Turning slightly she glanced at him, quickly glancing away. "You look
as if you were."
"But looks can be an accident."
"Then there's the name."
"That doesn't prove anything."
"And my husband knows a lot of other things. He'll tell you himself
what they are."
He repeated the question he had put to Lily, "Would you care if I were
your son?"
Making no immediate response, she evaded the question when she spoke.
"If you were, you'd have to make your home here."
"Couldn't I be your son--and make my home somewhere else?"
"I don't see how that would help."
"It might help me."
The large gray eyes stole round toward him. "Do you mean that you
wouldn't want to live with us?"
"I mean that I'm not used to your way of living."
"Oh, well!" She dismissed this, continuing to spread her jeweled
fingers to the blaze. "You said once--a long time ago--when I saw you
in Boston--that you couldn't get accustomed to another--to another
mother--now--or something like that. Do you remember?"
He said he remembered, but he said no more.
"Well, what about it?"
Since it was precisely to another mother that he was now making up his
mind, he found the question difficult. "It was three years ago that I
said that. Things change."
"What's changed?"
"Perhaps not things so much as people. I've changed myself."
"Changed toward us--toward me?"
"I've changed toward the whole question--chiefly because Mr. Whitelaw's
been so kind to me."
"I don't suppose his kindness makes any difference in the facts. If
you're our son you're our son whether he's kind to you or not."
"His kindness may not make any difference in the facts, but it does
make a difference in my attitude."
"Mine can't be influenced so easily."
Though he wondered what she meant by that he decided to find out
indirectly. "No, I suppose not. After all, you're the one to whom it's
all more vital than to anybody else."
"Because I'm the mother? I don't see that. They talk about
mother-instinct as if it was so sure; but--" She swung round on him
with sudden, unexpected flame--"but if they'd been put to as many tests
as I've been they'd find out. Why, almost any child can seem as if he
might have been the baby you haven't seen for a few years. You forget.
You lose the power either to recognize or to be sure that you don't
recognize. If anyone tries hard enough to persuade you...."
"Has anyone tried to persuade you--about me?"
He began to see from whence Tad and Lily had drawn the stormy elements
in their natures. "Not in so many words perhaps; but when some one very
close to you is convinced...."
"And you yourself not convinced...."
She rose to her feet tragically. "How _can_ I be convinced? What is
there to convince me? Resemblances--a name--a few records--a few
guesses--a few hopes--but I don't _know_. Who can prove a case of this
kind--after nearly twenty-three years?"
In his eagerness to reassure her he stepped near to where she stood.
"I hope you understand that I'm not trying to prove anything. I never
began this."
"I know you didn't. I feel as if a false position would be as hard on
you as it would be on ourselves."
"Then you think the position would be a false one?"
"I'm not saying so. I'm only trying to make you see how impossible it
is for me to say I'm sure you're my boy--_when I don't know_. I'm not a
cold-hearted woman. I'm only a tired and frightened one."
"Would it be of any help if I were to withdraw?"
"It wouldn't be of help to my husband."
"Oh, I see! We must consider him."
"I don't see that you need consider anyone but yourself. We've dragged
you into this. You've a right to do exactly as you please."
"Oh, if I were to do that...."
"What I don't want you to do is to misjudge me. Not that it would
matter whether you misjudged me or not, unless--later--we were
compelled to see ourselves as--as son and mother."
"I shouldn't like to have either of us do that--under compulsion."
Restlessly, rapidly, she began to move about, touching now this object
and now that. Her hands were as active as if they had an independent
life. They were more expressive than her tone when they tossed
themselves wildly apart, as she cried:
"What else could it be for me--but compulsion?" He was about to speak,
but she stopped him. "Do me justice. Put yourself in my place. My boy
would now be twenty-four. They bring me a man who looks like thirty.
Yes, yes; I daresay you're not thirty, but you look like it. It's just
as hard for me as if you _were_ thirty. I'm only forty-four myself.
They want me to think that this man--so big--so grave--so _old_--is my
little boy. How _can_ I? He may be. I don't deny that. But for me to
_think_ it ...!"
He watched her as she moved from table to table, from chair to chair,
her eyes on him reproachfully, her hands like things in agony.
"It's as hard for me to think it as it is for you."
The words arrested her. Her frenzied motions ceased. Only her eyes kept
themselves on him, with their sorrowful, fixed stare.
"What do you mean by that?"
He tried to explain. "My only conception of a mother is of some one
poor--and hard-worked--and knocked about--and loving--and driven
from pillar to post--whereas you're so beautiful--and young--young
almost--and--and expensive--and--" A flip of his hand included the
room--"with all this as your setting--and everything else--I can't
credit it."