Mrs. Adams was speaking in her large, welkin-ringing voice, distinctly audible in the street, across the street, for that matter. Helen was too young to marry, she was saying. She had not finished school. She had expected to give her the best advantages in music. Helen had talent, a future before her. But what good would talent do a married woman?
She asked Mrs. Cutter this and paused for a reply if Mrs. Cutter could make one. Evidently she could not.
No good in the world! Mrs. Adams retorted by way of answering herself. The less personal promise she had of a future, the better it was for a married woman. To have a gift in you that you could not develop made for unhappiness. And what time would Helen have for her music now? None. What use would she have for it? Practically none. And Helen had a very nice little talent for drawing. She had painted several placques, waving her hand at the evidences of her daughter’s art on the walls of the parlor. It was there—a placque the size of a dinner plate full of pansies, another one with roses painted on it.
Mrs. Cutter’s eyes flew up obedient to these artless efforts in art, and immediately resumed their position on Mrs. Adams’ face, which was as full of meaning as the portrait of a Dutch mother done by an old master.
“Of course you don’t know how I feel about it. You have never had a daughter,” she told Mrs. Cutter. “But I can tell you what it means. Your whole life is centered in her. You sacrifice and plan for her. You think she is yours. Well, you are mistaken. She belongs to some man she has never seen. About the time you are beginning to have some peace and satisfaction in her, he comes and gets her, marries her, regardless of you. Then you spend the rest of your life watching her do her duty by him, go through what you have gone through in your own married life, if not worse, when if you could only have had your way a little while it would have been so different, and—”
Fortunately she did not finish this sentence. Helen came in at this moment and gave a sweeter, politer turn to the conversation.
Mrs. Cutter had intended to discuss the situation—in a kind way of course, but frankly. She wanted to give some advice, let Helen know how important it was for her to exert every effort to fit herself for the position she would have in the Cutter family. But she did nothing of the kind. She said a few pleasant things, kissed the girl cordially on both cheeks and hoped George would make her happy, to which Helen replied that he had already made her happy. Then she took her leave.
Helen accompanied her to the door, Mrs. Adams remained in the parlor. She had seen Mrs. Cutter’s transit across the street when she came to make this call. She had read truly the mood of George’s mother. And she had attended to her. She had let her know a thing or two. Now she stood behind the parlor curtains watching her again cross the street. This time it was less in the nature of a transit, she perceived, nodding her head grimly. Mrs. Cutter’s neck was limber, her proud look had disappeared. Her hat, although she had not touched it, was tilted absurdly to one side, as if an invisible blow had struck it. And she was walking hurriedly, like a person in retreat.
Mrs. Cutter barely made it across her own doorsill before she began to wring her hands. Oh! her Father in heaven, what kind of mother-in-law would that woman make to poor Georgie? She received no immediate answer to this interrogative prayer. We never do. An answer to prayer comes when you wait until it is worked out somewhere in life. Her own suspicions answered it clearly enough, however; she must knuckle to some sort of courtship of that old Adams woman, or there was no telling what might happen.
She had taken it for granted that George would bring his wife to his own home. One look at Mrs. Adams convinced her that if the young couple lived with anybody they would live with Helen’s mother. That would never do! Since George was determined to marry the girl the only wise course to follow would be to give him a home of his own. She would tell Mr. Cutter so, and why. He could afford to do something for George. He might make him a wedding present of the old Carrol place. It would cost something to repair the house, but anything would be better than sitting across the street and seeing George domesticated in the Adams home.