunshine which is meted out to those happy people who are
wise enough to live within easy reach of the river? Yes, I know,
some people do say that Chelsea is foggy.
It depends so much on their lives. No place could be foggy to me
that day. My fear was that Nannie should read the news in my
face.
I looked away when she said, "Anything in the paper?" as she had
said a hundred times before. She always came to see me eat my
breakfast, so she said, but I knew it was really to hear the news.
I handed her the paper, although I hated to let the words out of
my sight, and she glanced at it. She paused and walked to the
window. Kind Nannie, she was giving me time. She blew her nose,
she was crying, she knew. A double knock at the door brought my
heart to a standstill. Lady Mary was right, he did care. It
seemed hours before the telegram was brought to me. I hardly
dared to open it. There is some happiness too great to bear. I
opened it and read: --
Sara very ill. Come at once.
DIANA
"Nannie," I said, "I am going to Hames."
"To-day?" she said. She knew it was my day of days.
"I must, Nannie. Will you come?"
"No; I'll stay here. Poor Mrs. David, whatever will she do?"
I could hardly imagine, and I am glad to remember that my sorrow
seemed a small thing compared to hers.
It would be impossible for me to describe that journey. The train
crept along. It seemed to stop hours at the station. No one
seemed to remember that Sara was ill. I felt the grip of a cold
hand on my heart. Should I ever arrive? I did at last, and found
a groom waiting for me at the station, with a dogcart. His
mouth twitched, and he could hardly control his voice to tell me
that there was no fresh news. The carriages were wanted for the
doctors; did I mind the dogcart? Mind? I could have urged the
horse to a gallop, and yet I dreaded to arrive.
It was strange to pass through the quiet, deserted hall, up the
stairs, and to hear no sound. A nurse opened a door and spoke in
a whisper. I went into the room, and not until I saw Diana, so
lovely in her grief, did I realize the agony of her suffering.
She put out her hand and silently pressed mine. I turned away so
that she should not see my face.
A man, a stranger to me, sat by the bedside, his eyes fixed on the
child lying there. He was the great London doctor, in whom I
could see all hope was centered. There were other doctors and
nurses, I believe, but it all seemed confusion to me now; but
poor, broken hearted Nannie I remember. She stood at a distance.
Not a sound was uttered, and I took up my watch with the others,
to watch that precious life ebbing away. The soft flitting
backward and forward of nurses, a word now and then from the great
man who held not only the life of Sara in his hands, but, it
seemed to me, the life of my beautiful Diana, only broke the
intense silence. The night came on and we still watched.
The doctor's face became sterner and graver and the little life
weaker, or so it seemed to me. Diana knelt at the side of the
bed. She never moved.
As the dawn broke, Sara opened her eyes and said, "Nannie."
Diana rose and beckoned to Nannie. Nannie hesitated, and Diana,
taking her hand, whispered, "Dear Nannie, I am so glad," and gave
up her place. It is not given to all of us to reach great
heights, but Diana at that moment, I think, reached the divine in
human nature. Then came the moment, too wonderful to think of,
when the doctor told Diana that the great danger was over.
Later he said to David, "My boy, you have given your children the
greatest of all blessings in their mother. Thank God for her
every moment of your life. I've seen many mothers and many sick
children, but -- thank God, and don't forget it."
Dear David, I think most of us thank God oftener than we know and
in many and divers ways, and I am not sure that David does not do
it every time he looks at Diana.
Chapter XVIII
Sara, having got over the crisis and being on the fair road to
recovery, --children recover quickly, -- my heart turned towards
home -- and a longing to get back obsessed me. I could think of
nothing but home, now that Diana's immediate need of me was over.
She begged me to stay with her. To fail her at such a moment was
a great grief to me, but I could make no further sacrifice. I
must go home.
"I must go, David," I urged.
"Of course, if you must, you must, Betty, but I should have
thought after all Diana has gone through, you would have stayed
with her. You have always been so much to each other."
How he hurt me, as if I wouldn't do anything in the world for
Diana; but I must go home.
"David," I said in desperation, "I must go. If I promise to come
back directly, you won't misunderstand my going?"
"I'll try to understand, Betty, that you have some very strong
reason for going back."
"Thank you, David," I said.
"But," he continued, "you must tell Diana yourself."
I went to her room, where she was lying down. "Diana, darling," I
said, "I want very much to go home, if only for a day."
"Of course, Betty, you must go. But don't look so distressed. I
must have been selfish if I gave you the impression that I would
not let you go. It is only that I love so having you, you are
such a rock, and oh! it seems like some awful and terrible dream
we have been through, doesn't it? Sara asked for her darling
bunny today. Think what that means! Darling Betty, I pray that
some great happiness may come to you some day. I begin to believe
that the greatest joys come through the greatest sorrows."
"Don't, Diana," I whispered. "I can't bear you to be too kind. I
suppose it's all we've been through, but I feel."
"I know, Betty," she whispered. "I lie here too tired to do
anything but thank God. I ache with thankfulness, for you among
other blessings. Come back soon."
"What did Diana say?" asked David, who was waiting outside the
door. "Did she understand?"
"Understand? Did you ever know a time when Diana didn't
understand?"
I went. Oh, the joy of setting out towards home! That
ridiculously small house in Chelsea in which were centered all my
hopes. Some word might be there waiting for me. Nannie might
have thought nothing of sufficient importance to forward at such a
moment. How I hoped that was it, and that it might be there, else
all my hopes were shattered.
I opened the door with my latchkey. I looked. No telegram lay on
the table; that I saw at a glance. Then Nannie appeared. She was
crying.
"Nannie," I said, "don't cry, she is much better, and is going to
get quite well; only I had to come home."
How explain to Nannie that I had left Sara and Diana at such a
moment!
"Your bat's crooked," said Nannie.
"You ridiculous old person," I said, "what does that matter?"
Nannie sniffed. I put my hat straight. "Is that better?"
"Yes, it's better, it'll do," she answered, not quite satisfied,
evidently. I wondered why she asked no questions. Why had I come
home to this? No wonder David had been surprised at my leaving
Diana! What was the use?
Then Nannie said with a startling suddenness, "Some one is waiting
for you upstairs."
"Someone for me, Nannie. What do you mean?"
"He's waiting," she said, between laughter and sobs. "He's
waiting."
I often wonder how I had the strength to go upstairs and open the
door. But I did, and there surely enough he stood, only a few
feet of green-painted boards separating us. How I crossed them I
never knew. He came halfway, no doubt.
I should never have done the journey alone, and I wondered too how
it was we met as lovers! That was the most wonderful part of all.
How, when I did not even know that he cared, could it have
happened? It was all too wonderful, and I was too dazed with
happiness to question anything at the moment. I only knew that
the world had become a paradise, and that the past years of doubt
and perplexity had fallen away like a disused garment.
Then we began to talk, and the mystery deepened. He spoke of a
telegram. I had never received one! And my telegram? I had
never sent one! He laughed, and when I said I didn't understand,
he said what was the use of understanding when knowing was
sufficient?
It was all very puzzling, but I was content. There was so much to
talk of, so many explanations to make and to hear! But in time we
came back to the telegram. There had been no such thing!
He laughed. "I have it here," he said, putting his hand on his
coat-pocket.
"Show it to me," I pleaded.
Never; it was his, and his alone.
"But nothing is yours now that is not mine," I urged, "at least,
if you have asked me to marry you."
"Betty," he said, "I quite forgot. I came home for the express
purpose of doing so. I have thought and dreamed of nothing else,
all through the long marches in Africa; all the way home I have
thought of that and of your answer. Betty, will you marry me?"
"I shall be delighted, Captain Buchanan. But where is my telegram
to you, your telegram to me?"
It I think Nannie must have one."
"And did she answer it? Oh, what did she say?"
"Never mind; she said exactly the right thing. Don't let's
discuss Nannie's telegram when we have to make up for the silence
of years! 0 Betty! shall I wake up?"
A little later he said, "Tell me, did you care that night at the
Frasers'?"
"I said I never remembered a time when I didn't care.
"0 Betty! if only you hadn't been so proud!"
"Or you so horribly ununderstandable!"
Chapter XIX
You wonderful Nannie," I said later, as I sat at her feet, "how
did you do it?"
"Quite easily," said Nannie. "When I saw that you must go to
Hames, as of course you had to, I thought to myself, I'll wait!
Years ago my lady said to me, I Nannie, don't let my child throw
away her own chance of happiness. I feel that a day may come when
she will be called upon to make a sacrifice, and she will make it,
regardless of her own feelings. You were always giving up your
toys and things to the boys; that's what made your mother think of
it. The day she spoke of came the morning the telegram came from
Hames. I had been waiting and waiting so as to be sure to do what
your mother told me, and the day came. You see, I saw the paper,
and I knew!"
"How, Nannie? No one knew, I thought."
"Ah, nannies know things; much use they'd be in this world if they
didn't? I know lots of things I'm not supposed to! Well, I
waited, and no telegram came from him that day. There were all
sorts of things about him in the evening paper, being a hero and a
lion and all those sort of things. Then the next day the telegram
came. The ship had been late; you never can tell with ships.
Leave ships to sailors, I say. Well, I opened the telegram. It
said, 'Will you see me if I come straight to you ?' or some such
words, and I answered it."
"What did you say, Nannie?"
"I don't see that that matters. There's nothing in words, and I'm
no scholar."
"Nannie dear, it does matter. It meant everything in the world to
me. If only you knew how happy I am, how ridiculously happy."
"It's all right, then. I've done what she said." A rapturous
smile illuminated her old face.
"All right, Nannie?"
Only a hug can express some things. Nannie straightened her cap.
"Well, then," she said, drawing herself up, "I couldn't do it for
sixpence, it cost ninepence halfpenny. I said, 'Come. Been
waiting for you for years.'"
"Nannie!" I exclaimed.
THE END
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