III
It was not a comfortable meal for any of them, and Mrs. Champney was glad when it was finished. She offered to help Molly with the dishes, and she really wanted to do so; but when Molly refused, and she saw that Robert didn’t like the idea, she did not persist. She went into the little sitting room with Robert, and he settled her in an armchair, putting behind her shoulders a plump cushion that made her neck ache. He lit his pipe and began to move about restlessly.
“You know,” he began abruptly, “Molly’s not really—slovenly.”
“Robert!” cried Mrs. Champney. “What nonsense!”
“Yes, I know,” he said doggedly; “but I don’t want you to think—”
Mrs. Champney did not hear the rest of[Pg 275] his speech. She was vaguely aware that he was making excuses for Molly, but she did not stop him. He had said enough. He had given her the key, and now she could understand.
This was not pettiness, and Robert was not fussy. It was because he loved Molly so much that he could not endure to have another person see in her what might be construed as faults. If he had been alone with Molly, he wouldn’t have cared, he wouldn’t even have noticed these things. It was because his mother had come, and he was afraid.
It is an old and a deep-rooted thing, the child’s faith in the mother’s judgment. If the mother has been honest and wise, if the child has been never deceived or disappointed by her, then, no matter how old he grows, or how far he may go from her, that old and deep-rooted faith lives in him. Robert, at twenty-six, was surer of himself than he was ever likely to be again. He was certain that all his ideas were his own, and that no living creature could influence him; yet he was terribly afraid of what his mother might think of Molly.
For, after all, his mother was the standard, and the home she had made for him in his boyhood must forever be the standard of homes. She would see that this home of Molly’s was not like that. She would think—
“You needn’t worry, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Champney gently. “I’m sure I’ll understand Molly.”
And no more than that. It wouldn’t do to tell him what she really thought of Molly. It would sound exaggerated and insincere. It would startle him, and it might conceivably make him contrary; so she held her tongue.
Presently Molly came in from the kitchen, flushed and smiling, and sank into a chair.
“Take off that apron, old girl,” said Robert.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Molly. “I always forget!”
Robert took it away into the kitchen.
“Too tired for a song, Molly?” he asked when he returned.
“Of course I’m not!” said she, getting up again.
She was tired, though, and a little nervous, and Mrs. Champney felt sorry for her; but Robert would have it so. His mother must see what Molly could do. He lay back in his chair, smoking, with an air of regal indifference, as if he were a young sultan who had commanded this performance but was not much interested in it; but as a matter of fact he was twice as nervous as Molly.
He had spoken to his mother before about Molly’s singing, and Mrs. Champney had thought of it as an agreeable accomplishment for a son’s wife, but this performance amazed her. This was not a parlor accomplishment, this big, glorious voice, true and clear, effortless because so perfectly managed. This was an art, and Molly was an artist.
“Molly!” she cried, when the song was done. “Molly, my dear! I don’t know what to say!”
Molly flushed with pleasure.
“I do love music,” she said. “I often hope Bobbetty will care about it.”
“That was a darned silly song, though,” observed Robert.
Molly turned away hastily.
“I know it was!” she said cheerfully.
But Mrs. Champney had seen the tears come into her eyes. Molly was hurt. She didn’t understand, and unfortunately Mrs. Champney did. She knew that Robert had been trying to tell his mother that Molly could do even better than this—that she could, if she chose, sing the most prodigious songs. He was afraid that his mother would judge and condemn Molly for that darned silly song about “the flowers all nodding on yonder hill.”
“That’s what being a mother-in-law really means,” said Mrs. Champney to herself. “It means being the third person, the one who stands outside and sees everything—all the poor, pitiful little faults and weaknesses. Love won’t help. The more I love them, the more I can’t help seeing, and they’ll know—they’ll always know. When Robert is impatient, Molly will know that I’ve noticed it, and she’ll think she has to notice it, too. When Molly is careless, Robert will imagine that I’m blaming her, and he’ll feel ashamed of her. That’s why mothers-in-law make trouble. It’s not because they always interfere, or because they’re troublesome and domineering. It’s because they see all the little things that nobody ought to see—the little things that would never grow important if a third person wasn’t there. I used to feel so sorry for mothers-in-law. I used to think it was a vulgar, heartless joke about[Pg 276] their making trouble. A joke? Oh, it’s the worst, most horrible joke in the world—because it’s true!”