encouraged them. For Chrissy had also put it on the
ground of health; she had approved his decision. And since then he had been
unsettled, irritable, difficult—oh, very difficult. Two or three months ago the
state of tension in which they had all been living had reached a climax; Mrs.
Glenn couldn’t say how or why—it was still obscure to her. But she suspected
that Stephen had quarrelled with the Browns. They had patched it up now, they
saw each other; but for a time there had certainly been something wrong. And
suddenly Stephen had left the apartment, and moved into a wretched studio in a
shabby quarter. The only reason he gave for leaving was that he had too many
mothers—that was a joke, of course, Mrs. Glenn explained … but her eyes filled
as she said it.
Poor
mother—and, alas, poor Stephen! All the sympathy I could spare from the mother
went to the son. He had behaved harshly, cruelly, no doubt; the young do; but
under what provocation! I understood his saying that he had too many mothers;
and I suspected that what he had tried for—and failed to achieve—was a break
with the Browns. Trust Chrissy to baffle that attempt, I thought bitterly; she
had obviously deflected the dispute, and made the consequences fall upon his
mother. And at bottom everything was unchanged.
Unchanged—except for that thickening of the fog. At the
moment it was almost as impenetrable to me as to Mrs. Glenn. Certain things I
could understand that she could not; for instance, why Stephen had left home. I
could guess that the atmosphere had become unbreathable. But if so, it was
certainly Mrs. Brown’s doing, and what interest had she in sowing discord
between Stephen and his mother? With a shock of apprehension my mind reverted
to Stephen’s enquiry about his mother’s will. It had offended me at the time;
now it frightened me. If I was right in suspecting that he had tried to break
with his adopted parents—over the question of the will, no doubt, or at any
rate over their general selfishness and rapacity—then his attempt had failed,
since he and the Browns were still on good terms, and the only result of the
dispute had been to separate him from his mother. At the thought my indignation
burned afresh. “I mean to see Stephen,” I declared, looking resolutely at Mrs.
Glenn.
“But
he’s not well enough, I’m afraid; he told me to send you his love, and to say that perhaps when you come back—”
“Ah,
you’ve seen him, then?”
She
shook her head. “No; he telegraphed me this morning. He doesn’t even write any
longer.” Her eyes filled, and she looked away from me.
He
too used the telegraph! It gave me more to think about than poor Mrs. Glenn
could know. I continued to look at her. “Don’t you want to send him a telegram
in return? You could write it here, and give it to me,” I suggested. She
hesitated, seemed half to assent, and then stood up abruptly.
“No;
I’d better not. Chrissy takes my messages. If I telegraphed she might wonder—she
might be hurt—”
“Yes;
I see.”
“But
I must be off; I’ve stayed too long.” She cast a nervous glance at her watch.
“When you come back …” she repeated.
When
we reached the door of the hotel rain was falling, and I drew her back into the
vestibule while the porter went to call a taxi. “Why haven’t you your own
motor?” I asked.
“Oh,
Chrissy wanted the motor. She had to go to see Stevie—and of course she didn’t
know I should be going out. You won’t tell her, will you?” Mrs. Glenn cried
back to me as the door of the taxi closed on her.
The
taxi drove off, and I was standing on the pavement looking after it when a
handsomely appointed private motor
ground of health; she had approved his decision. And since then he had been
unsettled, irritable, difficult—oh, very difficult. Two or three months ago the
state of tension in which they had all been living had reached a climax; Mrs.
Glenn couldn’t say how or why—it was still obscure to her. But she suspected
that Stephen had quarrelled with the Browns. They had patched it up now, they
saw each other; but for a time there had certainly been something wrong. And
suddenly Stephen had left the apartment, and moved into a wretched studio in a
shabby quarter. The only reason he gave for leaving was that he had too many
mothers—that was a joke, of course, Mrs. Glenn explained … but her eyes filled
as she said it.
Poor
mother—and, alas, poor Stephen! All the sympathy I could spare from the mother
went to the son. He had behaved harshly, cruelly, no doubt; the young do; but
under what provocation! I understood his saying that he had too many mothers;
and I suspected that what he had tried for—and failed to achieve—was a break
with the Browns. Trust Chrissy to baffle that attempt, I thought bitterly; she
had obviously deflected the dispute, and made the consequences fall upon his
mother. And at bottom everything was unchanged.
Unchanged—except for that thickening of the fog. At the
moment it was almost as impenetrable to me as to Mrs. Glenn. Certain things I
could understand that she could not; for instance, why Stephen had left home. I
could guess that the atmosphere had become unbreathable. But if so, it was
certainly Mrs. Brown’s doing, and what interest had she in sowing discord
between Stephen and his mother? With a shock of apprehension my mind reverted
to Stephen’s enquiry about his mother’s will. It had offended me at the time;
now it frightened me. If I was right in suspecting that he had tried to break
with his adopted parents—over the question of the will, no doubt, or at any
rate over their general selfishness and rapacity—then his attempt had failed,
since he and the Browns were still on good terms, and the only result of the
dispute had been to separate him from his mother. At the thought my indignation
burned afresh. “I mean to see Stephen,” I declared, looking resolutely at Mrs.
Glenn.
“But
he’s not well enough, I’m afraid; he told me to send you his love, and to say that perhaps when you come back—”
“Ah,
you’ve seen him, then?”
She
shook her head. “No; he telegraphed me this morning. He doesn’t even write any
longer.” Her eyes filled, and she looked away from me.
He
too used the telegraph! It gave me more to think about than poor Mrs. Glenn
could know. I continued to look at her. “Don’t you want to send him a telegram
in return? You could write it here, and give it to me,” I suggested. She
hesitated, seemed half to assent, and then stood up abruptly.
“No;
I’d better not. Chrissy takes my messages. If I telegraphed she might wonder—she
might be hurt—”
“Yes;
I see.”
“But
I must be off; I’ve stayed too long.” She cast a nervous glance at her watch.
“When you come back …” she repeated.
When
we reached the door of the hotel rain was falling, and I drew her back into the
vestibule while the porter went to call a taxi. “Why haven’t you your own
motor?” I asked.
“Oh,
Chrissy wanted the motor. She had to go to see Stevie—and of course she didn’t
know I should be going out. You won’t tell her, will you?” Mrs. Glenn cried
back to me as the door of the taxi closed on her.
The
taxi drove off, and I was standing on the pavement looking after it when a
handsomely appointed private motor
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