Little did the landlady know how much it cost her to make that simple
inquiry.
"Mrs. Alison?" the woman echoed with a return of that first suspicion
in her manner. "Well, I'm sure I don't know what to say. Eric! If you
don't give over picking at my boot-buttons, my lad, I'll give you
something to remember with next time. Stand up, you naughty boy. Who
should I say wants to see Mrs. Alison?"
"I'm Mr. Alison's mother."
This announcement was altogether too much for the landlady, who without
another word grabbed Eric by the hand and led the way upstairs to the
lodgers' sitting-room.
"Here's Mr. Alison's mother to see you, Mrs. Alison," she exclaimed in
the doorway, after which thunderclap she returned to her own intimate
glooms at the back of the house, admonishing Eric to ush if he didn't
want to get such a slapping as would properly ush him for a week.
As Mary entered, the woman who had ruined her son's life rose from an
arm-chair by the fire and putting a finger to her lips pointed to a cot.
"Molly's asleep," she exclaimed.
"My granddaughter," said Mary.
"My little gurl," replied the other with a burr that in these sharp-set
London lodgings sounded strange. There was nothing about her except the
accent to proclaim that she was rural. Mary remembered that Geoffrey
had said she was three years older than himself. That would make
her about thirty-two. She looked nearer forty with her thin-lipped
anxious mouth, her fretful eyes, and needle-like fingers. It was hard
to perceive now what beauty had charmed Geoffrey into marrying her.
However, she did not appear blatant, which was something to be thankful
for.
The two women had been watching each other in silence, when the
child in the cot gave a low restless cry. At once they both made an
instinctive movement to see what was the matter; but the mother was the
quicker to bend over and murmur a few soothing words.
"Her teeth are fidgeting her," she explained. "She's been late in
cutting them." In that instant she seemed to think that by saying so
much she was offering her visitor more than she had intended to offer,
and she drew close her eyebrows in a scowl.
"Not that my little gurl's teeth can interest you," she added
scornfully.
"On the contrary," said Mary. "They interest me enormously. I did not
know until yesterday that I was a grandmother. As soon as I knew, I
came to see my granddaughter."
"But you knew that you were a mother ten years ago. You weren't in any
hurry to come then except to try and keep Geoff from marrying me. That
was all your worry then."
"You must think of the situation from our point of view. Geoffrey was
not even of age. It was our duty to protest against his committing
himself to a marriage before he knew his own mind. But isn't it rather
a mistake to argue about the past now? I am anxious to forget the past."
"Some people can forget very easily," said the younger woman, "others
can't."
"You may not know that Geoffrey's father is dead."
"Geoffrey does know, so there. And he wanted to go to the funeral, but
I said, 'No, you don't want them to think that as soon as your father
died you was looking around for what you might pick up. You let well
alone,' I said, and Geoff he took my advice. 'Your father's been dead
to you,' I said, 'this many a year. There's no call for you,' I said,
'to attend his funeral all on your own. I'm not going to wear black for
him,' I said. 'And I'm not going to his funeral, not if you was to ask
me on your bended knees.'"
"Whatever you think about me," said Mary, "you've no right to speak
like that about my husband. Why, I've just found out that all these
years he has been helping Geoffrey with money whenever he asked for it."
"He wouldn't ever have been asked for it, if I'd had my way. I'd sooner
have starved in the gutter, _I_ would. But Geoff's got no pride, Geoff
hasn't."
"You should be the best judge of that," said Mary. She regretted the
sneer as soon as she had uttered it, not because she minded hurting
the feeling of her son's wife, but because it might jeopardize the
object she had in view, which was nothing less than to be awarded
the guardianship of her granddaughter. An immense jealousy had been
roused in her by the sight of the sleeping child, and she was thinking
how well she should know with all her experience the way to bring
her up. It was imprudent to say anything that might increase her
daughter-in-law's hostility. In order to obtain what she desired Mary
compelled herself to think of this woman as her daughter-in-law.
"It's no use for you to be sarcastic with me," said Geoffrey's wife.
"Geoff's tried being sarcastic once or twice. But he always got the
worst of it. Always."
Mary had a vision of Geoffrey's existence during these ten years. She
was filled with a profound pity for him, picturing him forever in
rooms like these, the prey of his wife's tongue, the victim of her
determination to drag him down to her level. It never struck her that
the child in the cot whom she was so eager to take for herself was
probably the only thing that made his life endurable.
"I'm sure it's a mistake to be sarcastic," Mary admitted. "I'm sorry,
Mary. You know I find it quite difficult to call you Mary, because
it's my own name. I really came this afternoon to try to effect a
reconciliation. I'm anxious to be friends. It's useless to live in
the past. We should all be miserable if we did that, for we all of us
make mistakes. It struck me that it might be difficult for you and
Geoffrey suddenly to re-enter the family circle--a very small circle
nowadays. Only myself and Muriel. So, I didn't suggest that you and
he should come and live at Woodworth Lodge or anything like that. But
what I thought was that perhaps you might be glad to let me assume the
responsibility for that little girl in the cot. If she was allowed to
live with me, you would of course be coming to see her often, and then
gradually we should get to know one another, and this gulf between us
might be bridged."
"Never!" cried the mother. "I wouldn't let you have my Molly for
nothing. Not if she was going to die the next minute. I'd sooner for
her to die than have her go to you. I suppose you think I'm not fit
to look after my own little gurl? Well, you've made a mistake, let me
tell you. I'm as fit to look after her as what you are. She's mine.
She's not yours. She never shall be yours, not while I'm alive anyway.
I suppose you think I ought to be so proud because I've married a
gentleman that I ought to sit still for the rest of my life with my
hands crossed on my lap and do nothing. Only be proud. But I didn't
marry Geoff because he was a gentleman. I married him because I loved
him. I suppose you think a woman like me can't love? I suppose you
think it's only ladies who can love? But that's just where you're
wrong. I've loved him so much that I've been angry with myself for
being so soft and carried on at him something cruel. You wouldn't have
done that, would you? But I've nagged at him until he's been fit to
jump into the lake, which is near where we were living at Hopkinsville.
Only it isn't like a lake. More like a sea really. I suppose you
think that I wouldn't dare to be jealous, just because I'd married a
gentleman? I suppose you think I ought to have let him do just what he
wanted? Not me. Why, he couldn't be half an hour late without I was
ready to tear his eyes out to know where he'd been and what he'd been
doing. I reckon sometimes he wished he'd never set eyes on me. But I
loved him all the time. You needn't make no mistake about that. I've
wished sometimes he'd beat me, but he never raised his hand to me. Not
once. Though I've nagged him enough to make any man hit me, even though
he might have been a gentleman. And then last year, when I'd given up
all hopes of such things, my little Molly came along, and since she
came I've been better with Geoff. I seemed to feel he belonged to me
at last, because the kid's half him and half me, as I figure it out.
And now you come along and want to carry off my Molly. Never. That's
my last word. Never! Perhaps if you'd come along before my little girl
arrived and wanted to carry off Geoff, I might have let him go. I was
fond enough of him to do that, I believe. Once I'd thought it was
really for his good. But now him and me has never been such friends,
just because we've got the baby. Our baby. His and mine. Not yours, and
she never will be."
The child whose future was at stake was disturbed by the clamor of her
mother's voice and woke up shrieking.
Mary waited a moment or two in embarrassment, uncertain how to get
herself out of the room. In the end she went away in silence.
When she reached home, she sat down and wrote to her daughter-in-law:
Woodworth Lodge,
Campden Hill, W.,
_November 9, 1910_.
_Dear Mary_,
_I am afraid that you misunderstood the spirit in which I paid you
my visit to-day. I feel that you may have imagined that my proposal
for you to let me assume the responsibility for Molly's future meant
that the little girl would be taken away from you. What I intended
was that she should be the means of bringing us all together again.
Perhaps in a little time you will be able to look at the situation
with less bitterness. I do so hope that you will. Please accept this
check as a belated wedding present and_
_Believe me to be,
Yours affectionately,
Mary Alison._
To which she received the following answer from her daughter-in-law:
_Dear Mrs. Alison_,
_Thank you for the check which I would rather not accept if you don't
mind. I'm sorry I was rude when you came to see me, but I should only
be rude again, and so it's better for you not to come._
_Yours sincerely,
Mary Alison._
And from her son:
_My dear Mother_,
_I'm afraid you will think us ungracious in the way we've received
your kindness. I'm afraid that Mary allowed herself to give vent to a
good deal of the resentment she has had ten years to accumulate._
_I feel I ought to have written to you about poor Father's death,
but for various reasons I was naturally a little shy of intruding
myself at such a moment, which I'm sure you will understand. I expect
you know that from time to time Father very kindly helped me with
loans. I should like to be in a position to repay these, but that is
impossible. However, I seem to be fairly well fixed up now in a job,
and I would rather not incur any more obligations. It is better, I
feel, that Mary and I should continue to lead a life apart from the
rest of the family. Please do not think that I am giving way to a
false pride in taking up this attitude. I do feel that I owe a duty
to Mary as the mother of our little girl. I wish I was a better hand
at explaining myself. But she would never fit into the sort of life
she would have to lead if she were to be "adopted" now. You may say
that she never would have fitted in. I do not wish to give the idea
that I am reproaching you for the past, but I do believe that if that
day you came to the hotel where we were staying you had welcomed her
as a daughter you would have found her responsive. She has become
hard during these ten years, because, poor little girl, she felt that
she had spoilt things for me. She was becoming really quite difficult
to manage in her moods until Molly was born. But now, thank God, we
are quite happy together, and so long as I can keep my job I believe
that we shall go on being happy. I very much fear, however, that if
she felt that she was not considered good enough to bring up her baby
she would sink back into her former state of resentment, and the
peace which we now enjoy would be destroyed._
_So please forgive me, dear Mother, for the way we have received your
kind visit. I do often think about you and wish that things had gone
differently. I want you to believe that it is very difficult for me
not to come and see you. But I know that if I did I should be weak
and try to persuade Mary to do what you want. And then there would
be difficulties, and I am so tired of squabbles. I feel wretched at
writing to you like this, but I've braced myself up to do it, and
it's done._
_Your loving son,
Geoffrey._
Geoffrey's letter did not have the effect upon his mother of a rebuff.
At any rate she had no emotion of mortification or wounded self-esteem
when she read it. She felt as if she had tried to bridge the chasm
between the living and the dead and failed. Geoffrey had passed out
of her life as irrevocably as Richard. She shivered for a moment in
the chill of age and wondered how she should occupy herself for the
remainder of her life. So long as Jemmie had been alive she had always
had somebody who wanted her solicitude, but now that Jemmie was dead
nobody seemed to want her. Yes, she ought to have behaved differently
ten years ago. She ought not to have let the loss of Richard embitter
her like that. It was her own fault that Geoffrey and his wife wanted
to live their life apart from her. She could leave money to her
grandchild. That was something. It was thoughtful of Jemmie not to
attempt to say what was to be done with his money. Her own, of which
he had always had complete control, naturally remained her own. It
was to be hoped that Muriel would soon be cured of this Socialistic
craze. She did not want to have her money spent upon furthering the
schemes of faddists. Jemmie would have hated that. Jemmie was always
so normal and sensible. If he did have that temporary infatuation, it
was her own fault. Twenty years ago she had neglected him, and he had
sought consolation elsewhere. Ten years ago she had neglected Geoffrey,
and he too had found consolation elsewhere. Before it was too late she
must make an effort to understand and sympathize with Muriel. She had
perhaps been too ready to believe that the shyness and awkwardness of
Muriel's youth sprang from a natural lack of affection. Not that Muriel
was so very young nowadays; but the rift had begun when she was still a
schoolgirl, and all rifts tended to widen with time.
"Dear child, I wish you'd tell me something about the various movements
in which you're interested. I daresay I've been stupidly conservative
in my attitude. You know, everything has changed very much during the
last ten years. You'll have to be patient with people like me who were
brought up to think that Queen Victoria always had been reigning and
always would be reigning."
Muriel stared at her mother from those candid blue eyes of hers.
"It's rather difficult to explain suddenly in a few words the
culmination of centuries of human thought," she said.
Mary laughed.
"You mustn't snub me like that, Muriel, unless you want me to remain
hidebound by my own prejudices and conventions."
"But, Mother, it isn't really worth while for you to believe in what I
believe. You must be young to believe it. You must believe that before
you die you'll see your dreams brought to pass."
"Am I so old then?"
"You haven't forty years of activity before you. I'm not being very
discouraging when I say that."
"Have you forty years before you, dear child?"
"I hope so."
"1950," her mother mused. "So you think that, when you're fifteen
years older than I, you'll see the millennium? It sounds a long way
off--1950. But, Muriel, you've no idea how near it really is and how
little people will have changed."
"You said just now how much they had changed in the last ten years."
"I think that in these ten years they have accomplished what ordinarily
would have begun long before and taken longer. You can't expect to have
another reign like Queen Victoria's."
"No, thank goodness," said Muriel fervidly.
"England wouldn't be England without that reign."
"The question is, 'Is England our England?'" Muriel countered. "I
should say that England belongs to a few rich people and that the
reason why it does was the worship of money during the Victorian Age."
"I don't think that people worshiped money then more than they did at
any other period of the world's history. People will always worship
money, because people worship themselves, and they think that money
gives them the opportunity to express that worship."
"It's disgusting," Muriel ejaculated.
"Yes, but have you ever thought how easy it is to be disgusted by
anything to do with money when one has plenty oneself? I feel that the
best that can be said for your Socialist state is that if nobody could
have more than a certain amount and everybody had that amount it might
end in people's despising money."
"Oh, my dear mother," Muriel burst in impatiently, "must you really
trot out the old legend that Socialism means equal money for all? It
doesn't really mean anything of the kind."
In a moment Muriel was embarked upon a passionate disquisition about
the real aims of Socialism; and Mary felt with a thrill of pleasure
that she had lured her daughter into revealing some of herself without
being aware that she was doing so and in the knowledge becoming
self-conscious and reserved.
After their talk, in which Muriel admitted that her mother displayed
an unusual ability to understand her point of view, there seemed
the likelihood of a friendship springing up between the mother and
daughter. Mary talked to her about Geoffrey, and it was agreed between
them that Muriel should pay a visit to Wood Green.
"For perhaps with tact Geoffrey's wife may grow less suspicious of my
advances. I was too precipitate when I visited them in November. I was
so much distressed by the rooms and so much upset to think about my
own behavior's being the cause of it all, that I foolishly suggested
bringing the little girl to live with us here. But if you were to go,
dear child, you would manage better than I can to reassure his wife."
A week or two later Muriel set out to pay her first visit; but when she
reached 45 Almond Terrace the vulturine landlady told her that Mr. and
Mrs. Alison had gone away without an address.
"There's nothing to be done now," Mary lamented. "I left it until it
was too late."
"You did all you could, mother."
"_Now_ when it's too late. By the way, dear, I want to give a few very
quiet dinner-parties during May. You won't find them too much of a
bore?"
"Not if you want to have dinner-parties, mother."
"Well, to be frank, I've been telling myself for some time that you
ought to be thinking about getting married. You'll be twenty-six soon,
you know, dear, and I _should_ like to see you happily settled."
Muriel's face hardened to that old expression her mother knew and
dreaded from her schooldays.
"Mother, I don't intend to get married. The idea is repugnant to me."
"But, Muriel dear, you'll forgive me for saying that you cannot
possibly know unless you're married if marriage is repugnant. I can
assure you that it's impossible to say anything about it beforehand.
Now I was brought up in complete ignorance of facts that I know you
consider the merest commonplace of knowledge. I did have a few qualms,
I admit; but in my case those qualms were due to ignorance."
Muriel thereupon sprang her mine.
"I hadn't intended to say anything about what I'm going to tell
you until next autumn; but it doesn't seem fair to let you give
dinner-parties under the delusion that you're likely to make a good
match for me by doing so. Mother dear, I've decided to become a
sister-of-mercy, and so marriage is utterly remote from my thoughts."
Mary stared at her daughter in amazement.
"Muriel! You extraordinary girl! I thought you hated Christianity.
I thought you abominated clergymen. Why, I thought you were only
interested in Socialism. I'd no conception that you were giving your
mind to religion. The two things seem poles asunder."
"Do they, mother dear?" said Muriel with a smile. "But now I can't
imagine any socialism worth having unless it is based upon religion.
Equally I can't imagine any religion that isn't the inspiration of a
true socialism. I've been thinking about this for a long time now--ever
since I went to Midnight Mass last Christmas Eve. It reached me like an
inspiration. The truth of it, I mean. My mind is absolutely made up."
Mary had never been so completely astonished in her life. She herself
during these last months had wished once or twice that she had thought
more about religion, so that now in her loneliness she might have
possessed what was evidently to many women an absolute consolation for
everything. But it was too late to begin, she had decided. And now here
was Muriel wrapped up in religion apparently and taking it so seriously
that she intended to become a sister-of-mercy.
"But how could you become religious just by going to a service at an
unusual time?" the mother asked.
"I haven't become religious now," Muriel pointed out. "I hate religious
people. Though that's a silly thing to say, because I am very
'religious' in a different sense. I tell you, I suddenly believed that
Christianity was true; as soon as I believed that I wanted to devote
myself to the service of Christianity. I thought that the life of a
sister-of-mercy was the life for a Christian woman. I realized that all
my theories about human nature were worth nothing without Divine grace
to achieve them."
Mary had a flash of illumination.
"Then it was from religious motives that you suddenly became so much
quieter and sweeter. I was congratulating myself on effecting that
change. Dear child, I wish that I could be given an assurance like
yours."
"I always pray that you may receive it."
"Thank you, dear child. That is very kind and thoughtful of you. Of
course, I can't argue with you about your resolve. I have really no
right to argue on such a subject. I only hope that you will find as
much happiness in the life you have chosen for yourself as you might
have found in marriage. Which I'm sure you would have found," her
mother added.
In the autumn Muriel entered the Community she had chosen, and the
widow was left alone in the big house on Campden Hill.
_Chapter Seven_
THE GRANDMOTHER
_Chapter Seven: The Grandmother_
Mary's visitors had left early that December afternoon, and when
François came in to turn on the light and draw the curtains, she told
him that she would ring for him presently, because she had a slight
headache and preferred to sit for a while quietly _dans la crépuscule_.
The butler, who had a grave, ecclesiastical dignity, bowed and left
Madame to her choice. In the door he turned for a moment and in a tone
which deprecated anything that might savor of officiousness in the
suggestion begged leave to ask if Madame would like her maid summoned.
She shook her head, and he withdrew with another bow that sought
to express his perfect comprehension of Madame's desire to be left
entirely alone.
Paris was unusually still this afternoon, so still that one seemed to
hear the twilight falling upon the world in blue waves of silence.
Usually at this hour the _salon_ was crowded with voluble women
drinking tea or with men sipping port wine and nibbling ratafias. It
was lucky that this afternoon when she had a headache they should all
have gone so early. What was the time? Only a little after four. She
ought to have told François that she would not be at home to anybody
else who called. She made a movement to ring the bell; but even
so slight an action was seeming a bore, and she sank back again in
the arm-chair, telling herself that François, most accomplished of
servants, would know instinctively that she desired to receive no more
this afternoon. She hoped that the headache would vanish before dinner,
because it was so difficult to have a satisfactory _séance_ unless one
was feeling in just the right mood to concentrate. Madame de Sarlovèze
had been so emphatic about the abilities of the new crystal-gazer who
with remarkable predictions of her clients' futures and even more
remarkable knowledge of her clients' pasts had deeply impressed all
Paris this autumn. The success of a personality like this Sicilian
fortune-teller helped one to realize that the war was over. Not that
fortune-tellers had not flourished during the war. Indeed, they could
never have been so prosperous; but it was like old times to hear one's
friends talking about the latest crystal-gazer, the latest dancer, the
latest tenor, the latest nerve-doctor as if until one had fallen in
with the fashion and succumbed to their performances one was hopelessly
_démodée_.