For a time, Ellen came very close to being unpleasant; she was tempted to reveal all she had seen and heard from the window above the moonlit garden. The memory of César’s words rang in her ears, a taunt in which there was too much of truth. But she could not say that she hated César because he never allowed her any peace of mind. She could not say that she never saw him without thinking of Callendar.
“It’s nothing ... nonsense, I daresay, on both sides.” The power of Lily’s eager friendliness overwhelmed her. “I’m sorry,” she added, “that I’m disagreeable sometimes.... I’ve been worried lately. I know the quarrel is my fault too.” She tore open one of her letters and then, looking very pale, she added, “Bring him, if he would like to come.... It won’t matter.”
And Lily never knew what it was that softened her so abruptly. She did not know, of course, that Ellen was thinking of Callendar, hoping desperately that he could be there to listen to her music as he had listened so many times, with all the passionate abandon which meant so much to her. She needed Fergus too, for she was frightened now that the chance, awaited so long, was at hand. With César present she would at least be reminded of Callendar. It would be the next best thing to having him or Fergus in a cold audience of strangers.
On the top of the little pile of letters was one from her mother from which she read portions aloud to her cousin.
“We are settled now in seven rooms in East Seventieth Street. There is room for Fergus and Robert and Papa and I, and a room for Gramp and his books, which he would not leave behind. And an extra room which I have let to a young man who works with an electrical company. He has nice manners and seems to be of a very good family. He talks a great deal about them. It seems that his family was rich once, a long time ago. He was very unhappy in a boarding house, but he likes it here....”
Lily, who had been listening closely to the news, looked up as Ellen suddenly stopped reading and allowed the letter to slip to the ground. She saw that her cousin reached down hastily and recovered it, as if she wished to conceal her agitation.
“Not bad news?” asked Lily.
“No. I was just surprised for a moment by something in the letter. I think ... I think I know the young man she writes of. Still I can’t understand what chance brought him and Ma together.... It’s an idiotic world.... There’s no sense in it.” She lighted a cigarette, and after a thoughtful silence added, “Ma is a remarkable woman. Think of her, tearing a whole family up by its roots and transplanting it without a thought.”
Then she continued reading. The family, she learned, were all very comfortable in their new home. Fergus might be going abroad in a year or two ... some sort of writing work, with a newspaper. Hattie had recaptured him only to lose him again at once. Robert was the same, the plodder of the family, silent, unbrilliant, a sort of rock and foundation as old Jacob Barr had been before him. They were hoping to see Ellen soon now. She must come home, now that they were settled in New York. And in the end there was the usual refrain. I am looking forward to the day when I can make a home for all my children.
When she had finished reading, they both sat for a time in silence and at last Lily said simply, “She’ll never give up, will she?”