He was muttering to himself the
speech he would soon have to deliver, and which he had that morning,
making a great mental effort, committed to memory. And after the President had had his long, emotional, and flowery say;
and when the oldest of French admirals had stepped forward and, in a
quavering voice, bidden the dead farewell on behalf of the Navy, it came
to the turn of the Mayor of Falaise. He was there, he said, simply as the mouth-piece of his fellow-townsmen,
and they, bowed as they were by deep personal grief, could say but
little--they could indeed only murmur their eternal gratitude for the
sympathy they had received, and were now receiving, from their
countrymen and from the world. Then Jacques de Wissant gave a brief personal account of each of the ten
seamen whom this vast concourse had gathered together to honour. It was
noted by the curious in such things that he made no allusion to the two
officers, to Commander Dupré and Lieutenant Paritot; doubtless he
thought that they, after all, had been amply honoured in the preceding
speeches. But though his care for the lowly heroes proved the Mayor of Falaise a
good republican, he showed himself in the popular estimation also a
scholar, for he wound up with the old tag--the grand old tag which
inspired so many noble souls in the proudest of ancient empires and
civilizations, and which will retain the power of moving and thrilling
generations yet unborn in both the Western and the Eastern worlds:

    "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." THE CHILD


I

It was close on eleven o'clock; the July night was airless, and the last
of that season's great balls was taking place in Grosvenor Square. Mrs. Elwyn's brougham came to a sudden halt in Green Street. Encompassed
behind and before with close, intricate traffic, the carriage swung
stiffly on its old-fashioned springs, responding to every movement of
the fretted horse. Hugh Elwyn, sitting by his mother's side, wondered a little impatiently
why she remained so faithful to the old brougham which he could
remember, or so it seemed to him, all his life. But he did not utter his
thoughts aloud; he still went in awe of his mother, and he was proud, in
a whimsical way, of her old-fashioned austerity of life, of her
narrowness of vision, of her dislike of modern ways and new fashions. Mrs. Elwyn after her husband's death had given up the world. This was
the first time since her widowhood that she and her son had dined out
together; but then the occasion was a very special one--they had been to
dinner with the family of Elwyn's fiancée, Winifred Fanshawe. Hugh Elwyn turned and looked at his mother. As he saw in the
half-darkness the outlines of the delicately pure profile, framed in
grey bands of hair covering the ears as it had been worn when Mrs. Elwyn
was a girl upwards of forty years ago, he felt stirred with an unwonted
tenderness, added to the respect with which he habitually regarded her. Since leaving Cavendish Square they had scarcely spoken the one to the
other. The drive home was a short one, for they lived in South Street. It was tiresome that they should be held up in this way within a hundred
yards of their own door. Suddenly the mother spoke. She put out her frail hand and laid it across
her son's strong brown fingers. She gazed earnestly into the
good-looking face which was not as radiantly glad as she would have
wished to see it--as indeed she had once seen her son's face look, and
as she could still very vividly remember her own husband's face had
looked during their short formal engagement nearly fifty years ago. "I
could not be better pleased, Hugh, if I had myself chosen your future
wife." Elwyn was a little amused as well as touched; he was well aware that his
mother, to all intents and purposes, _had_ chosen Winifred. True, she
had been but slightly acquainted with the girl before the engagement,
but she had "known all about her," and had been on terms of friendly
acquaintance with Winifred's grandmother all her long life. Elwyn
remembered how his mother had pressed him to accept an invitation to a
country house where Winifred Fanshawe was to be. But Mrs. Elwyn had
never spoken to her son of her wishes until the day he had come and told
her that he intended to ask Winifred to marry him, and then her
unselfish joy had moved him and brought them very near to one another. When Hugh Elwyn was in London--he had been a great wanderer over the
earth--he lived with his mother, and they were outwardly on the closest,
most intimate terms of affection. But then Mrs. Elwyn never interfered
with Hugh, as he understood his friends' mothers so often interfered
with them and with their private affairs. This doubtless was why they
were, and remained, on such ideal terms together. Suddenly Mrs. Elwyn again spoke, but she did not turn round and look
tenderly at her son as she had done when speaking of his future
wife--this time she gazed straight before her: "Is not Winifred a cousin
of Mrs. Bellair?" "Yes, there's some kind of connection between the Fanshawes and the
Bellairs." Hugh Elwyn tried to make his voice unconcerned, but he failed, and he
knew that he had failed. His mother's question had disturbed him, and
taken him greatly by surprise. "I wondered whether they are friends?" "I have never heard Winifred mention her," he said shortly. "Yes, I
have--I remember now that she told me the Bellairs had sent her a
present the very day after our engagement was in the _Morning Post_." "Then I suppose you will have to see something of them after your
marriage?" "You mean the Bellairs? Yes--no. I don't think that follows, mother." "Do you see anything of them now?" "No"--he again hesitated, and again ate his word--"that is--yes. I met
them some weeks ago. But I don't think we are likely to see much of them
after our marriage." He would have given the world to feel that his voice was betraying
nothing of the discomfort he was feeling. "I hope not, Hugh. Mrs. Bellair would not be a suitable friend for
Winifred--or--or for any young married woman." "Mother!" Elwyn only uttered the one word, but anger, shame, and
self-reproach were struggling in the tone in which he uttered that one
word. "You are wrong, indeed, you are quite wrong--I mean about Fanny
Bellair." "My dear," she said gently, but her voice quivered, "I do not think I am
wrong. Indeed, I know I am right." Neither had ever seen the other so
moved. "My dear," again she said the two quiet words that may mean so
much or so little, "you know that I never spoke to you of the matter. I
tried never even to think of it, and yet, Hugh, it made me very anxious,
very unhappy. But to-night, looking at that sweet girl, I felt I must
speak." She waited a moment, and then added in a constrained voice, "I do not
judge you, Hugh." "No!" he cried, "but you judge her! And it's so unfair, mother--so
horribly unfair!" He had turned round; he was forcing his mother to look at his now moody,
unhappy face.