Mrs. Quentin dropped her hand with a corresponding movement of
withdrawal, and a momentary wave of antagonism seemed to sweep the two
women apart. Then, as Mrs. Quentin, bowing slightly, again addressed
herself to the picture, she felt a sudden touch on her arm.
"Mrs. Quentin," the girl faltered, "I really came here because I saw
your carriage." Her eyes sank, and then fluttered back to her hearer's
face. "I've been horribly unhappy!" she exclaimed.
Mrs. Quentin was silent. If Hope Fenno had expected an immediate
response to her appeal, she was disappointed. The older woman's face
was like a veil dropped before her thoughts.
"I've thought so often," the girl went on precipitately, "of what you
said that day you came to see me last autumn. I think I understand now
what you meant--what you tried to make me see.... Oh, Mrs. Quentin,"
she broke out, "I didn't mean to tell you this--I never dreamed of it
till this moment--but you _do_ remember what you said, don't you? You
must remember it! And now that I've met you in this way, I can't help
telling you that I believe--I begin to believe--that you were right,
after all."
Mrs. Quentin had listened without moving; but now she raised her eyes
with a slight smile. "Do you wish me to say this to Alan?" she asked.
The girl flushed, but her glance braved the smile. "Would he still care
to hear it?" she said fearlessly.
Mrs. Quentin took momentary refuge in a renewed inspection of the
Beltraffio; then, turning, she said, with a kind of reluctance: "He
would still care."
"Ah!" broke from the girl.
During this exchange of words the two speakers had drifted
unconsciously toward one of the benches. Mrs. Quentin glanced about
her: a custodian who had been hovering in the doorway sauntered into
the adjoining gallery, and they remained alone among the silvery
Vandykes and flushed bituminous Halses. Mrs. Quentin sank down on the
bench and reached a hand to the girl.
"Sit by me," she said.
Miss Fenno dropped beside her. In both women the stress of emotion was
too strong for speech. The girl was still trembling, and Mrs. Quentin
was the first to regain her composure.
"You say you've suffered," she began at last. "Do you suppose _I_
haven't?"
"I knew you had. That made it so much worse for me--that I should have
been the cause of your suffering for Alan!"
Mrs. Quentin drew a deep breath. "Not for Alan only," she said. Miss
Fenno turned on her a wondering glance. "Not for Alan only. _That_ pain
every woman expects--and knows how to bear. We all know our children
must have such disappointments, and to suffer with them is not the
deepest pain. It's the suffering apart--in ways they don't understand."
She breathed deeply. "I want you to know what I mean. You were
right--that day--and I was wrong."
"Oh," the girl faltered.
Mrs. Quentin went on in a voice of passionate lucidity. "I knew it
then--I knew it even while I was trying to argue with you--I've always
known it! I didn't want my son to marry you till I heard your reasons
for refusing him; and then--then I longed to see you his wife!"
"Oh, Mrs. Quentin!"
"I longed for it; but I knew it mustn't be."
"Mustn't be?"
Mrs. Quentin shook her head sadly, and the girl, gaining courage from
this mute negation, cried with an uncontrollable escape of feeling:
"It's because you thought me hard, obstinate narrow-minded? Oh, I
understand that so well! My self-righteousness must have seemed so
petty! A girl who could sacrifice a man's future to her own moral
vanity--for it _was_ a form of vanity; you showed me that plainly
enough--how you must have despised me! But I am not that girl
now--indeed I'm not. I'm not impulsive--I think things out. I've
thought this out. I know Alan loves me--I know _how_ he loves me--and I
believe I can help him--oh, not in the ways I had fancied before--but
just merely by loving him." She paused, but Mrs. Quentin made no sign.
"I see it all so differently now. I see what an influence love itself
may be--how my believing in him, loving him, accepting him just as he
is, might help him more than any theories, any arguments. I might have
seen this long ago in looking at _you_--as he often told me--in seeing
how you'd kept yourself apart from--from--Mr. Quentin's work and
his--been always the beautiful side of life to them--kept their faith
alive in spite of themselves--not by interfering, preaching, reforming,
but by--just loving them and being there--" She looked at Mrs. Quentin
with a simple nobleness. "It isn't as if I cared for the money, you
know; if I cared for that, I should be afraid--"
"You will care for it in time," Mrs. Quentin said suddenly.