Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence
IX
Three o'clock that afternoon found the Harleys still in Martin's house,with Mrs. Harley fidgetting to get George out for a walk in order thatshe might enjoy an intimate, mother-talk with Joan, and Joandeliberately using all her gifts to keep him there in order to avoid it.
Lunch had been a simple enough affair as lunches go, lifted above theordinary ruck of such meals by the 1906 Chateau Latour and theCourvoisier Cognac from the cellar carefully stocked by Martin'sfather. From the psychological side of it, however, nothing could wellhave been more complicated. George had not forgotten his reception bythe Ludlows that day of his ever-to-be-remembered visit ofinspection--the cold, satirical eyes of Grandmother, the freezingcourtesy of Grandfather, and the silent, eloquent resentment of thegirl who saw herself on the verge of desertion by the one person whomade life worth living in intermittent spots. He was nervous andoveranxious to appear to advantage. The young thoroughbred at the headof the table who had given him a swift all-embracing look, anenigmatical smile and a light laughing question as to whether he wouldlike to be called "Father, papa, Uncle George or what" awed him. Hecouldn't help feeling like a clumsy piece of modern pottery in thepresence of an exquisite specimen of porcelain. His hands and feetmultiplied themselves, and his vocabulary seemed to contain no morethan a dozen slang phrases. He was conscious of the fact that hiscollar was too high and his clothes a little too bold in pattern, andhe was definitely certain for the first time in his life, that he hadnot yet discovered a barber who knew how to cut hair.
Overeager to emphasize her realization of the change in herrelationship to Joan, overanxious to let it be seen at once that shewas merely an affectionate and interested visitor and not a mother witha budget of suggestions and corrections and rearrangements, Mrs. Harleyadded to the complication. Usually the most natural woman in the worldwith a soft infectious laugh, a rather shrewd humor and a neat gift ofcomment, she assumed a metallic artificiality that distressed herselfand surprised Joan. She babbled about absolutely nothing by the yard,talked over George's halting but gallant attempts to make things easylike any Clubwoman, and in an ultra-scrupulous endeavor to treat Joanas if she were a woman of the world, long emancipated from maternalapron strings, said things to her, inane, insincere things, that shewould not have said to a complete stranger on the veranda of a summerhotel or the sun deck of a transatlantic liner. She hated herself andwas terrified.
For two reasons this unexpected lunch was an ordeal so far as Joan wasconcerned. She remembered how antagonistic she had been to Harley underthe first rough shock of her mother's startling and what then hadappeared to be disloyal aberration, and wanted to make up for it to thebig, simple, uncomfortable man who was so obviously in love. Also shewas still all alone in the mental chaos into which everything that hadhappened last night had conspired to plunge her and was trying, withevery atom of courage that she possessed, to hide the fact from hermother's quick solicitous eyes. SHE of all people must not know thatMartin had gone away or find the loose end of her married life!
It was one of those painful hours that crop up from time to time inlife and seem to leave a little scratch upon the soul.
But when quarter past three came Mrs. Harley pulled herself together.She had already dropped hints of every known and well-recognized kindto George, without success. She had even invented appointments for himat the dentist's and the tailor's. But George was basking in Joan'sfavor and was too dazzled to be able to catch and concentrate upon hiswife's insinuations as to things and people that didn't exist. And Joanheld him with her smile and led him from one anecdote to another.Finally, with no one realized how supreme an effort, Mrs. Harley cameto the point. As a rule she never came to points.
"Geordie," she said, seizing a pause, "you may run along now, dear, andtake a walk. It will do you good to get a little exercise beforedinner. I want to be alone with Joan for a while."
And before Joan could swing the conversation off at a tangent thefaithful and obedient St. Bernard was on his feet, ready and willing toramble whichever way he was told to go. With unconscious dignity and aguilelessness utterly unknown to drawing-rooms he bent over Joan'sreluctant hand and said, "Thank you for being so kind to me," laid ahearty kiss on his wife's cheek and went.
"And now, darling," said Mrs. Harley, settling into her chair with anair of natural triumph, "tell me where Martin is and how long he'sgoing to be away and all about everything."
These were precisely the questions that Joan had worked so hard andskilfully to dodge. "Well, first of all, Mummy," she said, with filialartfulness, "you must come and see the house."
And Mrs. Harley, who had been consumed with the usual femininecuriosity to examine every corner and cranny of it, rose with alacrity."What I've already seen is all charming," she said. "I knew Martin'sfather, you know. He spent a great deal of time at his house near yourgrandfather's, and was nearly always in the saddle. He was not a bitlike one's idea of a horsey man. He was, in fact, a gentleman who wasfond of horses. There is a world of difference. He had a mostdelightful smile and was the only man I ever met, except yourgrandfather, who could drink too much wine without showing it. Who'sthis good-looking boy with the trustworthy eyes?"
"Martin," said Joan. "Martin," she added inwardly, "who treated me likea kid last night."
Mrs. Harley looked up at the portrait. An involuntary smiled playedround her mouth. "Yes, of course. I remember him. What a dear boy! Nowonder you fell in love with him, darling. You must be very happy."
Joan followed her mother out of the room. She was glad of the chance tocontrol her expression. She went upstairs with a curious lack of thespirit of proprietorship. It hurt her to feel as if she were showing ahouse taken furnished for the season in which she had no rights, nopride and no personal interest. Martin had treated her like a kid lastnight and gone away in the morning without a word. Alice and Gilberthad taunted her with not being a wife. She wasn't, and this wasMartin's house, not hers and Martin's ... it hurt.
"Ah," said Mrs. Harley softly as she went into Joan's bedroom. "Ah.Very nice. You both have room to move here." But the mass of littlefilet lace pillows puzzled her, and she darted a quick look at the tallyoung thing with the inscrutable face who had ceased to be her littlegirl and had become her daughter.
"The sun pours in," said Joan, turning away.
Mrs. Harley noticed a door and brightened up.
"Martin's dressing room?" she asked. "No. My maid's room!" Joan said.
Mrs. Harley shook her head ever so little. She was not in sympathy withwhat she called new-fashioned ideas. It was on the tip of her tongue tosay so and to forget, just this once, the inevitable change in theirrelationship and speak like mammy once more. But she was a timid,sensitive little woman, and the indefinable barrier that had suddenlysprung up held her back. Joan made no attempt to meet her halfway. Themoment passed.
They went along the passage. "There are Martin's rooms," said Joan.
Mrs. Harley went halfway in. "Like a bachelor's rooms, aren't they?"she said, without guile. And while she glanced at the pictures and thecrowded bootrack and the old tallboys, Joan's sudden color went awayagain.... He was a bachelor. He had left her on the other side of thebridge. He had hurt her last night. How awfully she must have hurt him!
"When will Martin be back?"
"I don't know," said Joan. "Probably to-morrow. I'm not sure." Shestumbled a little, realized that she was giving herself away,--becauseif a bride is not to know her husband's movements, who is?--and made adesperate effort to recover her position. "It all depends on how longhe's kept. But he needed exercise, and golf's such a good game, isn'tit? I sha'n't hurry him back."
She looked straight into her mother's anxious eyes, saw them clear, sawa smile come--and took a deep breath of relief. If there was one thingthat she had to put up the most strenuous fight to avoid, in herpresent chaotic state of mind, it was a direct question as to her lifewith Martin. Of all people, her mother must be left in the belief thatshe was happy. Pride demand
ed that, even to the extent of lying. It washard luck to be caught by her mother, at the very moment when she wasstanding among all the debris of her kid's ideas, among all the brokenbeams of carelessness, and the shattered panes of high spirits.
She was thankful that her mother was not one of those aggressive,close-questioning women, utterly devoid of sensitiveness and delicacywho are not satisfied until they have forced open all the secretdrawers of the mind and stuck the contents on a bill file,--one ofthose hard-bosomed women who stump into church as they stump into adepartment store with an air of "Now then, what can you show me that'snew," who go about with a metaphorical set of burglar's tools in alarge bag with which to break open confidences and who have no faith inhuman nature.
And with a sudden sense of gratitude she turned to the woman whom shehad always accepted as a fact, an institution, and looked at her withnew eyes, a new estimate and a new emotion. The little, loving, gentle,anxious woman with the capacity of receiving impressions from externalobjects that amounted to a gift but with a reticence of so fine andtender a quality that she seemed always to stand on tiptoes on thedelicate ground of people's feelings, was HERS, was her mother. Theword burst into a new meaning, blossomed into a new truth. She had beenaccepted all these years,--loved, in a sort of way; obeyed, perhaps,expected to do things and provide things and make things easy, and hereshe stood more needed, at the moment when she imagined that the need ofher had passed, than at any other time of her motherhood.
In a flash Joan understood all this and its paradox, looked all the wayback along the faithful, unappreciated years, and being no longer achild was stirred with a strange maternal fellow feeling that startedher tears. Nature is merciless. Everything is sacrificed to youth.Birds build their nests and rear their young and are left as soon aswings are ready. Women marry and bear children and bring them up withlove and sacrifice, only to be relegated to a second place at the firstmoment of independence. Joan saw this then. Her mother's alteredattitude, and her own feeling of having grown out of maternalpossession brought it before her. She saw the underlying drama of thissmall inevitable scene in the divine comedy of life and was touched bya great sympathy and made sorry and ashamed.
But pride came between her and a desire to go down on her knees at hermother's side, make a clean breast of everything and beg for advice andhelp.
And so these two, between whom there should have been completeconfidence, were like people speaking to each other from opposite banksof a stream, conscious of being overheard.