PART FIVE: Of Life and of Living

The only thing preventing Mary from her long-anticipated trip to the Highlands with the family was a flare of almost unbearable pain as she tried to fall asleep the night prior. Matthew had still not caught on – his snoring had begun to irk Mary, whose concern for her health dominated her mind and temper. It was a struggle for her once she propped herself up in bed; the unborn child was especially relentless and restless, and its mother had begun to wonder whether this were a sign.

One more month, thought the woman to herself, gritting her teeth as yet another wave of pressure reminded her that she had to "brave the storm", as Matthew had always phrased it.

But perhaps the most agonising part of it all was that Matthew was as good as a dead man right now, his lips parted as inhalations and exhalations passed through his breathing chambers. At last, Mary nudged him gently: "Matthew… My darling, please."

For an expectant father whose waiting time was shorter than he had ever thought to be possible, Matthew shot up immediately and activated his eyes. His panic-mode was turned "on", as he had just been evacuated from a nightmare. "Mary?" he breathed, feeling for her hands.

"I don't know if I should go tomorrow," confessed she. "The baby -"

"The baby's coming," finished her husband, mussing up his already disastrous hair. Matthew's eyes searched for the floor – he felt disoriented still – and started to get out of the bed, grabbing his night robe.

Mary sighed. "There's nothing of urgency, Matthew. I only needed you awake so that you would help me to decide…" She was being stubborn so as not to reveal the fundamental reason for which she had awakened him. For comfort, for his reassurance…

The disheveled man halted and turned back to Mary. "What's going on, then? What has made you change your mind on going?"

"I don't know, it was so sudden that I felt almost out of control," Mary admitted quietly. Quickly she locked eyes with Matthew and became serious. "The baby has startled me, and that is all. I'm sure I will be all right."

"You had better be," answered the other half-threateningly, half-playfully. Within the past many months, all Matthew could think about with the utmost concern were his wife and child; so when he gazed upon Mary, her opaque countenance mocking his desire to see through her for her own good, Matthew grew ever more anxious. "I hope you will tell me whether or not the journey – no, the trip – could be unsafe for you. Mary, I try and fail to be a good husband -"

"Please don't blame this on you -"

"I'm not… Simply… There comes a time when it is necessary for concealing nothing from one another."

"And all is well," resolved Mary carefully, her voice more relaxed. "We will leave with the family tomorrow, but if anything worries me I shall tell you."

"And leave at once from there," Matthew added, nodding in satisfaction. "Well, I certainly pray that the journey will be most enjoyable." Lifting the bedcovers so as to settle underneath them, Matthew returned to lay down his head – not forgetting to kiss his wife good-night, as he had no doubt she deserved – and fell asleep.

And once again, Mary and the baby remained awake in the midst of the shadowy, summer-warm bedroom atmosphere.

…

She danced too much.

This was the perpetual thought in Matthew's slightly-drunken head, and the repeated phrase overpowered the music and dancing in rhythm and tempo. He was, once again, in the hall where everyone was reeling: that is, everyone except, now, for Mary. After she had experienced an episode of discomfort, Matthew had taken her to an outer room, where the noise and commotion was of lesser magnitude. They had agreed upon Mary's leave the next morning, and that had been that. Now, the anxious Matthew Crawley was without his wife in the middle of the dancing.

It was too much.

"Do join us, Matthew," hollered a jolly Shrimpy at one point; Matthew nodded and smiled, but hardly took a step in that direction. Mary needs someone to look after her, thought Matthew. He gradually backed away from the crowds.

To his misfortune, however, Robert noticed his son-in-law's venture. "My dear boy, what reason is there to leave? Everyone is dancing!"

Clearly, then, figured the younger, Robert has not realised that his daughter is absent. "As a matter of fact, Robert, Mary isn't well." He made it sound far too serious.

"What?" Robert shouted. "Why hasn't anyone told me? Is she in need of hospital care?"

Suddenly, Edith approached. "Papa! Don't be a spoil-sport and do come back!"

"Sorry, Edith," Matthew interceded for Robert. "I won't bother him any longer." Turning to Robert, Matthew assured, "Mary was only a little worried after dancing. She will leave tomorrow."

"My God," blurted the Earl, astounded. "Where is she now? We can't have anyone knowing about that tonight; it would ruin the occasion."

"Matthew?"

Mary had appeared at the door, beaming at her husband with a look of motivation. Robert paused and stared whilst she joined the two men, intertwining hands with Matthew.

"Are you well, my darling?" wondered Matthew softly (one more dance had drawn to a close, and the musicians were changing sheet music.

"I do feel better," confessed Mary, "although that doesn't mean I can dance all night -"

"Certainly not!" Robert and Matthew interrupted in unison. Mary chuckled.

"My, do I have anyone's trust?" the woman questioned plainly. "Matthew, I wondered if I could take you through the next dance. It's a jig, one which I don't believe you know…"

Matthew marvelled at that which she had just asked him. "Of course." His lips had hardly parted during this response, and Mary looked anxiously at her father so he would know to let them alone.

"Promise me," whispered Matthew, once they were in the proper stance at which to commence the dance, "…promise you will be careful as we enjoy this."

Mary's heart was beating excitedly when the music began and they made their first move: his arms and hers were halfway extended, and their feet were waiting to lift off from the ground in jovial harmony. "I will enjoy our time together, right now," she promised Matthew, "because I can't know when I'll ever get you to dance a jig."

In a way, however, he later did.

…

"What shall we call him?"

"Matthew, you really should be on your way -"

"It'll only take a moment," persisted the new father, his warm gaze fixed upon their newborn son. He leant in, closer to the baby, and thought aloud: "He should have an honourable name, one of importance to our country."

"Then you want him to bear a royal name," Mary decided, feeling the softness of the little one's hands and fingers. "But above all, I think he must be named as both of us see fit."

The concept of name-choosing was insignificant to Matthew when he took the moment to consider the past week's proceeds and results. He was with a very healthy Mary and baby, he was happy, and nothing more could have made his life at that moment a better one. Stroking the child's hair (what little of it there was, though the father marvelled at the baby's brown locks), Matthew looked at his wife in love and whispered to her, "I want you to name him. I will be delighted, no matter what you choose, because he is ours…and I couldn't ask for anything more wonderful."

His words were moving rather than generous to Mary; she watched his face as he turned to smile again at the fidgeting bundle in her arms. And it comforted her, so much that she hoped to God such would become a regular feeling; and yet one she would not take for granted. "Very well, then," Mary consented, knowing that she hadn't the ability nor the heart to argue with him. As Matthew was placing a kiss on the baby's forehead, Mary thought of a perfect name. "How about…George?"

Matthew beamed. "What a reverent, regal name. George…"

"George Crawley," repeated Mary, gently rubbing her son's arms. "Our little prince, the heir." Matthew stirred suddenly after she had spoken of the baby's heirdom, and this startled Mary. "Where are you going?" she questioned him.

"To bring the news to the rest of the family, as you asked," he replied. "After all, now that the name is settled, I can announce 'the birth of George Crawley.'" Seeing that his wife was not entirely cheery about the prospect of him leaving, Matthew returned to her side. "My darling, don't worry. This is a happy time. We can only afford to treasure each memory that it offers." They kissed for a length of time, and when they were parted Matthew Crawley fared his newborn son well. Before he was gone from the hospital room, Mary called, "Wait."

"Yes?" The man appeared as if he were a child again, his blue eyes dazzling from the gleaming sunshine just outside the building. He could not wait – not even until the evening – to return to his family's side: and to him right now, the word "family" meant Mary and George. Of course he loved his mother, and he adored his parents-in-law and all the rest of his relations. But the pure sight of their darling boy in Mary's arms – and of her, a radiant jewel in the room whom he knew loved him – was a dream beyond which Matthew had ever imagined to become reality.

"Hurry back" were Mary's next words; and perhaps later that day, she refrained from remembering them, because of the magnitude with which yet another overwhelming series of events struck her and the family.

Even so, Matthew Reginald Crawley lived his last breaths in joy, and in nothing less. He lived them loving Mary and George, and his mother Isobel, and all those who had helped him build such a life in which he knew he was welcome.

And as his car took a turn for the worse, Matthew prevailed to love Mary and George until the last breath left his body.

THE END