II
Mrs. Champney had arranged matters so as to reach the house just at dinner time. She even hoped that she might be a little late, so that there wouldn’t be any time at all to sit down and talk. She had never dreaded anything as she dreaded that first moment, the crossing of that threshold. Her hands and feet were like ice, her thin cheeks were flushed, anticipating it. She wanted to enter in an agreeable little stir and bustle, to be cheerful, to be casual; but Robert and Molly were too young for that. They would be too cordial.
“I don’t expect them to want me,” said Mrs. Champney to herself. “They can’t want me. If they’d only just not try—not pretend!”
She did not know Molly very well. She had seen her a good many times—Molly and the incomparable baby—but that had been in the days when Mrs. Champney was a fairy godmother, with all sorts of delightful gifts to bestow. Robert’s wife had been a little shy with her. A kind, honest girl, Mrs. Champney had thought her, good to look at in her splendid health and vitality, but not very interesting. And now she had to come into poor Molly’s house!
She was pleased to see that her train was late. She had not told them what train she would take. Perhaps they wouldn’t keep dinner waiting. When she got there, perhaps they would be sitting at the table. Then she could hurry in, full of cheerful apologies, and sit down with them, and there wouldn’t be that strained, terrible moment she so much dreaded.
A vain hope! For, as she got out of the train, her heart sank to see Robert there waiting for her—Robert with his glummest face, Robert at his worst.
There was no denying that Robert had a worst. He was never willful and provoking, as his adorable sister could be upon occasion. He was never stormy and unreasonable, like his elder brother; but he could be what Mrs. Champney privately called “heavy,” and that was, for her, one of the most dismaying things any one could be. She saw at the first glance that he was going to be heavy now.
“Mother!” he said, in a tone almost tragic.
“But, my dear boy, how in the world did you know I’d get this train?” she asked gayly. “I didn’t write—”
“I’ve been waiting for an hour,” he answered. “You said ‘about dinner time,’ and I certainly wasn’t going to let you come from the station alone. This way—there’s a taxi waiting.”
Mrs. Champney was ashamed of herself. Robert was the dearest boy, so stalwart, so trustworthy, so handsome in his dark and somber fashion, and so touchingly devoted to her! After all, wasn’t it far better to be a little too heavy than too light and insubstantial? As he got into the cab beside her, she slipped her arm through his and squeezed it.
“You dear boy, to wait like that!” she said.
“Mother!” he said again. “By Heaven, I could wring that fellow’s neck! Speculating with your money—”
“Don’t take it like that, Robert. It’s all over and done with now.”
“No, it’s not!” said he. “It’s—the thing is, you’ve been used to all sorts of little—little comforts and so on; and just at the present time I’m not able to give you—”
“Please don’t, Robert!” she cried. “It hurts me![Pg 273]”
He put his arm about her shoulders.
“You’re not going to be hurt,” he said grimly; “not by any one, mother!”
His tone and his words filled her with dismay.
“Robert,” she said firmly, “I will not be made a martyr of!”
“A victim, then,” Robert insisted doggedly. “You’ve been tricked and swindled by that contemptible fellow; but Frank and I are going to see that it’s made right!”
“Oh, Robert! You’re not going to do anything to that poor, miserable, distracted man?”
“Nothing we can do. You gave the fellow a free hand, and he took advantage of it. No, I mean that Frank and I are going to make it up to you, mother.”
He might as well have added “at any cost.” Mrs. Champney winced in spirit, but at the same time she loved him for his blundering tenderness, his uncomprehending loyalty. He meant only to reassure her, but he made it all so hard, so terribly hard! She felt tears well up in her eyes. How could she go through with this gallantly if he made it so hard?
Then, suddenly, there came to her mind the memory of a winter afternoon, long, long ago, when Frank and Robert had been going out to skate. She had heard alarming reports about the ice, and she had run after them, bareheaded, into the garden. She could see that dear garden, bare and brown in the wintry sunshine; she could see her two boys, stopping and turning toward her as she called.
Frank had laughingly assured her that there was no danger at all. That was Frank’s way. She didn’t believe him, yet his sublime confidence in himself and his inevitable good luck somehow comforted her; and then Robert had said:
“Well, look here, mother—we’ll promise not to go near the middle of the pond at the same time. Then, whatever happens, you’ll have one of us left anyhow—see?”
And that was Robert’s way. The very thought of it stopped the dreaded invasion of tears and made her smile to herself in the dark. Such a splendidly honest way—and so devastating!
The taxi had stopped now, and Robert helped her out in a manner that made her feel very, very old and frail.
“Wait till I pay the driver, mother,” he said. “Don’t try to go alone—it’s too dark.”
So Mrs. Champney waited in the dark road outside that strange little house. Her son was paying for the cab; her son was going to assist her up the path; she was old and helpless and dependent.
Then the front door opened, and Molly stood there against the light.
“Hello, mother dear!” she called, in that big, rich, beautiful voice of hers. “Hurry in! It’s cold!”
Mrs. Champney did hurry in, and Molly caught her in both arms and hugged her tight.
“Just don’t mind very much how things are, will you?” she whispered. “My housekeeping’s pretty awful, you know!”
Tears came to Mrs. Champney’s eyes again, because this was such a blessed sort of welcome.
“As if I’d care!” she said.
“Let me show your room—and Bobbetty,” said Molly.
She took the bag from Robert, who had just come in, and ran up the stairs. Mrs. Champney followed her. All the little house seemed warm and bright with Molly’s beautiful, careless spirit. It wasn’t strange or awkward. It was like coming home; and the room that Molly had got ready for her was so pretty!
“Dinner’s all ready,” said Molly; “but—if you’ll just take one look at Bobbetty. He’s—when he’s asleep, he’s—”
Words failed her.
Mrs. Champney got herself ready as quickly as she could, and followed Molly down the hall to a closed door. Molly turned the handle softly, and they stepped into a little room that was like another world, all dark and still, with the wind blowing in at an open window.
“Nothing wakes him up!” whispered Molly proudly, and turned on a green-shaded electric lamp that stood on the bureau.
Mrs. Champney went over to the crib and looked down at the child who lay there—the child who was her child, flesh of her flesh, and was yet another woman’s child. He was beautiful—more beautiful than any of her children had been. He lay there like a little prince. His face, olive-skinned and warmly flushed on the cheeks, wore a look of careless arrogance, his dark brows were level and haughty, his mouth was richly scornful; and yet, for all this pride of beauty, she could not help seeing the baby softness and innocence and helplessness of him.[Pg 274]
He might lie there like a little prince, but he was caged in an iron crib, he wore faded old flannel pyjamas, and beside him, where it had slipped from the hand that still grasped it in dreams, lay such an unprincely toy! Mrs. Champney, bending over to examine it, found it to be a rubber ball squeezed into a white sock.
It seemed to Mrs. Champney that she could never tire of looking at that beautiful baby. She hadn’t half finished when Molly touched her arm and whispered “Robert,” and, turning out the light, led her husband’s mother across the dark, windy room out into the hall again.
“I heard Robert getting restless downstairs,” she explained.
Side by side they descended the stairs. Mrs. Champney was happy, with that particular happiness which the companionship of babies brought to her. She had friends who were made unhappy by the sight of babies. They said that they couldn’t help looking ahead and imagining the sorrows in store for the poor little things. But to Mrs. Champney this seemed morbid and quite stupid, because, when the sorrows came, the babies would no longer be babies, but grown people, and as well able as any one else to deal with them.
No—babies were not melancholy objects to Mrs. Champney. On the contrary, they filled her with a strong and tender delight, because of her knowledge that whatever troubles came to them, she could surely help; because, for babies, a kiss is a cure for so much, and a song can dry so many baby tears; because love, which must so often stand mute and helpless before grown-up misery, can work such marvels for little children.
She was happy, then, until she reached the foot of the stairs—and not again for a long time.
Robert was waiting for them there. He came forward, with a faint frown, and pushed into place two hairpins that were slipping out of Molly’s hair. It was the most trifling action, yet it seemed to Mrs. Champney very significant. He didn’t like to see those hairpins falling out, didn’t like to see Molly’s lovely, shining hair in disorder. He noticed things of that sort, and he cared. He cared too much. There had been a look of annoyance and displeasure on his face that distressed Mrs. Champney.
Fussiness, she thought, was one of the most deplorable traits a man could have. It was only another name for pettiness, and that was something no member of her family had ever displayed. Could it be possible that Robert, the most uncompromising and high-minded of all her children, was developing in that way—and with such a wife as Molly?
She watched her son with growing uneasiness during the course of the dinner. It was a splendidly cooked dinner. The roast veal was browned and seasoned to perfection, the mashed potatoes were smooth and light, there were scalloped tomatoes and a salad of apples and celery, and a truly admirable lemon meringue pie; but Robert frowned because the potatoes were in an earthenware bowl, and the plates did not match. When the splendid pie appeared, in the tin dish in which it had been baked, he sprang up and carried it out into the kitchen, to return with it damaged, but lying properly on a respectable dish.
“Oh, I’m awfully sorry, Robert!” Molly said, each time that Robert found something wrong; and there was such generous contrition in her honest face that Mrs. Champney wanted to get up and shake her son.
What did those silly little things matter? How could he even see them, with Molly before his eyes?
“She’s beautiful,” thought Mrs. Champney. “She wouldn’t be beautiful in a photograph. I suppose she’d look quite plain; but when you’re with her—when she smiles—it’s like a blessing!”