Sir George Tressady, vol 2 | Page 3

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 said I had much better do what suited me, and take care.
Besides, what do any of them know? They all confess they're just
fumbling about. Now, surgery, of course--that's different.
Battye"--Battye was Lady Tressady's ordinary medical
adviser--"doesn't believe all the other man said. I knew he wouldn't.
And as for making an invalid of me, he sees, of course, that it would
kill me at once. There, my dear George, don't make too much of it. I
think I was a fool to tell you."
And Lady Tressady struggled to a sitting position, looking at her son
with a certain hostility. The frown on her white face showed that she
was already angry with him for his emotion--this rare emotion, that she
had never yet been able to rouse in him.
He could only implore her to be guided by her doctor--to rest, to give
up at least some of the mill-round of her London life, if she would not
go abroad. Lady Tressady listened to him with increasing obstinacy and
excitability.
"I tell you I know best!" she said, passionately, at last. "Don't go on like
this--it worries me. Now, look here--"
She turned upon him with emphasis.
"Promise me not to tell Letty a word of this. Nobody shall know--she
least of all. I shall do just as usual. In fact, I expect a very gay season.
Three 'drums' this afternoon and a dinner-party--it doesn't look as
though I were quite forgotten yet, though Letty does think me an old
fogey!"
She smiled at him with a ghastly mixture of defiance and conceit. The
old age in her pinched face, fighting with the rouged cheeks and the
gaiety of her fanciful dress, was pitiful.
"Promise," she said. "Not a word--to her!"
George promised, in much distress. While he was speaking she had a

slight return of pain, and was obliged to submit to lie down again.
"At least," he urged, "don't go out to-day. Give yourself a rest. Shall I
go back, and ask Letty to come round to tea?"
Lady Tressady made a face like a spoilt child.
"I don't think she'll come," she said. "Of course, I know from the first
she took an ungodly dislike to me. Though, if it hadn't been for
me--Well, never mind! Yes, you can ask her, George--do! I'll wait and
see if she comes. If she comes, perhaps I'll stay in. It would amuse me
to hear what she has been doing. I'll behave quite nicely--there!"
And, taking up her fan, Lady Tressady lightly tapped her son's hand
with it in her most characteristic manner.
He rose, seeing from the clock that he should only just have time to
drive quickly back to Letty if he was to be at the House in time for an
appointment with a constituent, which had been arranged for one
o'clock.
"I will send Justine to you as I go out," he said, taking up his hat, "and I
shall hear of you from Letty this evening."
Lady Tressady said nothing. Her eyes, bright with some inner
excitement, watched him as he looked for his stick. Suddenly she said,
"George! kiss me!"
Her tone was unsteady. Infinitely touched and bewildered, the young
man approached her, and, kneeling down again beside her, took her in
his arms. He felt a quick sobbing breath pass through her; then she
pushed him lightly away, and, putting up the slim, pink-nailed hand of
which she was so proud, she patted him on the cheek.
"There--go along! I don't like that coat of yours, you know. I told you
so the other day. If your figure weren't so good, you'd positively look
badly dressed in it. You should try another man."

Tressady hailed a hansom outside, and drove back to Brook Street. On
the way his eyes saw little of the crowded streets. So far, he had had no
personal experience of death. His father had died suddenly while he
was at Oxford, and he had lost no other near relation or friend. Strange!
this grave, sudden sense that all was changed, that his careless,
half-contemptuous affection for his mother could never again be what it
had been. Supposing, indeed, her story was all true! But in the case of a
character like Lady Tressady's, there are for long, recurrent, involuntary
scepticisms on the part of the bystander.