The family dined early that evening. Graham had taken a box at the
Maxine Elliott Theatre. He and Kenyon and Peter were to take Belle and
Betty there to see a play by Edward Sheldon, about which everybody was
talking. Little Mrs. Guthrie, who was to have been one of the party, had
decided to stay at home, because the Doctor was not feeling very well,
and so she was going to sit with him in the library and see that he went
to bed early, and give him a dose of one of those old-fashioned cures in
which she was a great believer.
Naturally enough, although he was not an ardent play-goer, Peter was
looking forward with keen pleasure to the evening because he would be
able to sit close to Betty and from time to time whisper in her ear.
During dinner, however, which was a very merry meal, with Kenyon keeping
everyone in fits of laughter, Peter caught something in his mother's
eyes which made him revolutionize his plans. The little mother laughed
as frequently as the rest of them,--to the casual observer she was merry
and bright, with nothing on her mind except the slight indisposition of
the Doctor. But Peter, who possessed an intuitive eye which had a knack
of seeing underneath the surface of things and whose keen sympathy for
those he loved was very easily stirred, became aware of the fact that
his mother was only simulating light-heartedness and stood in need of
something from him.
He threw his mind back quickly, and in a moment knew what was wrong.
During the short time that he had been back in the city he had forgotten
to give his little mother anything of himself. That was wrong and
ungrateful and extremely selfish, and must be remedied at once.
Without a moment's hesitation he decided to cut two acts of the play and
do everything that he could to prove to the little mother who meant so
much to him that, although he was engaged to be married, she still
retained her place in his heart.
Dinner over, he went quickly to the door and opened it, and as his
mother passed out he put his arm round her shoulders and whispered,
"Mummie, dear, slip up to your room and wait there for me. I want to
talk to you." The look of gratitude that he received from the dear
little woman was an immense reward for his unselfishness. Then he went
up to Graham and said: "Look here, old boy, I find I shan't be able to
go along with you now, but I'll join you for the last act."
"Oh, rot!" said Graham. "What's up? Betty'll be awfully upset."
"No, she won't," said Peter. "I'm going to send her a note." And while
the others were getting ready, he dashed off a few lines to the girl
who, like himself, understood the family feeling. It contained only a
few lines, but they were characteristically Peterish and were calculated
to make Betty add one more brick to the beautiful construction of her
love for him, because they showed that he understood women and their
sensitiveness and realized their urgent need of tenderness and
appreciation.
As soon as the party had driven away, Peter collected a pipe and a tin
of tobacco and went quickly up the wide staircase. He rushed into his
mother's own particular room with all his old impetuosity and found her
sitting at a table by the side of a great work-basket in which he saw a
large collection of the socks that he had brought home with him and
which stood badly in need of motherly attention. No man in this world
made so many or such quick holes in the toes of his socks as Peter did,
and he knew that she had ransacked the drawers to find them. He drew up
a chair, thrust his long legs out in front of him and made himself
completely comfortable.
This little room was unlike any other in the house. In it his mother had
placed all the pet pieces of inexpensive furniture which had been in the
sitting-room of the little house in which she and the Doctor had settled
down when they were first married. It was unpretentious stuff, bought in
a cheap store in a small town,--what is called "Mission"
furniture,--curious, uncomfortable-looking chairs which creaked with
every movement, odd little sideboards, which would have brought a grin
either of pain or amusement to the face of the former owner of the
beautifully furnished house which had been left to the Doctor. The
walls were covered with photographs of the family in all stages,--Peter
as a chubby baby with a great curl on top of his head--Belle in a
perambulator smiling widely at a colored nurse--Graham in his first
sailor-suit--Ethel bravely arrayed in a party frock, "Thinking of
Mother"--and over the mantel-piece one--an enlargement--of the Doctor
taken when he was a young man, with an unlined face and thick, straight
hair, his jaws set with that grim determination which had carried him
over so many obstacles. It was a room at which Graham, Belle and Ethel
frequently laughed. But Peter liked it and respected it. He felt more at
home there than anywhere else in the house. It reminded him of the early
struggles of his father and mother and touched every responsive note in
his nature.
"I'm sorry you're not going to the theatre, dear," said Mrs. Guthrie.
"No, you're not," said Peter.
"Oh, indeed I am. I like you to enjoy yourself with the others, and
Betty'll be there. Only stay a few minutes; and, as the curtain always
goes up late, you'll be in time to see the whole of the play."
"Blow the play!" said Peter. "I'm going to talk to you just as long as I
like. I can go to the theatre any night of the week."
Mrs. Guthrie dropped her work, bent forward and put her cheek against
Peter's. "You're a dear, dear boy," she said. "You're my very own Peter,
and even if I were a poet I couldn't find words to tell you how happy
you make me; but I did my best not to let you see that I was just a wee
bit hurt because you haven't had time to spare me a few moments since
you came home. After all, I'm only a little old mother now, and I must
try to remember that."
"Oh, don't," said Peter. "I'm awfully sorry I've been such a thoughtless
brute. But, no one--no, no one--can ever take your place, and you know
it." He went down on his knees at her side and wrapped his strong arms
round her and put his head upon her breast as he used to do when he was
a little chap, and remained there for a while perfectly happy.
He couldn't see the Madonna look which came into the eyes of the little
mother, whose pillow had frequently been wet with tears at the thought
that she had lost her boy. Nor did he see the expression of extreme
gratitude which spread rather pathetically over her face. But he felt
these things and held her tightly just to show how well he understood,
and to eliminate from her heart that feeling of pain which he knew had
crept into it because he had found that other little mother who was to
be his wife and have sons of her own.
Presently he returned to his chair and to his pipe, and began to talk.
"By gad!" he said, "it's good to be home again. I find myself looking at
everything differently now--quite time, too. I should have been at work
years ago. Universities are great places and I shall never regret
Oxford, but they take a long time to prepare a fellow to become a man."
Then he laughed one of his great and big laughs, and his chair creaked
and one or two of the old pieces of furniture seemed to rattle. "I hid
those socks, but I knew you'd find them. What a mother you are, mother!
I'll make a bet with you."
"I never bet," said Mrs. Guthrie, who was all smiles.
"I'll bet you a hundred dollars you never mend Graham's socks. Now then
tell the truth."
"Well, no, I don't. He doesn't like socks that have been mended; and,
anyway, he isn't my first-born. You see that makes a lot of difference."
"There you are," said Peter. "Pay up and smile. Oh, say; I'm sorry
father's seedy. He sticks too closely to those microbes of his. I shall
try to screw up courage and take him on a bust now and then. It'll do
him good. Think he'll go?"
Mrs. Guthrie looked up eagerly. "Try," she said. "Please do try. Now
that you've come home for good I want you to do everything you can to
get closer to your father. He's a splendid man and he's always thinking
about you and the others, but I know that he'll never make the first
move. He doesn't seem to understand how to do it. But he deserves
everything you can give him. If only you could break down his shyness
and diffidence,--because that's what it is,--you'd make him very happy."
"Yes, that's what I think," said Peter. "I've been thinking it over,
especially since I saw the way in which Kenyon's father treats him. I
shall pluck up courage one of these nights, beard him in his den and
have it out, and put things straight. I want him much more than he wants
me; and, d'you know, I think that Graham wants him too."
"I'm sure he does," said Mrs. Guthrie. "Graham's a good boy, but he's
very reckless and thinks that he's older than he is. He comes to me
sometimes with his troubles, but how can I help him? I wish, Peter, I do
wish that he'd go sometimes to his father!"
"Well, I'm going to try to alter all that," said Peter. "It's got to be
done somehow. Father's always been afraid of us, and we've always been
afraid of father. It's silly. What d'you think of Nicholas? Isn't he a
corker?"
Mrs. Guthrie smiled. "He improves on acquaintance," she said. "He's
certainly one of the most charming men I've ever met. Do you think"--she
lowered her voice a little--"do you think there's anything between him
and Belle?"
"Good Lord!" said Peter. "I never thought of that. Is there?"
"Well," said Mrs. Guthrie, "I've noticed one or two little things. He's
been writing to her, you know."
"Has he? By Jove! Well, then, there must be something in it. He's a lazy
beggar and I don't believe I've ever seen him write a letter in his
life. Gee, I shall be awfully glad to have him for a brother-in-law!
That topping place in Shropshire! Belle would make an absolutely perfect
mistress of it, although there's plenty of life in the old man yet. By
Jove, it was good to see the relationship between Nick and his father.
It staggered me. Why, they were as good as friends. They go about arm in
arm and tell each other everything. It used to make me feel quite sick
sometimes. Think of my going about arm in arm with father!"
"Think of Belle becoming the Countess of Shropshire! I should like that.
It would be another feather in your father's cap,--your father who used
to carry siphons in a basket."
"More power to his elbow," said Peter. "It might have been better for me
if I'd carried siphons in a basket. After all, I'm inclined to believe
that there's no university in the world like the streets. Think of all
the men who've graduated from windy corners and muddy gutters--It'd be a
fine thing for Ethel, too, if Belle marries Nick. Isn't she an
extraordinary kid? Upon my word, she takes my breath away. She's older
at sixteen than most women are at thirty. By the way, what's the matter
with her? What's anaemia, anyhow? She looks as fit as a fiddle."
"Oh, she'll soon get over that," said Mrs. Guthrie. "I think they bend
too much over books at her school. You know the modern girl isn't like
the girls of my generation. I didn't have to learn geometry or piano
playing. I didn't think it was necessary to know Euclid or a smattering
of the classics. We learned how to make bread and cook a good steak and
iron clothes. You know husbands don't come home to hear Mozart on a Baby
Grand and enter into discussions about writers with crack-jaw names."
"I know,--Ibsen, Schopenhauer, Hauptmann and Tolstoy. No; they don't
fill a hungry tummie, do they?"
"No, indeed they don't," said Mrs. Guthrie. "And that reminds me that I
must go and give your father his little dose. When a doctor isn't well
he never knows how to look after himself." She got up and put down her
work, and then bent over Peter. "Thank you for coming up to-night, my
dearest boy. I've had a queer little pain in my heart for a long time,
but you've taken it all away. Now run along and see your Betty, and
don't worry about your little mother any longer."
Peter got up and put his hands on his mother's shoulders. "Listen!" he
said. "I love you. I shall always love you. No woman shall ever come
between me and you." And he caught her in his arms and kissed her.
And then she bustled down-stairs to the library, where the Doctor was
taking it easy for once and dipping into one of the numerous books that
surrounded him. There was a smile on Mrs. Guthrie's face which was like
the sun on an autumn morning.
On the way to his bedroom Peter passed the door of Ethel's room, and
drew up short. He had heard her say she was going to bed early. He
hadn't had many words with her since he got back. So he decided to go in
and wipe off that debt, too. When he tried to open the door he found
that it was locked. He started a devil's tattoo with his knuckles. "Are
you there, Kid?" he shouted out.