Felix Holt | Page 7

him again, a few minutes after, she saw that he had
his arm round Nimrod's neck, and was uttering his thoughts to the dog
in a loud whisper, as little children do to any object near them when
they believe themselves unwatched.
At last the sound of the church-bell reached Mrs Transome's ear, and
she knew that before long the sound of wheels must be within hearing;
but she did not at once start up and walk to the entrance-door. She sat
still, quivering and listening; her lips became pale, her hands were cold
and trembling. Was her son really coming? She was far beyond fifty;
and since her early gladness in this best-loved boy, the harvest of her
life had been scanty. Could it be that now - when her hair was grey,
when sight had become one of the day's fatigues, when her young

accomplishments seemed almost ludicrous, like the tone of her first
harpsichord and the words of the songs long browned with age - she
was going to reap an assured joy? - to feel that the doubtful deeds of
her life were justified by the result, since a kind Providence had
sanctioned them? - to be no longer tacitly pitied by her neighbours for
her lack of money, her imbecile husband, her graceless eldest-bom, and
the loneliness of her life; but to have at her side a rich, clever, possibly
a tender, son? Yes; but there were the fifteen years of separation, and
all that had happened in that long time to throw her into the background
in her son's memory and affection. And yet - did not men sometimes
become more filial in their feeling when experience had mellowed
them, and they had themselves become fathers? Still, if Mrs Transome
had expected only her son, she would have trembled less; she expected
a little grandson also: and there were reasons why she had not been
enraptured when her son had written to her only when he was on the
eve of returning that he already had an heir born to him.
But the facts must be accepted as they stood, and, after all, the chief
thing was to have her son back again. Such pride, such affection, such
hopes as she cherished in this fifty-sixth year of her life, must find their
gratification in him - or nowhere. Once more she glanced at the portrait.
The young brown eyes seemed to dwell on her pleasantly; but, turning
from it with a sort of impatience, and saying aloud, 'Of course he will
be altered!' she rose almost with difficulty, and walked more slowly
than before across the hall to the entrance-door.
Already the sound of wheels was loud upon the gravel. The momentary
surprise of seeing that it was only a post-chaise, without a servant or
much luggage, that was passing under the stone archway and then
wheeling round against the flight of stone steps, was at once merged in
the sense that there was a dark face under a red travelling-cap looking
at her from the window. She saw nothing else: she was not even
conscious that the small group of her own servants had mustered, or
that old Hickes the butler had come forward to open the chaise door.
She heard herself called 'Mother ! ' and felt a light kiss on each cheek;
but stronger than all that sensation was the consciousness which no
previous thought could prepare her for, that this son who had come

back to her was a stranger. Three minutes before, she had fancied that,
in spite of all changes wrought by fifteen years of separation, she
should clasp her son again as she had done at their parting; but in the
moment when their eyes met, the scnse of strangeness came upon her
like a terror. It was not hard to understand that she was agitated, and the
son led her across the hall to the sitting-room, closing the door behind
them. Then he turned towards her and said, smiling - 'You would not
have known me, eh, mother?'
It was perhaps the truth. If she had seen him in a crowd, she might have
looked at him without recognition - not, however, without startled
wonder; for though the likeness to herself was no longer striking, the
years had overlaid it with another likeness which would have arrested
her. Before she answered him, his eyes, with a keen restlessness, as
unlike as possihle to the lingering gaze of the portrait, had travelled
quickly over the room, alighting on her again as she said -
'Everything is changed, Harold. I am an old woman, you see.'
'But straighter and more upright than some of the young ones!' said
Harold; inwardly, however, feeling that age had made his mother's face
very