"And a sort of dancing daring in her eyes."
"Yes," she said. "But tell me where she comes from, and how you met
her--and all the circumstantial things that a sensible old woman can
understand."
He kissed her hand and sat down beside her, with his shoulder against
the arm of her chair, his fingers interlaced about his knee. She could
not keep her touch from his hair, and she tried to force back the
thought in her mind that all these talks must end, that very soon indeed
they would end. And she was glad, full of pride and joy too that her son
was a lover after her heart, a clean and simple lover as his father had
been before him. He loved this unknown Marjorie, finely, sweetly,
bravely, even as she herself could have desired to have been loved. She
told herself she did not care very greatly even if this Marjorie should
prove unworthy. So long as her son was not unworthy.
He pieced his story together. He gave her a picture of the Popes,
Marjorie in her family like a jewel in an ugly setting, so it seemed to
him, and the queer dull rage of her father and all that they meant to
do. She tried to grasp his perplexities and advise, but chiefly she was
filled with the thought that he was in love. If he wanted a girl he
should have her, and if he had to take her by force, well, wasn't it his
right? She set small store upon the Popes that night--or any
circumstances. And since she herself had married on the slightest of
security, she was concerned very little that this great adventure was to
be attempted on an income of a few hundreds a year. It was outside her
philosophy that a wife should be anything but glad to tramp the roads if
need be with the man who loved her. He sketched out valiant plans, was
for taking Marjorie away in the teeth of all opposition and bringing her
back to London. It would have to be done decently, of course, but it
would have, he thought, to be done. Mrs. Trafford found the prospect
perfect; never before had he sounded and looked so like that dim figure
which hung still and sympathetic above them. Ever and again she glanced
up at her husband's quiet face....
On one point she was very clear with him.
"You'll live with us, mother?" he said abruptly.
"Not with you. As near as you like. But one house, one woman.... I'll
have a little flat of my own--for you both to come to me."
"Oh, nonsense, mother! You'll have to be with us. Living alone, indeed!"
"My dear, I'd _prefer_ a flat of my own. You don't
understand--everything. It will be better for all of us like that."
There came a little pause between them, and then her hand was on his
head again. "Oh, my dear," she said, "I want you to be happy. And life
can be difficult. I won't give a chance--for things to go wrong. You're
hers, dear, and you've got to be hers--be each other's altogether. I've
watched so many people. And that's the best, the very best you can have.
There's just the lovers--the real enduring lovers; and the uncompleted
people who've failed to find it."...