Moira had considered Mathilda not at all in the swift, sudden, almost
cyclonic romance with Hal Blaydon, no more indeed than in any of her
flirtations. There had been many others, of all ages, from her own
up to fifty, and she had vaguely realized that when her choice was
made, if she made a choice, her mother would have to be counted in.
At times during the past week of incredible magic, she had feared the
possibility of a clash between them, owing to the good Episcopalian
views, to which Mathilda still clung, despite the advanced and
advancing habits of thought that surrounded her. But the logic with
which the girl faced this possibility was serene: harmony had always
prevailed between them, too much harmony perhaps, and some conflict was
inevitable sooner or later. It had better occur over this biggest and
most important choice of her youth.
She had begun to wonder, of late, just how she felt toward her mother.
Certainly she was very fond of her, but it seemed hardly a filial
fondness. She admired Mathilda’s little fantasticalities; it was clear
that she had in her time been something of an idol-breaker; but it
was equally clear that her cherished image of herself as a person
of great independence of mind was somewhat out-worn. The daughter
had gone far beyond the older woman, or so she thought, and there
lurked small matters on which they concealed their opinions from each
other. Moreover, Moira had loved her most for the brightness and charm
of her manner and these were becoming clouded by a new development
that touched her closely--a secret in her brother’s life. Mathilda
had discovered the truth with amazement, but to all appearances had
reconciled herself to it. So long, she argued, as the apartment he
kept in town remained only a rendezvous for discreet meetings, she
did not greatly care. But more and more this other establishment was
taking Blaydon away from them. Could her brother possibly bring himself
to marry the woman--not now perhaps--but when age had weakened his
resistance and laid him open to appeals to sentiment and protection?
He was already far from a young man.... It was a situation that had a
profound effect upon her accustomed poise, because it was one which she
could not influence nor even speak of in his presence.
After Hal had left on his trip that night, Moira put up her car--she
had driven him to the station herself--and walked into the library.
She found Mathilda embroidering, a pastime in which she was skilful,
and took a frank pride. It was her substitute for artistic expression,
as she said, a gift she had always honestly envied. Everybody they
knew, Moira thought, longed for artistic expression--and Hal had been
right to scorn it. There were Mary Cawthorn and Tempe Riddle--as
soon as people like that had taken up writing verse, she herself had
dropped it. She had turned exclusively to her painting. That, at least,
you couldn’t do at all, without some foreground, some knowledge and
practice. She was happy that her youth had been industrious enough to
bring her a measure of these. And she did not take it seriously.
“Well,” said Mathilda, “you’ve seen your darling off?”
The girl did not attempt to conceal her surprise. Then she laughed.
“I suppose nobody could really have failed to know, who had been around
the house these last few days. Still, we thought we were so clever.”
“There’s such a thing as being too clever. When you and Hal began to be
stiff toward each other, I knew what was happening.”
“We must have been a fine pair of actors.”
“But I’ve seen it coming all along. Before either of you did, I
believe.”
Moira flopped upon the cricket at her mother’s feet, and looked into
her face affectionately.
“And that means, darling, that you don’t object?”
Mathilda ran her slim hand through the short, dark curls leaning
against her knee.
“Of course not, my child. It’s the most perfect thing that could have
happened.”
“Mother,” asked the girl, looking up at her whimsically, “when are we
ever going to quarrel, you and I?”
“Never, I hope.”
“Isn’t it rather unhealthy never to quarrel? Hal and I do, frequently,
and I’m glad of it.”
“You won’t think that way when you are my age.”
“_Maman_, are you very miserable about Uncle Sterling?”
Mathilda’s reply was preceded by a short pause and a quick glance.
“How did you know that?” she asked.
“I have ears and eyes--and can put things together, you know,” laughed
Moira. Then she added, more gravely, “I really don’t think many people
know. When Selden hinted about it I denied the story flatly--for his
benefit.”
“Why deny the truth?” It was one of Mathilda’s traits to be able to say
things the implications of which were unpleasant to her.
“Oh, one must to busybodies. Only I do wish you wouldn’t be unhappy
about it.”
“I’m not,” said the other, “so long as matters remain as they are.”
“I see what you mean, dear. People who have professionally renounced
marriage ought to have some pride. They ought to observe the ethics of
their profession.”
Mathilda smiled.
“I’m afraid my attitude is not so impersonal. Isn’t that somewhere in
Shaw?”
“It must be,” replied the girl. “But I’m quite thrilled over the whole
thing. Please forgive me for saying so. To think of Uncle Sterling
being so delightfully biblical!”
She went to the table and brought the cigarettes. The older woman took
one from her and laid aside her embroidery. “You’ll do something for
me, you two?” she asked.
“What?”
“Get married as soon as possible.”
“Oh, my dear! I’m only nineteen.”
“Do you think you would ever change?”
“No, I don’t think that.”
“Then why not marry? I can’t understand the modern idea of waiting
until life is over to marry. It’s good for people to have their youth
together--when they can.”
“Well, Hal has done all the planning, and I think it is very sensible.
In the first place, he’s going on with his chemistry. He doesn’t want
to go into the brokerage office, and you mustn’t tell Uncle yet.”
“I approve of that. Brokerage will do for Robert.”
“It means two more years for him at college. The first of them I shall
spend in New York studying. The next I want to spend in Paris, and I
want you to come with me, dear. How about it? And then--married in
Paris, and the Sorbonne or some German University for Hal. Isn’t that a
glorious programme? He really didn’t plan all of it.”
“No, I imagine not,” laughed Mathilda. “He would probably have planned
it as I would, by beginning with the end. But I shan’t oppose you. I’ve
never opposed you much, Moira, not even when I might have done so with
justice. And the reason is that I have always wanted to live to see one
completely happy person. I hope you are going to be the one.”
Mathilda concluded with a wistful note.
“Darling,” cried the girl. “How good you have been to me. And I wonder
if I am going to be completely happy. I’ll try, and I shan’t be ashamed
or modest about it, either. Is that--egotistical?”
A few minutes later as she passed Hal Blaydon’s door on the way to her
own, she could not resist the temptation to go in. She had never done
that before deliberately, and she felt a little like an intruder. She
had a great distaste for the practice of assuming privileges with
those one cared for, but she knew he would be pleased if he saw her
patting his bed affectionately and looking around at his belongings. As
she stopped in front of the untidy book-shelves, she smiled at their
incongruous juxtaposition of textbooks, modern novels and classic
survivals of adolescence--“This Side of Paradise” between a Latin
grammar and a Dictionary of Physics; “Cytherea,” which reminded her
just then of many men she knew, alongside of “Plutarch’s Lives.” She
reflected that she would probably not sleep very early to-night and had
no fresh reading in her bedroom. She quickly pulled out a volume and
went to her room.
With her clothes off and three pillows behind her back, and a cigarette
between her lips, she picked up the book she had borrowed. There had
been a certain degree of method in her selection. It was an old,
loose-backed, green-covered copy of “Les Misérables,” one of her long
and growing list of “duty books,” that is to say, books she ought
to have read years ago and had not. This happened also to belong to
the classification of “school-piece” books. An English reader had
contained a selection from it, and she had once resolved, in a fit of
rebellion against the academic, never to read any books that yielded
school pieces for the boredom of the young. Later the conscience of
a cultivated adult had forced her to recant, and her _index librorum
prohibitorum_ had become an index obligatory.
The book in her hand was a long one. She would just about finish it by
the time Hal came back, and that would be killing two birds with one
stone.
She opened it at random and as she removed her thumbs the pages leaped
back to a marked place, occupied by a letter. She picked it up. It
was an old and faded letter, addressed to “Mrs. Ellen Williams, 21
Trezevant Place.” That was Ellen, the cook, of course. She smiled a
little at the thought of Ellen reading a monstrous book like this. She
had never seen Ellen read anything except a recipe or a label. But,
of course, humble people did like Hugo. She had read “Notre Dame” and
“Ninety-Three.”
Moira would have put the letter aside at once to hand it to the servant
in the morning had she not noticed two markings on the envelope that
strangely interested her. One was the date, just a month after she was
born. The other was the inscription on the flap in back, which read as
follows:
from Miss Moira McCoy,
Lutheran Maternity Hospital,
2243 Bismarck Street.
Her own name, on a letter almost as old as she was! She laid it down.
She ought not to read it, of course. But it certainly was hard to
resist knowing what some little Irish girl in the hospital (who made
her capital “m’s” with three vertical lines and a horizontal bar across
the top) was thinking and doing a month after she was born. Wasn’t
there a “statute of limitations” on letters? No letter nearly twenty
years old could be private. The lure of romance that lurked in the
envelope was too strong. She hastily drew out the folded sheet and read: