Page 47 of Threads that Remain

There was a most curious pause. And it was the Colonel, at the desk, in the corner, who, without moving, without raising his head, and in the same quiet and level voice in which he had said everything he had said that afternoon, was heard to answer:

“Both, I think.”

They had all been so busy for the last hour that nobody had thought of looking at the clock; and it was Willoughby, in the end, who found that it was a quarter past four. He rose. He had a queer, light, hollow feeling, as of a man who has had a tooth drawn; and he stood before the fire, and looked at the child on the carpet.

“I ought to go,” said he. “My wife will have read the whole of her book.”

“Will you come again?”

“If you will allow it, I would like to.”

“I think I should like it,” said Henry, gravely. “I shall write. I think that would be best at first; I am not very good at letters, but I shall try. And I would like to meet Charles and Madeline, if I can one day. I do not think it ought to be all at once. And you do not need to go behind the bushes again when you want to see me. You do not need to hide from me anymore.”

“I shall never go behind a bush again as long as I live.”

Henry smiled and nodded his head, feeling the matter was now settled, and, to everyone’s astonishment, put both arms round the tall man’s waist, and held on, for some three seconds, in a hard, brief, awkward hug that had, in it, a good deal of embarrassment and a great deal else; and then he let go, and stepped back, very red, and stood looking at his boots.

Willoughby did not speak. He put one hand, rather blindly, upon the boy’s head; and it seemed to the Colonel, who had not lifted his eyes, that the room contained the loudest silence that he had ever heard.

It was when he walked him to the door that Colonel Brandon, who had said very little in the previous hour, put out a hand.

“I shall not say that I forgive you,” said the Colonel. “It would be untrue. But I shall say that I will not stand in the way.”

Willoughby took the hand. He gripped it hard.

“That is more than I had a right to,” said he, hoarsely, “or expected.”

“Then do not disappoint it.”

He went down the steps. The little woman in grey had already put down her book; she looked at his face, and moved along the seat without a word, and made room for him, and then, with an air of not having noticed it in the least, put her small, gloved hand over his and left it there.

Marianne went to Henry, whom she found upon the stairs, sitting halfway up, with his head against the banisters and the whole of Mrs. Smith’s black skirts spread on the step below, and the old lady’s ringed hand in his hair; and he looked up at her out of a small, exhausted, blotched, smiling face, and said:

“Mamma. It is over.”

“Yes, darling.”

“He does look like me.” He sniffed. “He has a very nice laugh, though. Do you think I might go to see the duck?”

At five o’clock much of the household exited the house. Margaret and the Tregarths headed in the direction of Miss Loveday’s house, to share the news with her and Morwenna. The others, with the whole of the nursery for escort, went to see the duck. Henry skipped ahead of them all, with Sarah following closely, carrying a bag of crusts, and Anne, who had a sketch-book, and Mary, who had an eye upon the others, and Ned, who had his grandmother’s hand; and with Marianne behind them, walking slowly, with her arm through her sister Elinor’s, and her face turned up towards the sky. They passed, by the gravel walk, between the great elms. There was nobody behind the thorn-bush. There was no one upon any bench but the old gentleman with the telescope, who looked at them over the brass with an expression of dawning wonder, and lowered it, and raised his hat.

“It was not so bad,” said Henry.

He said it to Sarah, upon the edge of the water, in a low voice, with the wind lifting his hair. He had taken a crust from the bag, and was breaking it into small pieces, one by one; and a large mallard, who had been watching him for some minutes with an expression of great concentration, paddled towards the kerb.

“I told you it would not be,” said Sarah.

“You said that it was a very good story.”

“It is.” She took a crust and threw it. “And it is not finished. The Admiral has a brother. I have been thinking. I think that he is going to have a great many adventures with him, and one of them is going to be a treasure hunt; and I think,” said Sarah, with a small, serious, satisfied nod, “that I shall have to be in it.”

“You may be the Queen,” said he, giving her head a pat.

“I am always the Queen.”

“Then it is settled,” said Henry; and he laughed, and flung the last of the crust, and the duck, which was of a forgiving disposition, took it.

Chapter XXVIII.