It was not a comfortable meal for any of them, and Mrs. Champney was
glad when it was finished. She offered to help Molly with the dishes,
and she really wanted to do so; but when Molly refused, and she saw
that Robert didn’t like the idea, she did not persist. She went into
the little sitting room with Robert, and he settled her in an
armchair, putting behind her shoulders a plump cushion that made her
neck ache. He lit his pipe and began to move about restlessly.
“You know,” he began abruptly, “Molly’s not really—slovenly.”
“Robert!” cried Mrs. Champney. “What nonsense!”
“Yes, I know,” he said doggedly; “but I don’t want you to think—”
Mrs. Champney did not hear the rest of his speech. She was vaguely
aware that he was making excuses for Molly, but she did not stop him.
He had said enough. He had given her the key, and now she could
understand.
This was not pettiness, and Robert was not fussy. It was because he
loved Molly so much that he could not endure to have another person
see in her what might be construed as faults. If he had been alone
with Molly, he wouldn’t have cared, he wouldn’t even have noticed
these things. It was because his mother had come, and he was afraid.
It is an old and a deep-rooted thing, the child’s faith in the
mother’s judgment. If the mother has been honest and wise, if the
child has been never deceived or disappointed by her, then, no matter
how old he grows, or how far he may go from her, that old and
deep-rooted faith lives in him. Robert, at twenty-six, was surer of
himself than he was ever likely to be again. He was certain that all
his ideas were his own, and that no living creature could influence
him; yet he was terribly afraid of what his mother might think of
Molly.
For, after all, his mother was the standard, and the home she had made
for him in his boyhood must forever be the standard of homes. She
would see that this home of Molly’s was not like that. She would
think—
“You needn’t worry, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Champney gently. “I’m sure
I’ll understand Molly.”
And no more than that. It wouldn’t do to tell him what she really
thought of Molly. It would sound exaggerated and insincere. It would
startle him, and it might conceivably make him contrary; so she held
her tongue.
Presently Molly came in from the kitchen, flushed and smiling, and
sank into a chair.
“Take off that apron, old girl,” said Robert.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Molly. “I always forget!”
Robert took it away into the kitchen.
“Too tired for a song, Molly?” he asked when he returned.
“Of course I’m not!” said she, getting up again.
She was tired, though, and a little nervous, and Mrs. Champney felt
sorry for her; but Robert would have it so. His mother must see what
Molly could do. He lay back in his chair, smoking, with an air of
regal indifference, as if he were a young sultan who had commanded
this performance but was not much interested in it; but as a matter of
fact he was twice as nervous as Molly.
He had spoken to his mother before about Molly’s singing, and Mrs.
Champney had thought of it as an agreeable accomplishment for a son’s
wife, but this performance amazed her. This was not a parlor
accomplishment, this big, glorious voice, true and clear, effortless
because so perfectly managed. This was an art, and Molly was an
artist.
“Molly!” she cried, when the song was done. “Molly, my dear! I don’t
know what to say!”
Molly flushed with pleasure.
“I do love music,” she said. “I often hope Bobbetty will care about
it.”
“That was a darned silly song, though,” observed Robert.
Molly turned away hastily.
“I know it was!” she said cheerfully. But Mrs. Champney had seen the
tears come into her eyes. Molly was hurt. She didn’t understand, and
unfortunately Mrs. Champney did. She knew that Robert had been trying
to tell his mother that Molly could do even better than this—that she
could, if she chose, sing the most prodigious songs. He was afraid
that his mother would judge and condemn Molly for that darned silly
song about “the flowers all nodding on yonder hill.”
“That’s what being a mother-in-law really means,” said Mrs. Champney
to herself. “It means being the third person, the one who stands
outside and sees everything—all the poor, pitiful little faults and
weaknesses. Love won’t help. The more I love them, the more I can’t
help seeing, and they’ll know—they’ll always know. When Robert is
impatient, Molly will know that I’ve noticed it, and she’ll think she
has to notice it, too. When Molly is careless, Robert will imagine
that I’m blaming her, and he’ll feel ashamed of her. That’s why
mothers-in-law make trouble. It’s not because they always interfere,
or because they’re troublesome and domineering. It’s because they
_see_ all the little things that nobody ought to see—the little things
that would never grow important if a third person wasn’t there. I used
to feel so sorry for mothers-in-law. I used to think it was a vulgar,
heartless joke about their making trouble. A joke? Oh, it’s the worst,
most horrible joke in the world—because it’s true!”