suppose the boys come first now, do you? I love them as dearly as ever I did, but compared with you—it's so different, absolutely different—I can't explain. I don't love you like people in books, all on fire, and saying wonderful things all the time. But to be with you fills me with utter content. I told you that night in Hopetoun that the boys filled my life. And then you went away, and I found that though I had the boys my life and my heart were empty. You are my life, Biddy."
"My blessed child."
About four o'clock they came home.
An upland country of pastures and shallow dales fell quietly to the river levels, and on a low spur that was its last outpost stood Mintern Abbas, a thing half of the hills and half of the broad valleys. At its back, beyond the home-woods, was a remote land of sheep walks and forgotten hamlets; at its feet the young Thames in lazy reaches wound through water-meadows. Down the slopes of old pasture fell cascades of daffodils, and in the fringes of the coppices lay the blue haze of wild hyacinths. The house was so wholly in tune with the landscape that the eye did not at once detect it, for its gables might have been part of wood or hillside. It was of stone, and built in many periods and in many styles which time had subtly blended so that it seemed a perfect thing without beginning, as long descended as the folds of downs which sheltered it. The austere Tudor front, the Restoration wing, the offices built under Queen Anne, the library added in the days of the Georges, had by some alchemy become one. Peace and long memories were in every line of it, and that air of a home which belongs only to places that have been loved for generations. It breathed ease and comfort, but yet had a tonic vigour in it, for while it stood knee-deep in the green valley its head was fanned by moorland winds.
Jean held her breath as she saw it. It seemed to her the most perfect thing that could be imagined.
She walked in shyly, winged like Mercury, to be greeted respectfully by a row of servants. Jean shook hands with each one, smiling at them with her "doggy" eyes, wishing all the time for Mrs. M'Cosh, who was not specially respectful, but always homely and humorous.
Tea was ready in a small panelled room with a view of the lawns and the river.
"I asked them to put it here," Lord Bidborough said. "I thought you might like to have this for your own sitting-room. It's just a little like the room at The Rigs."
"Oh, Biddy, it is. I saw it when I came in. May I really have it for my own? It feels as if people had been happy in it. It has a welcoming air. And what a gorgeous tea!" She sat down at the table and pulled off her gloves. "Isn't life frightfully well arranged? Every day is so full of so many different things, and meals are such a comfort. No, I'm not greedy, but what I mean is that it would be just a little 'stawsome' if you had nothing to do but love all the time."
"I'm Scots, partly, but I'm not so Scots as all that. What does 'stawsome' mean exactly?"
"It means," Jean began, and hesitated—"I'm afraid it means—sickening."
Her husband laughed as he sat down beside her.
"I'm willing to believe that you mean to be more complimentary than you sound. I'm very certain you would never let love-making become 'stawsome.' … There are hot things in that dish—or would you rather have a sandwich? This is the first time we've ever had tea alone, Jean."
"I know. Isn't it heavenly to think that we shall be together now all the rest of our lives? Biddy, I was thinking … if—if ever we have a son I should like to call him Peter Reid. Would you mind?"
"My darling!"
"It wouldn't go very well with the Quintins and the Reginalds and all the other names, but it would be a sort of Thank you to the poor rich man who was so kind to me."
"All the same, I sometimes wish he hadn't left you all that money. I would rather have given you everything myself."
"Like King Cophetua. I've no doubt it was all right for him, but it can't have been much fun for the beggar maid. No matter how kind and generous a man is, to be dependent on him for every penny can't be nice. It's different, I think, when the man is poor. Then they both work, the man earning, the woman saving and contriving…. But what's the good of talking about money? Money only matters when you haven't got any."
"O wise young Judge!"
"No, it's really quite a wise statement when you think of it…. Let's go outside. I want to see the river near." She turned while going out at the door and looked with great satisfaction on the room that was to be her own.
"I am glad of this room, Biddy. It has such a kind feeling. The other rooms are lovely, but they are meant for crowds of people. This says tea, and a fire and a book and a friend—the four nicest things in the world."
They walked slowly down to the river.
"Swans!" said Jean, "and a boat!"
"In Shelley's dreams of Heaven there are always a river and a boat—I read that somewhere…. Well, what do you think of Mintern Abbas? Did I overpraise?"
Jean shook her head.
"That wouldn't be easy. It's the most wonderful place … like a dream. Look at it now in the afternoon light, pale gold like honey. And the odd thing is it's in the very heart of England, and yet it might almost be Scotland."
"I thought that would appeal to you. Will you learn to love it, do you think?"
"I shan't have to learn. I love it already."
"And feel it home?"
"Yes … but, Biddy, there's just one thing. I shall love our home with all my heart and be absolutely content here if you promise me one thing—that when I die I'll be taken to Priorsford…. I know it's nonsense. I know it doesn't matter where the pickle dust that was me lies, but I don't think I could be quite happy if I didn't know that one day I should lie within sound of Tweed…. You're laughing, Biddy."
"My darling, like you I've sometimes wondered what people talked about on their honeymoon, but never in my wildest imaginings did I dream that they talked of where they would like to be buried."
Jean hid an abashed face for a moment against her husband's sleeve; then she looked up at him and laughed.
"It sounds mad—but I mean it," she said.
"It's all the fault of your Great-aunt Alison. Tell me, Jean, girl—no, I'm not laughing—how will this day look from your death-bed?"
Jean looked at the river, then she looked into her husband's eyes, and put both her hands into his.
"Ah, my dear love," she said softly, "if that day leaves me any remembrance of what I feel to-day, I'll be so glad to have lived that I'll go out of the world cheering."
Ann and Her Mother
