Sir George Tressady, vol 2 | Page 2

the mother?"
"You see, she has gone abroad, too--to Bad Wildheim. In fact, Lord Ancoats has taken her."
"That's the place for heart, isn't it?" said his mother, abruptly. "There's a man there that cures everybody."
"I believe so," said George. "May we come to business, mother? I have brought these papers for you to sign, and I must get to the House in good time."
Lady Tressady seemed to take no notice. She got up again, restlessly, and walked to the window.
"How do you like my dress, George? Now, don't imagine anything absurd! Justine made it, and it was quite cheap."
George could not help smiling--all the more that he was conscious of relief. She would not be asking him to admire her dress if there were fresh debts to confess to him.
"It makes you look wonderfully young," he said, turning a critical eye, first upon the elegant gown of some soft pinky stuff in which his mother had arrayed herself, then upon the subtly rouged and powdered face above it. "You are a marvellous person, mother! All the same, I think the heat must have been getting hold of you, for your eyes are tired. Don't racket too much!"
He spoke with his usual careless kindness, laying a hand upon her arm.
Lady Tressady drew herself away, and, turning her back upon him, looked out of the window.
"Have you seen any more of the Maxwells?" she said, over her shoulders.
George gave a slight involuntary start. Then it occurred to him that his mother was making conversation in an odd way.
"Once or twice," he said, reluctantly, in reply. "They were at the Ardaghs' the other night, of course."
"Oh! you were there?"--Lady Tressady's voice was sharp again. "Well, of course. Letty went as your wife, and you're a member of Parliament. Lady Ardagh knows me quite well--but I don't count now; she used to be glad enough to ask me."
"It was a great crush, and very hot," said George, not knowing what to say.
Lady Tressady frowned as she looked out of the window.
"Well!--and Lady Maxwell--is she as absurd as ever?"
"That depends upon one's point of view," said George, smiling. "She seemed as convinced as ever."
"Who sent Mrs. Allison to that place? Barham, I suppose. He always sends his patients there. They say he's in league with the hotel-keepers."
George stared. What was the matter with her? What made her throw out these jerky sentences with this short, hurried breath.
Suddenly Lady Tressady turned.
"George!"
"Yes, mother." He stepped nearer to her. She caught his sleeve.
"George "--there was something like a sob in her voice--"you were quite right. I am ill. There, don't talk about it. The doctors are all fools. And if you tell Letty anything about it, I'll never forgive you."
George put his arm round her, but was not, in truth, much disturbed. Lady Tressady's repertory, alas! had many r?les. He had known her play that of the invalid at least as effectively as any other.
"You are just overdone with London and the heat," he said. "I saw it at once. You ought to go away."
She looked up in his face.
"You don't believe it?" she said.
Then she seemed to stagger. He saw a terrible drawn look in her face, and, putting out all his strength, he held her, and helped her to a sofa.
"Mother!" he exclaimed, kneeling beside her, "what is the matter?"
Voice and tone were those of another man, and Lady Tressady quailed under the change. She pointed to a small bag on a table near her. He opened it, and she took out a box, from which she swallowed something. Gradually breath and colour returned, and she began to move restlessly.
"That was nothing," she said, as though to herself--"nothing--and it yielded at once. Well, George, I knew you thought me a humbug!"
Her eyes glanced at him with a kind of miserable triumph. He looked down upon her, still kneeling, horror-struck against his will. After a life of acting, was this the truth--this terror, which spoke in every movement, and in some strange way had seized upon and infected himself?
He urgently asked her to be frank with him. And with a sob she poured herself out. It was the tragic, familiar story that every household knows. Grave symptoms, suddenly observed--the hurried visit to a specialist--his verdict and his warnings.
"Of course, he said at first I ought to give up everything and go abroad--to this very same place--Bad-what-do-you-call-it? But I told him straight out I couldn't and wouldn't do anything of the sort. I am just eaten up with engagements. And as to staying at home and lying-up, that's nonsense--I should die of that in a fortnight. So I told him to give me something to take, and that was all I could do. And in the end he quite came round--they always do if you take your own line--and