Cicely fell on her knees beside her.

“Not your daughter!” she exclaimed passionately.

Lady Selina opened her eyes at the touch of Cicely’s hands. Something of the girl’s determination may have flowed to her. Possibly, too, the presence of Grimshaw hardened her, although, deliberately, she ignored him. Her strength returned, the energy which she had never frittered away during a long, tranquil life.

“Is your mind really made up, Cicely? Is it?”

“Yes.”

The firmness of tone was sufficiently convincing.

“You wish to marry a man who is against me, who sides with my enemies?”

Grimshaw answered her.

“I am not against you, Lady Selina. You belong to the old order. I belong to the new. I have never indicted your sincerity of purpose. I hope you won’t indict mine.”

She shrugged her shoulders, saying with finality:

“I stick to my order. I can’t change. We don’t change.”

He came nearer.

“But—your son changed.”

“What——?”

Obviously, she considered herself challenged, and unfairly challenged. She sat up. Her eyes sparkled. She spoke with intensity:

“He did not change. My boy stood by me always—always.”

“He changed after he had faced—realities.”

Cicely was no longer on her knees. She had risen, when Grimshaw approached, retreating a little, divining somehow that her lover was about to use a weapon of which she knew nothing. But the weapon, when she saw it, inspired little confidence. Brian, so far as she was aware, had not changed. Were he alive, he would stand beside his mother now and always, as she affirmed with such poignant conviction. None the less faith in her lover remained constant.

Lady Selina addressed Cicely, not Grimshaw.

“Do you remember, child, that Brian came home on leave shortly after Mr. Grimshaw left Upworthy to go to France?”

“I remember.”

“Your brother was Mr. Grimshaw’s friend, and fully alive to his many sterling qualities and, and—attractions. Because of these he guessed what might happen. And he warned me. And, as I say, I laughed at him. Brian would say, if he were present, what I am about to say.”

She paused to select the right words, thinking not only of her son but of her husband. Brian, possibly, was more Danecourt than Chandos, and dearer to the mother on that account. But in matters which concerned the women of his family he was unquestionably his father’s son, a stickler for tradition, an upholder of the unwritten law which forbade marriage between persons of unequal social position. She continued with austere solemnity:

“I can hardly believe, Cicely, that you have considered what is at stake. This big property was left to me to pass on to a successor, to a child whom your dear father and I believed to be bone of our bone, sharing our ideas and governing principles, content, like us, to walk in the old ways, to carry on our work. Brian would have done so. But he died——”

Her voice died away mournfully.

Cicely edged nearer, much moved. But when she attempted to take her mother’s hand, Lady Selina repulsed her, saying quietly:

“I am speaking now for Brian, for your father, and for myself. If you decide to marry what I firmly believe to be the wrong man, Upworthy and all it includes will go to your cousin George.”

Cicely gazed incredulously at her mother. Slowly, incredulity vanished. The familiar figure of Brian took its place. He stood between her and happiness. He had been resurrected from the dead for this one inflexible purpose. Then he, too, melted away, and she beheld Upworthy, the village with its pretty thatched cottages, the rich pastures, and beyond them the woods and uplands—an Arcadian paradise out of which Brian was driving her——

Lastly, she perceived her cousin George, lord of this goodly manor. She had never liked George. And he was one of the “Indispensables” at the War Office, a-glitter with decorations not earned upon the field of battle. The last time she had talked to George, he had held forth prosingly upon the good old days before the war. Whatever happened, George would “carry on” in the easy grooves, and be more concerned about breeding pheasants than the housing of peasants——

Her mind cleared as she glanced at Grimshaw. Here stood the flesh-and-blood reality, the man of her choice. Their eyes met, flashing. Each disdained Cupid’s adventitious lures and guiles. He seemed to be saying: “Read me! Look well before you leap!”

Accordingly, she looked deep into a mind and heart open for her inspection. Then she leapt without fear.

“If I have to choose between Upworthy and my lover, I take him.”

With a noble gesture she held out her hand. Grimshaw took it, holding it tenderly.

“I am the proudest and happiest man in the kingdom.”

Lady Selina, not untouched, and sensible, perhaps, that duty was goading her on along the appointed path, observed judicially:

“I have spoken for my dead son, you understand?”

“But not his last word?” said Grimshaw.

“Not his last word?” she repeated. “What can you mean?”

“I have a letter from him, written just before he went. He spoke in that letter of you, Lady Selina, and of Upworthy, and of me.”

“Have you seen this letter, Cicely?” asked Lady Selina.

“No.”

“No one has seen it,” said Grimshaw, “except myself. I brought it with me this morning.”

“Please give it to me.”

She held out a trembling hand. Grimshaw took an envelope from his pocket. Lady Selina saw the familiar writing through a mist of unshed tears.

“I c-can’t read it,” she faltered.

“May I?” Cicely asked eagerly. Hardly waiting for an affirmative, she took the letter and glanced at it.

“Oh-h-h!”

“What is it, child?”

“It is dated only two days before he died.”

“Read it aloud.”

As Cicely obeyed, the mother covered her face with her hand. Cicely’s voice faltered and broke more than once, but she read on and on till almost the end.

“‘My dear old Grimmer,—I shall be over the top in a few hours, and mayn’t come back. In the old days you tried to make me think. I’ve had to do it out here. If there isn’t a purpose behind all this slaughter, one must come out of it. I see now it’s up to us to do what we can, not only at the Front, but where our men come from. They deserve it. By God! they do. I know at long last that I was wrong not to back you up about our village. I sided with my mother. She’s the dearest thing, but however beautiful the past may be, we can’t live in it. And she does. If Upworthy ever comes to me, I’ll do what you want, if it costs me my last bob. I should like to see England come out of this splendid all through. It might be so, and it isn’t. If things go wrong, tell my mother this some day, but not yet, because she isn’t ripe for it. If I know her, she’ll try to do something for me that I can’t do for myself. She always did. There’s one more thing heavy on my mind——’”

Cicely paused.

“Go on!”

The command was almost inaudible. Cicely read on:

“‘It’s about Cis. I put a spoke in your wheel because I shared Mother’s ideas about suitable matches, and all that. Now, whether I win through or not, I hope that you and she will come together. Bless you both!’”

Silently, Grimshaw moved to the window and stood with his back to the two women. He could see the trim lawn, once more in order. The gap through which the excited villagers had burst their way was still open. He heard Lady Selina’s voice:

“Give me the letter, child.”

For a moment, Lady Selina held the letter, murmuring: “My son!—my son!”

Then she re-read it, Cicely kneeling beside her, hiding her tear-stained face in her mother’s lap. The letter fluttered to the ground. Cicely felt her mother’s hand upon her head.

“I—I wonder if he knows?”

Cicely looked up.

“What should he know, Mother?”

“He might know that his message to me has been delivered, and——”

“And——?”

“And accepted.”

By HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. List of Works by the author has been moved from the front of the book to the back of the book.

[End of Whitewash, by Horace Annesley Vachell]