Читать книгу Kitty - Warwick Deeping - Страница 41

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She sat down and wrote to her son.

“My dear Boy,—

“I don’t think you can have realized what a shock this news would be to me.

“Why did you not tell me before it happened? Was it quite fair of you not to tell me? I think I have felt the concealment, the lack of confidence, more than anything else.

“Let us be quite honest with one another. Just at present I am so perplexed—so troubled—that I cannot bring myself to any decision,—I mean—whether to be glad or sorry—for your sake. I am thinking of you all the time, Alex, of your future, and all that is best—for your future.

“I called on the Greenwoods,—with a perfectly open mind. I must say that I was a little astonished by the attitude they have adopted. They met me with hostility. The girl seems very young. The mother, well—I’m afraid Mrs Greenwood annoyed me by the way she spoke of you. I admit that I came away saying that I could not recognize the marriage.

“I think—under the circumstances—that this was the only dignified attitude that I could adopt. I adopted it for your sake as well as for my own. I think Mrs Greenwood and her daughter ought to realize how finely and honourably you have behaved. At present I don’t think they quite realize it as they should. I suppose a girl who lives so much in the atmosphere—of young men home on leave—may have a rather flattering idea—of herself—.

“No,—I am not bitter. But I must ask you—Alex—to give me time. I am your mother. I feel most terribly responsible; I have a conscience. I am not a woman who is easily convinced, but I must be convinced—one way or the other—before I can make up my mind.

“Remember, my dear boy, that you are the only son I have. God guard you and keep you—.”

It was a good letter, adroitly sincere, and yet containing its little drop of poison. “The atmosphere of young men home on leave.” She posted it, and sat down to wait, and Alex, reading two letters in a little red-tiled Flander’s bedroom, was at pains to reconcile them. On the whole he had to confess that the mater had taken the news rather well.

As for Kitty’s letter—it puzzled him a little. She said so much less about his mother than she might have said.

“I am afraid she is dreadfully upset about it, dear. And yet I can understand. It is so difficult for a mother to realize that a girl can care—as I care. Let us leave it there—at present. I care—and you care, and that is all that should matter. If you hadn’t a penny I should care just the same.”

He could look out of the window at a Flemish orchard in bloom. The grass was green. Somewhere, in the far distance—there was a rumbling.

He felt troubled, a little depressed. Surely two women who could write two such letters were not going to quarrel about him when he was in the thick of the most devastating quarrel the world had known? No doubt it was hard for his mother to realize—. Moreover, a fellow had to confess that the mater had an autocratic way with her. She may have made Vernor Street feel a little on its dignity.

As for Kitty having a swollen head,—that was nonsense.

He would write a perfectly frank letter to his mother, and try to make her understand what Kitty was to him. Surely, it would only be a question of time, and of two people knowing each other a little better? You might expect a little ice to begin with, and his mother could not be described as an impulsive woman.

But he did feel a little chilled. That grass looked so coldly green. And the apple blossom was beautiful, poignantly beautiful. And those damned guns kept hammering away over yonder!