Miss Vance led her party slowly through Scotland and down again to
London. Mrs. Waldeaux went with them. The girls secretly laughed
together at her fine indomitable politeness, and her violent passion
for the Stuarts, and hate of the Roundheads. But Mr. Perry was bored
by her.
"What is it to us," he said, "that Queen Mary paddled over this lake,
or Cromwell's soldiers whitewashed that fresco? Give me a clean, new
American church, anyhow, before all of your mouldy, tomby cathedrals.
These things are so many cancelled cheques to me. I have nothing to
pay on them. It is live issues that draw on my heart. You American
girls ought to be at home looking into the negro problem, or Tammany,
or the Sugar Trust, instead of nosing into Rembrandts, or miracles at
Lourdes, or palaces. These are all back numbers. Write n. g. on them
and bury them. So, by the way, is your Mrs. Waldeaux a back number.
My own opinion is that all men and women at fifty ought to go willingly
and be shut up in the room where the world keeps its second-hand
lumber!"
"Yet nobody," said Lucy indignantly, "is more careful or tender with
Mrs. Waldeaux than you!"
"That is because Mr. Perry has the genuine American awe of people of
good birth," said Jean slyly. "It is the only trait which makes me
suspect that he is a self-made man." Mr. Perry, for answer, only bowed
gravely. He long ago had ceased to hide his opinion that Miss Hassard
was insufferable.
Frances, for her part, was sure that the young people were glad to have
her as a companion. One day she decided to stay with them, and the
next to go to New York on the first steamer. She seemed to see life
hazily, as one over whose mind a cataract was growing. What had she to
do in Europe, she reasoned? George was gone. Her one actual hold on
the world had slipped from her. That great mysterious thing called
living was done and past for her.
And yet--there was Kenilworth, and Scott's house? Scott, who had been
her friend and leader since she was eight years old! And in that
anthem at York minster there was a message, which she had been waiting
all of her life to hear! And here was Lucy beside her with her soft
voice, and loving blue eyes--Lucy, who should have been George's wife!
In all of these things something high and good called to the poor lady,
which she heard and understood as a child would the voice of its mother.
One hour she resolved to leave her son with his wife, to go back to
Weir at once and work with the poultry and Quigg's jokes for the rest
of her life. She was dead. Let her give up and consent to be dead.
The next, she would stay where she could see George sometimes, and try
to forgive the woman who had him in her keeping. Perhaps, after all,
she was human, as Clara said. If she could forgive Lisa, she could be
happy with these young people and live--live in this wonderful old
world, where all that was best of past ages was kept waiting for her.
When they came to London, she went at once to Morgan's to make a
deposit, for she had been hard at work on her jokes as she travelled,
and had received her pay.
"Your son, madam," said the clerk, "drew on his account to-day. He
said he expected remittances from you. Is this to be put to his
credit?"
"My son was in London to-day?
"He has just left the house."
"Did he--he left a message for me? A letter, perhaps?"
"No, nothing, madam."
"Put the money to his credit, of course." She went out into the narrow
street and wandered along to the Bank of England, staring up at the
huge buildings.
He had been looking at them--he had walked on this very pavement a
minute ago! That might be the smoke of his cigar, yonder!
She could easily find him. Just to look at him once; to hold his hand!
He might be ill and need her; he never was well in foggy weather.
Then she remembered that Lisa was with him. She would nurse him.
She called a cab, and, as she drove home, looked out at the crowd with
a hard, smiling face.
Henry Irving that night played "Shylock," and Mr. Perry secured a box
for Miss Vance. Frances went with the others. Before the curtain rose
there was a startled movement among them, a whisper, and then Clara
turned to Mrs. Waldeaux.
"Frances, Lisa is coming into the opposite box," she said. "She is
really a beautiful woman in that decollete gown, and her cheeks
flushed, and her eyes---- I had no idea! She is superb!"
Two men in the dress of French officers entered the box with Lisa.
They seated her, bending over her with an empressement which, to Mrs.
Waldeaux's heated fancy, was insulting. George came last, carrying his
wife's cloak, which he placed upon a chair. One of the men tossed his
cape to him, with a familiar nod, and George laid it aside and sat down
at the back of the box.
His mother leaned forward, watching. That woman had put her son in the
place of an inferior--an attendant.
The great orchestra shook the house with a final crash, and the curtain
rose upon the Venetian plaza. Every face in the audience was turned
attentive toward it. But Mrs. Waldeaux saw only Lisa.
A strange change came upon her as she watched her son's wife. For
months she had struggled feebly against her hate of Lisa. Now she
welcomed it; she let herself go.
Is the old story true after all? Is there some brutal passion hiding
in every human soul, waiting its chance, even in old age? It is
certain that this woman, after her long harmless life, recognized the
fury in her soul and freed it.
"Frances," whispered Clara, "when this act is over, go and speak to
them. I will go with you. It is your chance to put an end to this
horrible separation. They are your children."
"No. That woman is my enemy, Clara," said Mrs. Waldeaux quietly. "I
will make no terms with her."
Miss Vance sighed and turned to the stage, but Frances still watched
the opposite box. It seemed as if the passion within her had cleared
her eyes. They never had seen George as they now saw him.
Was that her son? Was it that little priggish, insignificant fellow
that she had made a god of? He was dull, commonplace! Satisfied to
sit dumb in the background and take orders from those bourgeois French
Jews!
The play went on, but she saw nothing but George and his wife.
There was the result of all her drudgery! The hot summers of work in
the filthy poultry yards; the grinding out of poor jokes; the coarse,
cheap underclothes (she used to cry when she put them on, she hated
them so). Years and years of it all; and for that cold, selfish fop!
His mother saw him leave the box, and knew that he was coming.
"Oh, good-evening, George!" she said gayly, as he opened the door. "A
wonderful scene, wasn't it? I have always wished to see Irving in
'Hamlet.'"
"This is 'Shylock,'" he said gravely, and turned to speak to the
others. They welcomed him eagerly, and made room for him. He had lost
something of the cold, blase air which had ennobled him in the eyes of
the young women. He looked around presently, and said with a
comfortable shrug:
"It is so pleasant to talk English again! My wife detests it. We
speak only French. I feel like an alien and outcast among you!" He
laughed; his mother glanced at him curiously. But Lucy turned her face
away, afraid that he should see it. As he talked, George noted the
clear-cut American features of the girls, and their dainty gowns, with
a keen pleasure; then he glanced quickly at the opposite box.
"Ah!" said Jean to Mr. Perry. "The soiled lace and musk are beginning
to tell! He is tired of Lisa already!" "I never liked the fellow,"
said Mr. Perry coldly. "But he is hardly the cad that you suppose."
He fell into a gloomy silence. He had wasted two years' salary in
following Lucy Dunbar about, in showering flowers on her, in posing
before her in the last fashions of Conduit Street, and yet when this
conceited fellow came into the box she was blind and deaf to all
besides! Her eyes filled with tears just now when he talked of his
loneliness. Lonely--with his wife! A married man!
George, when the curtain fell again, sat down by Frances.
"Mother," he said.
"Yes, George." Her eyes were bright and attentive, but her countenance
had fallen into hard lines new to him.
"I went to Morgan's this afternoon. You have been very liberal to us."
"I will do what I can. You may depend upon that amount, regularly."
He rose and bade them good-night, and turned to her again.
"We--we are coming to-morrow to thank you. MOTHER?" There was a hoarse
sob in his throat. He laid his hand on her arm. She moved so that it
dropped. "We will come to-morrow," he said. "Did you understand?
Lisa wishes to be friends with you. She is ready to forgive," he
groped on, blundering, like a man.
"Oh, yes, I understand. You and Lisa are coming to forgive me
to-morrow," she said, smiling.
He looked at her, perplexed and waiting. But she said no more.
"Well, I must go now. Good-night."
"Good-night, George!" Her bright, smiling eyes followed him steadily,
as he went out.
Mrs. Waldeaux tapped at Clara's door that evening after they reached
home.
"I came to tell you that I shall leave London early in the morning,"
she said.
"You will not wait to see George and his wife?"
"I hope I never shall see them again. No! Not a word! I will hear no
arguments!" She came into the room and closed the door. There was a
certain novel air of decision and youth in her figure and movements.
"I am going to make a change, Clara," she said. "I have worked for
others long enough. I am going away now, alone. I will be free. I
will live my own life--at last." Her eyes shone with exultation.
"And---- Where are you going?" stammered Miss Vance, dismayed.
"I don't know. There is so much--it has all been waiting so long for
me. There are the cathedrals--and the mountains. Or the Holy Land.
Perhaps I may try to write again. There seems to be a dumb word or two
in me. Don't be angry with me, Clara," throwing her arms about her
cousin, the tears rushing to her eyes. "I may come back to you and
little Lucy some time. But just now I want to be alone and fancy
myself young. I never was young."
When Lucy stole into her old friend's chamber the next morning as usual
to drink her cup of coffee with her, she found the door open and the
room in disorder, and she was told that Mrs. Waldeaux had left London
at daybreak.