I
Lounging in an elegant attitude of ease against the stone balustrade,
a tall youth of seventeen was smoking a cigarette in an amber holder,
and languidly regarding the scene before him. There was not much to
excite his interest. Passing vehicles were hidden from view by a thick
screen of maple trees and shrubs. On the broad lawn some younger boys
were playing croquet--he glanced at them with lofty scorn. A gardener
was clipping the evergreen hedge which divided the lawn from the
flower-garden. He was attended by a black puppy, which sometimes made
a dash at the rolling croquet-balls and was driven away by shouts and
brandished mallets.
An iron fence with sharp pickets surrounded the lawn on three sides.
Tall iron gates, with lamps at the sides, stood open expectant. The two
iron deer on either side of the driveway also stood in an expectant
attitude, their heads raised and nostrils dilated.
Early frosts had touched with yellow and red the leaves of the maples.
With every gust of the fresh breeze the leaves fell, littering the
neatly trimmed bright green grass. The sun was low in a deep cloudless
blue sky, the air brisk and crisp. Prairie mists and thick heat had
been broken by this first breath of autumn.
An open carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of grey horses and driven by
a coachman in a bottle-green coat, turned in through the iron gates.
The boys stopped their play to wave a greeting to the lady in mauve
draperies, who lifted her white-gloved hand in reply. The youth on the
steps hastily threw away his cigarette and concealed the holder, as he
went down to assist his mother from the carriage. She laid her hand on
his with a smile and stepped out with a rich rustle of silken skirts.
He took her furred wrap and books and card case; and they mounted the
long curving flight of stone steps together.
They were of the same height, and there was a strong resemblance
between them, though the boy was much darker in colouring; with
chestnut hair and dark grey eyes. His face was less delicately shaped,
heavier, but had the same self-contained look; the eyes, under heavy
lids, looked slumbering and secret.
Mary had grown more slender; her tall figure was girlish in line. Her
auburn hair was less bright in colour, but as thick as ever, without a
touch of grey. She wore it in the same fashion, parted and drawn down
over her forehead, which now showed faint horizontal lines, the only
mark of age in her calm face. Her handsome dress followed the fashion
but a distance, with fewer frills and more amplitude. Her beauty had
stood the test of time; the slight hollows under her high cheek-bones,
her ivory pallor, only emphasized the fine modelling of her face.
"There's a telegram," said Jim.
He took it from a table in the hall. Mary opened and read it, standing
at the foot of the stairs.
"From your father. He won't be back tonight--detained on business."
A look of relief crossed Jim's face.
"Well--it must be dinner-time," he said.
In fact the tall clock on the landing began to strike the hour of six.
"I'll be right down," said Mary. "Call the boys in."
When she entered the dining-room she found her three sons seated and
the soup on the table, in its silver tureen. She ladled it out, and a
middle-aged waitress in black dress and white apron distributed the
plates. A discussion between the two elder boys had ceased on Mary's
entrance; both now sat in silence, looking sulkily at their plates. The
waitress left the room.
"Well, what's the trouble now?" Mary enquired with a touch of irony.
"I don't want Timothy to ride my horse, that's what!" declared Jim, in
his slow heavy voice. "He doesn't know how to ride. Last time he nearly
lamed--"
"No such thing--the old horse cast a shoe, that's all," interrupted
Timothy angrily, glaring at his brother. "It isn't your horse any more
than it's mine, anyway--"
"It is. Father gave it to me--"
"He said I was to learn to ride on it--"
"He didn't say you were to take it when I want it, and lame it--"
"I didn't lame it, confound you!"
"Timothy!"
Mary spoke sharply. The black-haired ruddy Timothy glanced at her
resentfully.
"That will do, now. I won't have any such language here--or any
quarrelling either."
Silence ensued. Timothy sent one flaming look across the table at Jim,
who responded by a slight superior smile. Jim was self-controlled and
knew how to seem reasonable in his desires; while Timothy generally
put himself impetuously in the wrong. The maternal decision was almost
certain to be given on the side of Jim, and both boys knew this.
Timothy bent his black brows, smarting under a familiar sense of
injustice. But Jim's certainty of triumph was tempered by a shade of
caution; Timothy, if their disputes came to a fight, had more than a
chance to beat him. Timothy never knew when he was beaten.
At the head of the table, opposite Mary, stood Laurence's vacant
chair--a stately carved armchair, like hers. A cover was laid for him,
as always; for his presence was never certain, always possible. At the
right of his place sat the youngest of the family, a boy of fourteen,
blond and pale. His large grave blue eyes rested now on Jim's face, now
on Timothy's, now sought his mother's, with a troubled wistful look.
His face had a quivering sensitiveness; yet with its broad open brow
and square chin, it had strength too.
The setting sun struck into the room between the heavy looped curtains
of plush and lace, cast a red light over its dark walls and carpet,
its shining mahogany, glittered on silver and crystal. In the centre
of the table covered with heavy white damask stood a massive silver
arrangement holding bottles of oil and vinegar, salt, pepper and
spices, and serving also for decoration. Crystal decanters of sherry
and claret were placed on either side.
The soup being removed, Mary carved roast-beef and dispensed vegetables
with a liberal hand. The continued silence did not disturb her; it
was usual at meals, unless Laurence or a guest were present. She
pursued her own thoughts, occasionally glancing with calm pride at her
offspring. They were all handsome boys. Timothy was very like Laurence,
Jim was like her. But the youngest, John, was unaccountable, he did not
resemble either of his parents, or his brothers. He was like a stranger
in the family; in mind and character too he was strange to them all.
Yet with an unchildlike, almost uncanny sympathy, he seemed to know
them better than they knew one another. Long illness--he had never
grown strong--had perhaps given this delicacy to his mind as it had
to his body. Yet he seemed built for strength too. His shoulders were
broad, his large head nobly poised. His hands, with broad palms and
long sensitive fingers, curiously united strength and delicacy.
He alone felt the silence. The others, absorbed in themselves, took it
as a matter of course. But he, depressed by it, sighed, hardly touched
the beef and heavy pudding, and more than once looked at his father's
empty chair regretfully.
Mary's eye at length fell upon Jim in the act of filling his
claret-glass for the third time. She frowned.
"I've told you that I don't want you to drink more than one glass of
wine at meals," she said.
"Oh, this light wine--Father doesn't mind," said Jim easily.
"He doesn't want you to _drink_. And I won't have it. I won't have wine
on the table at all if you can't do as I wish."
Jim shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, well, let's not quarrel about it," he murmured, and pushed away
the wine-glass.
His tone was amiable, he even smiled at her. But Mary knew that Jim was
not so easily managed as that. He would seem always to yield to her
wishes, would never openly oppose her, but he managed almost always to
do as he pleased. He had an unsounded depth of quiet obstinacy. And
he was secretive too, never explained himself. Timothy was much more
frank, and more violent, hence was constantly getting into hot water
and usually was in a state of revolt. Mary's rules were strict and
not elastic to the needs and impulses of growing youth. She had felt
strongly the duty of implanting good principles in her boys, and of
repressing the ebullitions of the old Adam. While they were very young
she had succeeded in teaching them to tell the truth, to respect other
people's property rights, and to conform a good deal to her standards
of behaviour. But as they grew out of childhood, she lost touch with
them, gradually, unconsciously. She looked after their health, their
schools; they found their amusements for themselves. Withdrawn in
growing isolation, in a dumb struggle with growing unhappiness, her
spirit had no youth, no buoyancy, to keep pace with theirs. While
in infancy they depended completely upon her and she could suffice
to all their wants, they had given her contentment. Now it was no
longer a simple relation; she tried to banish or ignore its growing
complexities; but they made her uneasy. She had a feeling that her duty
was not done, but she did not know how to do it; her rule of life was
too simple, too rigid, to meet its problems.
John's childhood had lasted longer than the others; his ill health
had made him longer dependent on her physical care. But here a rival
affection had taken John's love and interest away from her.... When
John was ten he had scarlet fever, and Laurence insisted on nursing
him, devoted himself day and night to the boy; and through the long
convalescence, spent with him all the time he could wrest from his
business. From that time, John had depended on his father in a way
that, Mary felt acutely, he never had on her; with a feeling that grew
as he grew. With passionate rejecting jealousy she stood apart; felt
herself superseded; would not, could not, make an effort to recover
her hold. John had been all hers; she would not share his love, though
he made many timid efforts to draw her in. She felt her loss the more
bitterly that he was the most beautiful of her children; he was, she
knew, the flower of them all. There was something in him that hurt her
by its beauty; the same thing that she had felt in her youth, sometimes
in music, sometimes in a human expression. Something that called to
her spirit, an appeal that she could not meet, that made her restless.
Something that she had missed in life, had never been able to grasp, to
realize.
She did not always feel this. Sometimes she had a surface contentment,
a pride merely in being the mother of three fine lads and in the
outward show of authority; in her worldly dignity too. Her position, as
the wife of a man of distinction and power, commanded public respect.
And then, she had made a place for herself in the life of the town. She
was an intellectual leader among the women; president of their literary
society; a moving force in the work of the church and in charity. So
long as proper deference was paid to her, she could be counted upon
for faithful, even arduous work. But she would not suffer any rivals;
would engage in no contest for power; and haughtily withdrew before
opposition to her will. Whereupon, the value of her influence and
activity being almost a tradition, any sister who might have dared
approach the throne would be suppressed.
* * * * *
The meal being over, the family promptly dispersed. That is, the two
elder boys vanished, to continue their disagreement about the horse.
Mary walked absently into the library, having in mind the composition
of a paper on the Greek dramatists for the literary club. She stood for
a moment by one of the long windows, looking out on the lake.
The scene had changed, in these ten years. Instead of rough pastures
and the loneliness of the prairie, she saw now green lawns sloping
down to the dull-blue water; dotted on its banks were modern houses
sheltered by clumps of trees; and a little fleet of pleasure-boats rode
on its surface. The clear golden light of evening lay over all; the
branches of the trees waved and the water rippled in the fresh breeze.
Merry voices rose from the lake; some one in a boat was singing.
A faint stir beside her made Mary turn her head. John stood there, his
footstep had made no noise on the thick carpet.
"It's such a beautiful evening. Don't you want to come out with me on
the lake, Mother?" he asked in his rather nervous fluttering voice.
"I'd like to--but I have some work to do," she said quickly.
She seldom went out in the boat. She hated inactivity and mere
contemplation of any scene, however lovely; indeed, the lovelier it
was, the more painful. But now she saw John's wistful and disappointed
look.
"Won't any of the boys go with you?" she asked gently.
"No, I don't think so, they've gone out to the stable.... Did Father
say when he'd be home?" he asked, hesitatingly.
"No, he never does."
With this sharp answer, Mary walked away toward her desk. But then she
stopped and with an effort said:
"I will go with you, John, if you want."
"No, never mind--I thought you might like it, it's such a nice
evening--but you're busy--"
"No, I have time enough, I'll just get my cloak."
But now his sensitive face showed distress, and he protested:
"I'd rather not--really. I know you don't like the boat so very much,
only I thought.... I'll go myself."
He moved toward the door.
"Perhaps Timothy would like to go--"
"No, he won't--but no matter, I rather like to drift around, alone, and
look at the water."
"Shall I play to you a little, first?" asked Mary.
His face lighted up.
"Why, yes--if you have time--"
She led the way across the hall, where the lights had just been lit
and gleamed on the dark-red walls and the bronze statues of Mercury
and the Venus of Milo. The grand piano stood in one of the parlours:
its glossy lid was seldom raised. John drew a chair up beside it and
listened with a rapt face while Mary played his favorite, the "Grand
Sonata" of Beethoven, the only one she knew by heart. She made many
mistakes, her fingers were stiff from lack of practice; but still she
played conscientiously, with a feeling, a respect for the music. John
sat facing the window and the fading golden light. She glanced at him.
His face had a look of unearthly radiance and joy that shot a sharp
pain through her. With difficulty she continued. At the last notes her
head sank, bent over the keyboard, and she sat in silence. He drew a
long breath.
"Thank you--that's wonderful, I love it," he said.
"I wish I could play it better," said Mary huskily. "I must practise."
"You play it beautifully. Thank you, Mother," he repeated softly. Then,
hesitating, looking at her, he got up.
"I'll go out now and row a while."
She nodded, and he went.