Lounging in an elegant attitude of ease against the stone balustrade, a tall youth of seventeen was smoking a cigarette in an amber holder, and languidly regarding the scene before him. There was not much to excite his interest. Passing vehicles were hidden from view by a thick screen of maple trees and shrubs. On the broad lawn some younger boys were playing croquet—he glanced at them with lofty scorn. A gardener was clipping the evergreen hedge which divided the lawn from the flower-garden. He was attended by a black puppy, which sometimes made a dash at the rolling croquet-balls and was driven away by shouts and brandished mallets.
An iron fence with sharp pickets surrounded the lawn on three sides. Tall iron gates, with lamps at the sides, stood open expectant. The two iron deer on either side of the driveway also stood in an expectant attitude, their heads raised and nostrils dilated.
Early frosts had touched with yellow and red the leaves of the maples. With every gust of the fresh breeze the leaves fell, littering the neatly trimmed bright green grass. The sun was low in a deep cloudless blue sky, the air brisk and crisp. Prairie mists and thick heat had been broken by this first breath of autumn.
An open carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of grey horses and driven by a coachman in a bottle-green coat,turned in through the iron gates. The boys stopped their play to wave a greeting to the lady in mauve draperies, who lifted her white-gloved hand in reply. The youth on the steps hastily threw away his cigarette and concealed the holder, as he went down to assist his mother from the carriage. She laid her hand on his with a smile and stepped out with a rich rustle of silken skirts. He took her furred wrap and books and card case; and they mounted the long curving flight of stone steps together.
They were of the same height, and there was a strong resemblance between them, though the boy was much darker in colouring; with chestnut hair and dark grey eyes. His face was less delicately shaped, heavier, but had the same self-contained look; the eyes, under heavy lids, looked slumbering and secret.
Mary had grown more slender; her tall figure was girlish in line. Her auburn hair was less bright in colour, but as thick as ever, without a touch of grey. She wore it in the same fashion, parted and drawn down over her forehead, which now showed faint horizontal lines, the only mark of age in her calm face. Her handsome dress followed the fashion but a distance, with fewer frills and more amplitude. Her beauty had stood the test of time; the slight hollows under her high cheek-bones, her ivory pallor, only emphasized the fine modelling of her face.
"There's a telegram," said Jim.
He took it from a table in the hall. Mary opened and read it, standing at the foot of the stairs.
"From your father. He won't be back tonight—detained on business."
A look of relief crossed Jim's face.
"Well—it must be dinner-time," he said.
In fact the tall clock on the landing began to strike the hour of six.
"I'll be right down," said Mary. "Call the boys in."
When she entered the dining-room she found her three sons seated and the soup on the table, in its silver tureen. She ladled it out, and a middle-aged waitress in black dress and white apron distributed the plates. A discussion between the two elder boys had ceased on Mary's entrance; both now sat in silence, looking sulkily at their plates. The waitress left the room.
"Well, what's the trouble now?" Mary enquired with a touch of irony.
"I don't want Timothy to ride my horse, that's what!" declared Jim, in his slow heavy voice. "He doesn't know how to ride. Last time he nearly lamed—"
"No such thing—the old horse cast a shoe, that's all," interrupted Timothy angrily, glaring at his brother. "It isn't your horse any more than it's mine, anyway—"
"It is. Father gave it to me—"
"He said I was to learn to ride on it—"
"He didn't say you were to take it when I want it, and lame it—"
"I didn't lame it, confound you!"
"Timothy!"
Mary spoke sharply. The black-haired ruddy Timothy glanced at her resentfully.
"That will do, now. I won't have any such language here—or any quarrelling either."
Silence ensued. Timothy sent one flaming look across the table at Jim, who responded by a slightsuperior smile. Jim was self-controlled and knew how to seem reasonable in his desires; while Timothy generally put himself impetuously in the wrong. The maternal decision was almost certain to be given on the side of Jim, and both boys knew this. Timothy bent his black brows, smarting under a familiar sense of injustice. But Jim's certainty of triumph was tempered by a shade of caution; Timothy, if their disputes came to a fight, had more than a chance to beat him. Timothy never knew when he was beaten.
At the head of the table, opposite Mary, stood Laurence's vacant chair—a stately carved armchair, like hers. A cover was laid for him, as always; for his presence was never certain, always possible. At the right of his place sat the youngest of the family, a boy of fourteen, blond and pale. His large grave blue eyes rested now on Jim's face, now on Timothy's, now sought his mother's, with a troubled wistful look. His face had a quivering sensitiveness; yet with its broad open brow and square chin, it had strength too.
The setting sun struck into the room between the heavy looped curtains of plush and lace, cast a red light over its dark walls and carpet, its shining mahogany, glittered on silver and crystal. In the centre of the table covered with heavy white damask stood a massive silver arrangement holding bottles of oil and vinegar, salt, pepper and spices, and serving also for decoration. Crystal decanters of sherry and claret were placed on either side.
The soup being removed, Mary carved roast-beef and dispensed vegetables with a liberal hand. The continued silence did not disturb her; it was usual atmeals, unless Laurence or a guest were present. She pursued her own thoughts, occasionally glancing with calm pride at her offspring. They were all handsome boys. Timothy was very like Laurence, Jim was like her. But the youngest, John, was unaccountable, he did not resemble either of his parents, or his brothers. He was like a stranger in the family; in mind and character too he was strange to them all. Yet with an unchildlike, almost uncanny sympathy, he seemed to know them better than they knew one another. Long illness—he had never grown strong—had perhaps given this delicacy to his mind as it had to his body. Yet he seemed built for strength too. His shoulders were broad, his large head nobly poised. His hands, with broad palms and long sensitive fingers, curiously united strength and delicacy.
He alone felt the silence. The others, absorbed in themselves, took it as a matter of course. But he, depressed by it, sighed, hardly touched the beef and heavy pudding, and more than once looked at his father's empty chair regretfully.
Mary's eye at length fell upon Jim in the act of filling his claret-glass for the third time. She frowned.
"I've told you that I don't want you to drink more than one glass of wine at meals," she said.
"Oh, this light wine—Father doesn't mind," said Jim easily.
"He doesn't want you todrink. And I won't have it. I won't have wine on the table at all if you can't do as I wish."
Jim shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, well, let's not quarrel about it," he murmured, and pushed away the wine-glass.
His tone was amiable, he even smiled at her. But Mary knew that Jim was not so easily managed as that. He would seem always to yield to her wishes, would never openly oppose her, but he managed almost always to do as he pleased. He had an unsounded depth of quiet obstinacy. And he was secretive too, never explained himself. Timothy was much more frank, and more violent, hence was constantly getting into hot water and usually was in a state of revolt. Mary's rules were strict and not elastic to the needs and impulses of growing youth. She had felt strongly the duty of implanting good principles in her boys, and of repressing the ebullitions of the old Adam. While they were very young she had succeeded in teaching them to tell the truth, to respect other people's property rights, and to conform a good deal to her standards of behaviour. But as they grew out of childhood, she lost touch with them, gradually, unconsciously. She looked after their health, their schools; they found their amusements for themselves. Withdrawn in growing isolation, in a dumb struggle with growing unhappiness, her spirit had no youth, no buoyancy, to keep pace with theirs. While in infancy they depended completely upon her and she could suffice to all their wants, they had given her contentment. Now it was no longer a simple relation; she tried to banish or ignore its growing complexities; but they made her uneasy. She had a feeling that her duty was not done, but she did not know how to do it; her rule of life was too simple, too rigid, to meet its problems.
John's childhood had lasted longer than the others; his ill health had made him longer dependent on her physical care. But here a rival affection had taken John's love and interest away from her.... When John was ten he had scarlet fever, and Laurence insisted on nursing him, devoted himself day and night to the boy; and through the long convalescence, spent with him all the time he could wrest from his business. From that time, John had depended on his father in a way that, Mary felt acutely, he never had on her; with a feeling that grew as he grew. With passionate rejecting jealousy she stood apart; felt herself superseded; would not, could not, make an effort to recover her hold. John had been all hers; she would not share his love, though he made many timid efforts to draw her in. She felt her loss the more bitterly that he was the most beautiful of her children; he was, she knew, the flower of them all. There was something in him that hurt her by its beauty; the same thing that she had felt in her youth, sometimes in music, sometimes in a human expression. Something that called to her spirit, an appeal that she could not meet, that made her restless. Something that she had missed in life, had never been able to grasp, to realize.
She did not always feel this. Sometimes she had a surface contentment, a pride merely in being the mother of three fine lads and in the outward show of authority; in her worldly dignity too. Her position, as the wife of a man of distinction and power, commanded public respect. And then, she had made a place for herself in the life of the town. She was an intellectual leader among the women; president of their literary society;a moving force in the work of the church and in charity. So long as proper deference was paid to her, she could be counted upon for faithful, even arduous work. But she would not suffer any rivals; would engage in no contest for power; and haughtily withdrew before opposition to her will. Whereupon, the value of her influence and activity being almost a tradition, any sister who might have dared approach the throne would be suppressed.
The meal being over, the family promptly dispersed. That is, the two elder boys vanished, to continue their disagreement about the horse. Mary walked absently into the library, having in mind the composition of a paper on the Greek dramatists for the literary club. She stood for a moment by one of the long windows, looking out on the lake.
The scene had changed, in these ten years. Instead of rough pastures and the loneliness of the prairie, she saw now green lawns sloping down to the dull-blue water; dotted on its banks were modern houses sheltered by clumps of trees; and a little fleet of pleasure-boats rode on its surface. The clear golden light of evening lay over all; the branches of the trees waved and the water rippled in the fresh breeze. Merry voices rose from the lake; some one in a boat was singing.
A faint stir beside her made Mary turn her head. John stood there, his footstep had made no noise on the thick carpet.
"It's such a beautiful evening. Don't you want to come out with me on the lake, Mother?" he asked in his rather nervous fluttering voice.
"I'd like to—but I have some work to do," she said quickly.
She seldom went out in the boat. She hated inactivity and mere contemplation of any scene, however lovely; indeed, the lovelier it was, the more painful. But now she saw John's wistful and disappointed look.
"Won't any of the boys go with you?" she asked gently.
"No, I don't think so, they've gone out to the stable.... Did Father say when he'd be home?" he asked, hesitatingly.
"No, he never does."
With this sharp answer, Mary walked away toward her desk. But then she stopped and with an effort said:
"I will go with you, John, if you want."
"No, never mind—I thought you might like it, it's such a nice evening—but you're busy—"
"No, I have time enough, I'll just get my cloak."
But now his sensitive face showed distress, and he protested:
"I'd rather not—really. I know you don't like the boat so very much, only I thought.... I'll go myself."
He moved toward the door.
"Perhaps Timothy would like to go—"
"No, he won't—but no matter, I rather like to drift around, alone, and look at the water."
"Shall I play to you a little, first?" asked Mary.
His face lighted up.
"Why, yes—if you have time—"
She led the way across the hall, where the lights had just been lit and gleamed on the dark-red walls and thebronze statues of Mercury and the Venus of Milo. The grand piano stood in one of the parlours: its glossy lid was seldom raised. John drew a chair up beside it and listened with a rapt face while Mary played his favorite, the "Grand Sonata" of Beethoven, the only one she knew by heart. She made many mistakes, her fingers were stiff from lack of practice; but still she played conscientiously, with a feeling, a respect for the music. John sat facing the window and the fading golden light. She glanced at him. His face had a look of unearthly radiance and joy that shot a sharp pain through her. With difficulty she continued. At the last notes her head sank, bent over the keyboard, and she sat in silence. He drew a long breath.
"Thank you—that's wonderful, I love it," he said.
"I wish I could play it better," said Mary huskily. "I must practise."
"You play it beautifully. Thank you, Mother," he repeated softly. Then, hesitating, looking at her, he got up.
"I'll go out now and row a while."
She nodded, and he went.