IV

The portrait entitled, "Mrs. Rodney Greene with Geoffrey, Lavinia and

Hugh," exhibited in the Academy of 1910, was much admired by the

public and favourably commented on by the Press. Edith herself,

looking at it hung in her own dining-room after it had been returned

from Burlington House, felt her eyelids prick with sudden tears at

the revelation of her own triumphant motherhood.

She had been painted in a wine-red gown, sitting in a high-backed

chair with her face turned a little sideways and downwards, brooding

tenderly over Lavinia and Hugh who stood at her left knee, while her

right arm was thrown affectionately round Geoffrey's shoulders, as if

to compensate for the fact that she had turned away from where he

stood on the right.

All three children were in white: Geoffrey and Hugh in sailor suits,

Lavinia in a softly hanging silk dress. All three were upright and

dark, with clear soft colour in their cheeks, but whereas both the

boys were gazing out of the canvas, with serious dreaming faces,

Lavinia had looked up at her mother, and her lips were parted in a

smile over her small first teeth.

This happy, unstudied little pose was the starting point of all

Edith's comments on the portrait, until the day when Mrs. Hugh

Greene, her husband's aunt, came to tea and asked to have it shown to

her.

"I only went once to the Academy this summer," she explained, "and

though of course I saw the portrait and admired it very much, I

should certainly like to see it again."

"It looks very nice in the dining-room," Edith answered as they went

downstairs. "In fact we are extremely pleased with it, though I

think perhaps it flatters me a little." She laughed deprecatingly.

"I didn't think that when I saw it," Mrs. Hugh answered simply. "You

are very good-looking, my dear."

At thirty-one Edith Greene was strikingly handsome. Tall, robust,

but not yet giving the impression of set solidity that increasingly

marred her looks, she carried herself so well that the florid

fashions of 1910 did not spoil the lines of her figure. Her

colouring was lovely: dark hair and dark eyes deepened by the steady,

warm glow in her cheeks; and her features were well marked but not

heavy, though the mouth was set in lines of command and resolution.

Mrs. Hugh looking at the portrait of Edith and her children, and then

turning to look at Edith standing by her side, noticed this accent of

command, of over-emphasised self-confidence, but she only said, "Yes,

I think it is an excellent piece of work."

"Of course Lavinia is really the keynote of the whole thing," Edith

began eagerly. "You see how she's turned her little head to smile up

at me, and how confident she looks. That was quite spontaneous. She

was posed looking straight ahead like the boys, but at the second

sitting she just put herself like that. It seemed almost a tribute

to me, Aunt Sarah; it's wonderful when your child shows its

confidence and love."

"Yes, I see," said Mrs. Hugh. "Lavinia is certainly a dear gay

little creature."

"Would you call her expression gay?" asked Edith, disappointed. "It

seems much more than that to me."

Mrs Hugh turned to Edith.

"My dear," she said, "I don't approve of interfering and giving

advice, and I've got no children of my own, so I'm really not

qualified to speak, but I've sometimes wondered if you're not perhaps

a little greedy with your children."

She spoke gently, but the word struck Edith like a blow. Her face

flushed deeply, but she answered coldly and politely:

"I don't think I quite understand you, Aunt Sarah."

"You're an excellent mother, I know," said Mrs. Hugh, "And you must

just forgive me for criticising you, but my dear, I think perhaps you

enjoy too much the mere fact of being a mother, and that is apt to

make you expect too much from your children; not too much affection

of course, but too much faith and admiration."

"I think it only natural to encourage my children to have faith in

me."

"Of course you do, but let them know you're fallible, Edith. It only

makes for unhappiness to bring them up to believe you are always

right. It isn't natural."

"I would think it more unnatural if they didn't trust their mother,

Aunt Sarah."

"My dear Edith, you don't quite understand me. I'm only hoping that

on the one hand you'll let them develop along their own lines, and

that on the other hand you won't take their natural love for you as

anything so important as a tribute; I think that was the word you

used."

"Perhaps it isn't quite easy for us to understand each other on the

subject of my feelings for my children. Shall we go upstairs now?"

Edith's voice was icy, but Mrs. Hugh was not daunted by her niece's

obvious, though controlled annoyance.

"No," she said briskly, "I'm going now. I suppose it's only natural

you should resent what I've said, but think it over, Edith; there's

something in it."

Mrs. Hugh retired in good trim, but Edith was unable to sooth the

sting left by her criticism.

"By the way, Rodney," she began at dinner, "Aunt Sarah was at tea

to-day, and I thought her manner most odd."

"How do you mean, 'odd'? She always seems to me to be full of common

sense."

"Well, first of all she asked to see the portrait, and then quite

suddenly she attacked me about putting myself on a pedestal and

expecting too much from them."

"That sounds very unlike her; she doesn't often butt in."

"I certainly consider that she did to-day. And as a matter of fact,

Rodney, I've thought once or twice that she and your mother are both

a little sneering and contemptuous about the way I bring up the

children."

"Absolute rot I call that. Mother's simply devoted to all three of

them."

"Yes, but that's not the point," objected Edith. "I know she likes

the children, but I'm not sure that she approves of my attitude to

them."

"I don't know anything about that," said Rodney uncomfortably.

"No, but don't you see it's a little hard on me? I have always had

such a high ideal of motherhood. I've always tried to live up to it,

and I do feel I'm justified so far by the results, but neither your

mother nor your Aunt Sarah looks at is quite fairly."

"I think it's a bit difficult for them to appreciate all you do for

the kids. Outsiders can only see that you do rather expect all three

of them to bow down and worship you, don't you Edith?"

Rodney's words were softened by his smile, but Edith's calm was

shattered.

"You're most unjust," she said hotly and confusedly. "I've never had

any idea of such a thing. It's a ridiculous phrase to use to me,

simply because I hope for a little love and faith from my children,

and because I try to influence them in what I think is the right

direction. But you will never take it seriously enough, Rodney; it's

a constant grief to me that you take their upbringing so lightly."

"Now that is unfair, Edith. I think a lot about their education, but

while they are still in the nursery they are in your hands. However,

now the point has arisen I might as well say that I do think it would

be better if you left them alone a bit more."

"Rodney!" Edith's voice was trembling with anger. "What do you

mean?"

"I think they ought to be allowed to think things out for themselves

sometimes, and not have to tell you everything and have you discuss

it with them. Geoffrey especially; he's quite a big fellow now, he

oughtn't to be tied to your apron-strings any longer."

Edith rose and pushed back her chair.

"This is really too much," she said passionately. "First Aunt Sarah,

and now you, attacking the things I hold most dear. You must excuse

me if I go upstairs; I'm too upset to eat any more dinner."

She left the room, her head held high, and went up to the day

nursery, where Geoffrey was having his supper, with a book propped up

in front of him.

"Darling," she said sweeping in, her pale frock trailing, "shall I

come and sit with you for a little, while you finish your supper?"

As Geoffrey pushed the book away and edged his cocoa forward, she

frowned.

"You're not supposed to read at meals, not even at supper," she said

sharply. "I've told you that before, haven't I, Geoffrey?"

He did not answer.

"Darling," she went on, unconsciously introducing a grieved note into

her voice, "you don't like to vex me I know, but it does vex me when

you go against my wishes, and still more when you won't admit to me

that you are wrong."

"I like reading," said Geoffrey rebelliously, "and it's only a few

minutes anyhow."

"But that doesn't make it any less wrong. You know that, Geoffrey."

Again there was no answer, and Edith sighed.

"I don't know what makes you so unresponsive," she reproached him.

"It's only this last few months that you've persistently opposed me.

You used to confide in me and trust me, like Hugh and Lavinia."

"They're only babies," muttered Geoffrey, awkward and embarrassed.

"Do you mean that because you're a big boy and go to school you feel

you can't be open with me any longer?"

"I don't know," said Geoffrey wearily.

"My dearest boy, it's all so simple," Edith spoke persuasively. "I

must be the judge of what is best for you; you must remember I'm your

mother." She drew herself up with dignity, and went on, "You can

surely understand, dear, that I must know all that my children are

doing and thinking so that I can guide them. Now tell me you were

wrong, Geoffrey, and hurry into bed."

"I'm sorry," said Geoffrey. "Good-night, Mother." He raised his

face to be kissed, but she knew that he had not capitulated; he had

merely eluded her.

So far the nursery had not proved as soothing as she had hoped. She

went into the night nursery where Lavinia and Hugh were sleeping, and

turned on the light. Everything was in order. A little pile of

clothes was neatly folded on the rush-bottomed, white-painted chair

beside each small bed; the curtains were undrawn; the window open

just enough to make the room fresh and sweet. Edith's forehead

smoothed itself as she looked about and was satisfied. The small

sleepers never stirred; they lay hygienically without pillows,

breathing quite correctly through their noses.

Edith felt reassured and quieted. She remembered how difficult it

had been for nearly a year to induce Lavinia to go to sleep without

sucking a thumb, and how she, alone, had persevered in the attempt to

break this habit which nurse was confident would cure itself in time.

This small fact led to a train of thought that restored her shattered

prestige. She remembered numberless instances when she had been

obliged to exercise tact and perseverance to eradicate some budding

trait in one or other of the children. She had noticed Hugh's

adenoids before the possibility of trouble in the nose had occurred

to nurse. It was she, and not Rodney who dealt with Geoffrey's

tendency to deceit and subterfuge, and who was always called upon to

arbitrate in any childish difficulty.

Turning off the light she went back to the day nursery where nurse

was sitting darning.

"Nurse," she said firmly, "I've said before that Geoffrey is not to

read at supper and to-night again I found him with a book."

"Well he only had one page to finish the book, Mrs. Greene, so I

thought it wouldn't matter for once."

"I don't believe in that, Nurse," said Edith serenely. "If I make a

rule then it is a rule, and there should be no exceptional cases when

you allow it to be broken."

"I'm sorry," said Nurse stiffly, and Edith went down to the

drawing-room where Rodney was sitting, holding a paper, but looking

guiltily over the top of it at the door, evidently expecting her

entrance.

"My dear Rodney," she said, "I have been very foolish. It was absurd

of me to let myself be vexed by what you said. I know very well that

it is only because you cannot possibly enter into my feelings, that

you misunderstand and misrepresent me."

Rodney was at a loss. He had been prepared to retract his words but

there appeared to be no need to do so. They had already been

discounted. He cleared his throat, trying to think of an appropriate

and inoffensive reply, but Edith continued her elaborate little

speech.

"I ought to realise by now that nobody can share in a mother's

responsibility to her children; nobody can appreciate her ideals."

"Well that's putting it a bit strong, you know; after all even a

mother is a human being," Rodney spoke with an accent of faint

bitterness, but Edith was unperturbed.

"Dear Rodney," she said, "we are a very happy and united family

aren't we? I've just been up to the three little people--Hugh and

Lavinia sleeping so sweetly--and I feel I need no reward for all I do

for them except the consciousness that I mean everything to them.

That," she ended nobly, "is all that is necessary to a good mother."

V

As her three children grew older, Edith consciously and tactfully

modified her attitude towards them. They had been so accustomed to

deferring to her judgment, they had seen their father so constantly

adopting her views, and praises of their wonderful mother had rung so

continually in their ears that when Geoffrey was eighteen, Lavinia

sixteen, and Hugh fifteen, they still kept up the habits of childhood

in never opposing her.

She could afford by that time to make a show of consulting them, to

appear to ask their advice, safe in the conviction that her choice

would ultimately be theirs also.

Geoffrey had certainly come through a period of alienation from her,

which had shown itself in subterranean rebelliousness, and surface

rudeness, but he had not been proof against her two weapons: the

deadly use of personal sorrow, and a skilful trick of light ridicule.

She had seldom been angry with any of the children; it had been

enough to induce into her face an expression of pain, into her voice

a deep note of suffering, as she said, "Lavinia, dear," or "Hugh,

dear" as the case might be, "I'm sure you don't realise how you've

wounded me, but we won't talk of it any more; have it your own way."

Hugh and Lavinia desperately conscious of having estranged a mother

so beneficent that she would withhold her power and suffer silently,

almost invariably gave in immediately for the pure pleasure of

sunning themselves once again in her favour. With Geoffrey during

what she called "his difficult years," it was otherwise. Sentiment

did not move him, but he could not stand up to her gentle, unerring

sarcasm, her faculty of being always in the right, and smiling at him

as he found himself put in the wrong over some point on which he was

convinced he had justice on his side.

There was one occasion on which Geoffrey appealed to his father, but

Rodney's reply was final: "Your mother's wishes must be considered,

Geoffrey; I could not go against them and I can't imagine that you

would care to."

That ended the matter. Geoffrey recognised that his mother had

absolute authority over the household, and as he matured he gradually

grew to recognise too that after all, even if she were inexorable and

unassailable, still, life went smoothly, and so long as her sway was

unquestioned the family atmosphere was an entirely happy one.

He came near to understanding her attitude the year he left school

and was about to go up to the University. It had always been an

understood thing that on leaving Oxford, Geoffrey should join his

father in the engineering works founded originally by his

great-grandfather, and carried on by his great-uncle Hugh. A few

months before his first term began Hugh Greene died suddenly and

Rodney Greene asked his son to enter the firm at once.

This was a great delight to Edith.

"My dear boy," she said, "I can't tell you how happy I am that you'll

be at home with me now for a few years. I know it's a disappointment

to you, but it is a pleasure to your mother."

"Didn't you want me to go up to Oxford, then?" Geoffrey asked.

"Of course I did in one way, but now I feel I'll have three extra

years of you, and then later on when you marry, as I expect you will,

I shall still have Lavinia and Hugh, but now while they are both away

at school I'd have been very lonely."

"I never really thought of that."

"Of course you didn't," Edith patted his hand. "One's children never

do, you know, and mothers learn to be put on one side without any

fuss."

"You know, Mother, sometimes you talk as if we were frightfully

important to you. Are we really?"

Edith looked astounded.

"My dearest Geoffrey," she said at last, "Your father and you three

are all I care about in life; all I work for and plan for. Since I

married, my one thought has been to be a good wife and mother and I

think I can say I've succeeded."

She paused, but Geoffrey did not pay her the expected compliment. He

was frowning over his thoughts.

"It doesn't seem quite sound to me; tell me, Mother, haven't you ever

had anything of your own in your life?"

"But, darling, what could be more my own than my dear husband and

children?"

"I don't mean quite like that. Father is different, of course, but

take the three of us. After all, we've our own lives to lead. There

are all sorts of things ahead of us, belonging only to us. I really

meant, haven't you any interests of your own, intellectual or social

or something quite apart from us?"

Edith shook her head.

"No," she said gravely, "I've never been either a bluestocking or a

frivolous woman. I can truthfully say that all my interests are

wrapped up in you four."

"It sounds dangerous to me," was Geoffrey's abrupt comment.

"Dangerous, Geoffrey? My dear boy, you're all at sea. When you talk

of having things in the future belonging only to you, it just shows

me how little you understand. Listen, dear. You're all three part

of me; I've thought about you and loved you since you were tiny,

helpless babies. I've watched your characters unfold and guided you

this way and that, and whatever you do in the future will always

belong, in part, to me. So long as I live you'll be my little son,

and I'll be sharing your life."

"I see," said Geoffrey, "It's difficult to understand how you can

feel like that about us, but anyhow I do see that you feel it."

"Wait a few years," Edith smiled. "When you're a father you'll

understand me better, though of course," she added, "a mother's claim

is always the greatest."

This conversation made a deep impression on Geoffrey. He was

surprised to find how repugnant to him was the idea that his life was

inseparably bound up with his mother's, entangled in her cloying web

of affection, hopes and expectations. But he realised that he could

never make his feelings clear to her; no words, however brutal, could

establish him as a separate and independent entity; she would only

suffer a little at the thought that Geoffrey was going through

another of his "difficult times."

Determined to spare himself and her that awkwardness, Geoffrey no

longer rebelled against her gentle interference, but accepted it

pleasantly and then quietly pursued his own ideas.

Lavinia, vivid, sensitive, and almost always amenable, was the only

one who after reaching years of discretion flamed into open defiance,

and tried to express some of the dumb imprisoned resentment, that all

three felt. Providence, however, stepped in once more, and won for

Edith so pretty a victory, that in retrospect the battle-field seemed

like a daisied meadow.

Lavinia was nineteen, and had been at home for a year. The whole

affair blew up out of a chance invitation to a dance, which Edith was

anxious for Lavinia to accept.

"I really don't want to go, Mother," she said. "I don't know them at

all, or any of their friends, and I'll have a rotten time. They

haven't even asked me to take a partner."

"Well, they did ask Geoffrey; it really is very unfortunate that he

has to be away that night. But Lavinia dear, you really needn't

worry; I know Lady Olivia quite well, even though you don't know the

family, and I'm perfectly sure she will see that you have lots of

partners. Besides it's a nice house for you to go to."

"You don't understand in the least, Mother," Lavinia expostulated,

"One doesn't go to dances like that nowadays, to be handed over like

a brown paper parcel, to a different man for every dance. If you do

go to a party out of your own set, you must at least take a partner."

"You know, dear, you're being a little unreasonable. I like Lady

Olivia and I think this habit of always dancing with the same few men

is being overdone: I don't approve of it at all. Now say no more

like a good child, I know you'll enjoy yourself."

"I really can't go," repeated Lavinia obstinately.

"Very well, dear," said Edith, turning away.

The subject was not reopened till the evening of the dance when

Lavinia going up to dress for dinner found her white chiffon frock

and her white brocade cloak laid out on her bed. She rang for the

maid whose services she shared with her mother.

"What are these things for, Stacy?" she asked.

"Mrs. Greene told me you would want your white dress to-night for the

dance, Miss Lavinia."

"What dance, did Mrs. Greene say?"

"I think she said it was Lady Olivia Yorke's, Miss, but I'm not sure."

"Oh I see, thank you, that's all right, then."

Lavinia's cheeks were scarlet, but her eyes were stony. She stood

for a moment clutching the frock in her hot hand, then laid it

carefully back on the bed and went downstairs.

On the way she met Rayner, the butler who had been with them for the

last ten years, coming up.

"Would you tell me what time you will need the car, Miss Lavinia?

Mrs. Greene said you were going out this evening."

"I'm not quite sure, Rayner," Lavinia spoke steadily, "I'll tell you

at dinner. Has Mother gone up to dress, yet?"

"No Miss, not yet."

"Thank you, Rayner," Lavinia went into the library where Edith was

sitting at her desk, and quietly closed the door.

"Mother," she said seriously, "did you refuse that invitation for me

for Lady Olivia's dance?"

"No dear, I accepted it."

There was a moment's silence then Lavinia burst out, "But how could

you, Mother? I said I wouldn't go. I told you why; that it would be

hateful and I wouldn't know anyone, and you said you'd refuse it."

"Lavinia dear, I said no such thing." Edith's voice was calm. "I

told you I wanted you to go to it, and you said you were unwilling,

but I explained my reasons, and that surely ended the matter."

She took up her pen again, but Lavinia interrupted.

"It didn't end the matter," she said. "Surely I have some say in my

own life. It's perfectly ridiculous, Mother; this isn't the

nineteenth century, and there isn't another girl I know who can't

refuse an invitation if she wants to. It's mad, and antediluvian to

behave as if I were two."

"You don't know what you're saying," Edith answered sternly. "You're

speaking rudely and thoughtlessly. I expect you to fall in with my

wishes, and I'm very disappointed at this attitude you've taken up.

Perhaps I've been too indulgent with you and given way too much."

Lavinia laughed wildly. "Given way," she repeated, "Oh, no, Mother,

you never give way. The boys and Father and I all knuckle under in

everything; I've never seen it so clearly before, but it's true what

I say, that we aren't allowed to call our souls our own."

"You've said quite enough, Lavinia; I think you'd better ring up Lady

Olivia and say you aren't very well and had better be at home

to-night."

"No, I'll go. I never wanted to go, but I will. And I'll never be

able to forgive you for having cheated me. You made me think you had

refused, and all the time you had planned for me to go."

Dinner was a miserable meal. When Lavinia had gone to the dance,

Rodney came over and sat on the sofa beside Edith who looked tired

and worn.

"What's wrong, Edith?" he asked. "What's worrying you?"

"I'm desperately worried, Rodney. It's Lavinia. I do everything I

can to amuse the child, I arrange parties for her, and welcome her

friends here, and now to-night she doesn't feel quite happy about a

dance she is going to, and she accused me of interfering and

deceiving her, and I don't know what else."

"She's spoiled I expect," suggested Rodney comfortably. "She's

pretty and she's having a good time and people running after her and

her head is a bit turned, don't you think? It's natural to kick over

the traces now and again."

"No, Rodney, it isn't natural for any child to speak to her mother as

Lavinia spoke to me to-night. I was only acting for the best when I

accepted this invitation for her; I like her to get all the fun she

can, but it clashed with some idea she has in her head, and she

simply turned on me."

"She'll be sorry when she cools down. She's devoted to you, you

know, Edith."

"I can't believe it now. I don't feel things will ever be the same

again. I really am utterly wretched; in fact I think I'll go up to

bed now if you don't mind."

Some hours later Edith was wakened by a gentle touch.

A finger of moonlight lying across the floor, showed Lavinia in white

frock and cloak, standing by the bed.

"Mother," she said urgently, "I'm so sorry for what I said; I'm glad

now that I went, terribly glad."

Edith's sensibilities were fully roused by the deep, excited note in

Lavinia's voice.

"Your father's asleep," she whispered. "I'll slip out and come up to

your room for a minute or two."

Lavinia stole quietly away, and Edith followed her up to her own

bedroom where she found her sitting on the bed in the dark.

"Don't put the light on, Mother," she said. "I'd rather talk in the

dark, and there's a lovely moon. You sit down in my chair and I'll

curl up on the bed."

"Lavinia dear," said Edith, "I've had a most miserable evening. You

hurt me very cruelly; I almost began to feel I had failed with you."

"I know, Mother; I'm so sorry." Lavinia's voice was dreamy. "I

didn't really mean it, and it all seems years ago anyhow. It was

wonderful to-night at the dance. There was a man there--" She

stopped, "his name was Martin Peile," she added in a whisper.

"My dearest," began Edith, but Lavinia's soft voice hurried on.

"Lady Olivia introduced him to me at the very beginning; there were

programmes, and he asked for the third dance, and then after that we

didn't dance with anyone else; we sat out together in the little

garden. It wasn't very cold, and then at the end we danced again

together. I've fallen in love with him, and he has, too, with me."

She leaned forward and caught her mother's hand. "Isn't it lucky he

did," she said fervently. "I couldn't have borne to live another

week if he hadn't."

"Lavinia, what are you telling me? My brain's reeling. Do you mean

what you say?"

"Oh I know it's fearfully sudden. I didn't mean to fall in love for

years and years. I know I'm only nineteen and it must be a shock to

you and all that, but Mother, it really has happened; I'm engaged to

him."

"You can't be engaged," said Edith, utterly bewildered. "Who is he?

We don't know him or anything about him. You're quite wild and

unlike yourself Lavinia, my child."

"I know I am; I've never been in love before, you see."

"But really darling, you're going much too fast. Things can't be

done all in a hurry like this."

Lavinia did not seem to hear.

"It's too amazing," she said. "Mother, I'll never be able to thank

you enough for sending me to the dance. I might easily never have

met him. It's terrible to think I might have gone on for years and

never known Martin. He says so too. He says we'll never be able to

be grateful enough to you. I told him how dreadful I'd been, and he

is longing to meet you. In fact he's coming to-morrow morning. But

really Mother, I do thank you."

Shattered as she was by the thought of the stranger who had so

suddenly entered Lavinia's life and so entirely absorbed it, Edith

nevertheless tasted to the full the sweetness of her child's

gratitude.

"My darling," she said tenderly, "we really mustn't go too fast, but

I want you to know one thing: Everything I've done has always been in

the hope of giving you happiness, and if this turns out

satisfactorily it will be the most beautiful thing for me to know

that it was I who brought it about."

Lavinia's voice rang with assurance.

"It will turn out all right, Mother, there can't be a hitch or a

flaw. You'll see to-morrow."

"Yes, I'll see to-morrow," said Edith. "And now, dear child, I must

go back to your father. Sleep quietly and well, and don't be

excited."

She kissed Lavinia and held her face for a moment between her hands.

"I'm a very happy mother," she said, "and a very proud one, too, to

think I've been able to give you what may very well prove to be the

best thing in your life. Good-night, and God bless you."