CHAPTER XVIII. OF A FAMILY MEETING
Again nearly ten years had gone by.
Slowly Jane had recovered from the enormous shock which the manner of Jim's death had dealt her. At first she had pondered her own fate, trying to find an explanation which she could understand; and the conclusions at which she had arrived were very nearly correct. Strange to say, instead of still further and permanently upsetting her inner equilibrium, they had given her a semblance of peace; at last she thought of him without hatred or contempt. He became to her something like a natural entity which you do not condemn, nor even criticise. She came to see that she had not been entirely blind to his spiritual resurrection; she came to remember that she had more than once, as prosperity forsook him, given him an opportunity to resume with her an external relationship which might, for him, have mitigated both his economic and his spiritual ruin. It had not been she, it had been he who had refused to meet her as it were on neutral ground. This recognition of hers - a recognition of his essential humanity, fundamentally identical with her own - led to self-reproach; she had suffered acutely till time intervened and removed matters into a greyed distance in which it was possible not to see too accurately.
But more than anything else the preoccupation with the bringing up of her son helped her to get rid of the bitterness of memories. Marriage she looked on as a blind gamble; motherhood was different in as much as a child of hers partook of her own and innermost being. Sidney, in contradistinction to his sister Norah, had never questioned her silent assumption that, no matter how much he might precociously mock at academic honours, he must go through high school and college. In a manner he had inherited his mother's youthful enthusiasm for literature; in fact, he was what former generations would have called a "dilettante". At a surprisingly early age he developed an almost marvellous facility of writing verse in the
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manner of certain great masters. When, however, anyone took his productions seriously, especially when his mother did so, he laughed and asserted that he had never meant it as anything but a parody of the master's mannerisms. As he grew up, it was increasingly difficult to say when anything he said was meant seriously and when he was mocking. Yes, though Jane never doubted the reality of his fundamental attachment to herself, she often doubted whether a given expression of that attachment was not an adroit experiment of his, made to verify a conjectured response of hers. At last she arrived at the verdict that she must accept him as he was; and such acceptance was not difficult, seeing that nearly all her reactions to him were pleasurable.
In that, as in other things, he was the antipode of Norah, her daughter. She, shortly after her father's death, had eloped from college with a young newspaper man by name of Angus Grierson. Jane, profoundly shocked at first, had, however, soon tried to excuse her; she had meekly submitted to what would have appeared, to unbiassed eyes, as the shameless extortions of the young people who soon lived practically on her pocket. Sometimes, it is true, especially in the beginning, she became alarmed at the rate at which the young couple demanded money. But when, two years after the catastrophe on the road, Stephen Carter had died and left her his vast property, she ceased to worry; it was plainly beyond her powers to restrain her daughter.
She herself had continued to live for the greater part of the year in the house on Albert Avenue, Stockton, till Sidney had had to go to Winnipeg in order to attend college. Then she returned to the farm where she had already year after year spent the whole of the boy's holidays with her aging father.
There, it had not taken long before between her and Arthur Forrest a peculiar sort of friendship had sprung up. He was the only one to whom she ever told the details of Jim's death; but, once she had done so, Jim was never mentioned between them again. Yet he remained an
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invisible and never referred-to presence at all their meetings which soon became daily; for, when Jane did not see him in the field and stop by the road-side, whether she was walking or driving her car, he dropped in at her father's place after supper. She had the very peculiar feeling - and sometimes divined that he partook of it - as if, had they even considered it as within the possibilities to profit from Jim's death, they would thereby have made themselves guilty of it. Yet, both seemed to feel that they had missed each other in life; that there had been some irretrievable mistake; and the very adumbration of a consciousness of what might have been lent a strange, uncloying sweetness to their intercourse. So, though the small rural world in which they lived confidently expected that their intimacy would result in marriage, not a word had so far ever been said between them which might have led in the direction of a discussion of such an event. With an instinctive shrinking they had avoided the topic. And when, under the silent pressure of the assumptions surrounding them, such a word at last was to be spoken, it was done in a way which at once cemented their friendship and made a recurrence of the question both unnecessary and impossible.
It was in the late afternoon of a certain day in July.
In the house of the Atkinson farm many people were assembled; in the yard a large number of cars were parked in which they had come. The sight of this yard, as compared with the sight of the church-yard long, long ago, on the day of Jane's wedding, was eloquent of the flight of time and the change it had wrought. Then, there had been buggies and wagons chiefly; now, not a horse-drawn vehicle remained. There were "flivvers" and "big" cars; run-abouts, touring cars, sedans and coaches. The whole place smelt of gasoline and of oil in contact with hot metal.
In the parlor, to the right of the small corridor into which the door from the veranda opened, stood various groups, all of men, engaged in conversation about the weather and the crops or about the
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impending provincial election. Most of the men were middle-aged. In fact, the only two who were not were seated and did not partake in the general conversation of the groups. One of these two was spare and small, the other, burly and still broad of shoulder; both were strikingly white of hair.
The former was old Mr. Atkinson who was celebrating his eightieth birthday; the latter, slightly younger, but he, too, of the same generation of pioneers, was Mr. Wortleby. They were sitting in two easy-chairs separated by a small table which stood in front of one of the windows. Between them, on the table, lay an open box of Egyptian cigarettes, Mr. Atkinson's favourite kind of which he had, for the last two or three decades, traditionally received a year's supply as a birthday present.
"Yes," said Mr. Atkinson. The topic was the one usual between them, concerning the changes that had recently come over the world. "I know. My son-in-law was right. The craze has persisted."
"It 'as," Mr. Wortleby chuckled. "And if I were thirty years younger, A-A-Hatkinson, I tell you, I wouldn't say but that I'd exchange my car for an a-a-haeroplane."
"I shouldn't wonder," Mr. Atkinson replied. "I suppose I'm the last one who still feeds a team of drivers in this district."
"You're o-o-hold-fashioned, Atkinson. That's what you are!"
Near them stood two big men of forty-five who, as they exchanged a few trivial remarks to cover up their preoccupation, were nevertheless easily seen to be listening rather to what the two elders said. They were visibly nervous and intent upon catching the slightest shade in Mr. Atkinson's attitude towards themselves. One of them was dressed with the painstaking and yet almost shabby elegance of an underpaid clerk. The other wore his substantial Sunday clothes with that self-conscious awkwardness which betrayed that he was specially "dressed up" for the occasion. These two big awkward men were the twins, Mr. Atkinson's sons who, accompanied by their wives, had tried
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to take opportunity by the forelock in coming home for the first time in twenty-five years to see whether their father was still inexorable. In fact, they had made sure of a not too unfavourable reception by writing to their sister Jane before they had left the city. Jane had answered that she thought the time was ripe.
The conversation at the little table was still proceeding though its topic had changed.
"Yes," said Mr. Atkinson, "I still take my daily walk. Never less than two miles, sometimes as much as five. I go along the field. Out on the road there are too many cars. And every one stops; and the driver offers me a ride. I've got to give too many explanations...I get up first in the morning and light the fire; I get all the water that's needed in the house. A person needs to keep up a little work. At our age, Wortleby, nothing is worse than to sit down and become inactive. In spring, I spaded up half the garden. My man plowed the rest. But half of it I did with the spade. And I planted it all except the potatoes."
"Yes," said Mr. Wortleby, "so did Hi."
Both of them carried their great age with a self-conscious pride as if they were carrying a badge of honour in front of them. Occasionally, as they talked, it became clear to every listener-in that the mere fact of their still being alive from day to day was a constant wonder and almost a miracle to them.
From the dining room behind the parlor two young girls entered, carrying trays with refreshments. This, for a moment, directed the general attention to the fact that a number of ladies were assembled in that room.
There were two groups, both consisting of three women each.
Mrs. Kenneth Atkinson, a towering person in an old-fashioned dress of black serge sat next to Mrs. Roland Atkinson, a small, sharp-featured and apologetic woman who kept a boy of ten close to her side and who showed by every motion of hers that her chief task in life was
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to conceal how hard she found it to make both ends meet.
Neither of them felt comfortable in the vicinity of Jane Forrest who stood opposite them, still regal in her carriage though the features of her face had become heavy. She was dressed in black, with pearl pendants in the lobes of her ears which were just visible below the close helmet of her greying hair.
The second group consisted of younger women who were animatedly discussing fashions. These accepted the tea which was handed around by a young man of twenty as if it were the natural thing to do so.
So did Jane Forrest, smiling down on the young man as he approached her saying, "Mater!" But the two Mrs. Atkinson took their cups as if defending themselves against the imputation that they had come from the distant city for the sake of having tea.
Sidney, Jane's son, having completed his round, placed his tray on the table and helped himself. He was small, delicately built, with a whimsical expression in his face, especially when he smiled. He was almost excessively well dressed.
While he sipped from his cup, he stood close to his mother and whispered to her. "Norah spoke to me. She will have to leave at five in order to catch the seven o'clock from Stockton. She would like to have a talk with you before she goes."
Jane looked across the room at the group of younger women. Norah, twenty-eight years old, was a striking figure, tall, plump, with short-cut hair and a face which looked alternately extraordinarily young - perhaps by reason of her very skilful use of rouge and powder - and preternaturally old - by reason of the sharpness of her look and smile. Jane turned to Sidney.
"I shall have to see your uncles for a minute or so. Tell Norah, I'll be in my room upstairs in half an hour...And you? Are you going to stay for the night?"
A shadow of apologetic embarrassment flitted over Sidney's face. "I'm afraid not, mother," he said ingratiatingly. "There's an afternoon
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meeting of the poetry society to-morrow. It's almost my duty to be on hand."
Jane touched his cheek with her hand. "Well, mother or poetry society - who could hesitate between the two?"
Sidney, with wilfully and humorously exaggerated deprecation, wriggled his body. "You know, mother..."
Jane laughed. "Yes, I know. Are you aware that you are far from being a good son?"
"Too much so!" He smiled disarmingly up at her. "I wish you were not so good a mother!"
"It would be easier to be ungrateful?"
"Exactly."
"Well, I hope, you'll find time to say good-by before you leave."
With that Jane turned to the door and into the parlor. There, a group divided to let her pass. A big, broad-shouldered man with a drooping moustache smiled at her. She nodded and stopped.
"I won't be free till five, Arthur" she said. "Can you stay for supper?"
He nodded acceptance.
Jane passed on and reached her father. "Getting tired?" she asked, bending over him.
"Not at all," he replied in his lively way.
As she turned to go out into the hall, she caught the eyes of her brothers and gave them the signal to follow her. Outside, she sought the shade of the trees on the south side of the house. Her brothers joined her.
"I've talked things over with father," she said in a lowered voice. "He agrees that perhaps you are entitled to the equivalent of what he spent on the furnishings of my house when I married. That is, at present. When he dies, the estate will be divided, of course. Is that satisfactory?"
Roland merely nodded. But Kenneth said, "You bet!"
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"I'll get father to attend to things in a day or two."
Twenty minutes later she went upstairs to her sitting room; for, since she had resumed residence in the parental house in order to keep her father company during the remaining years of his life, he had taken up his quarters downstairs, converting his "den" into a bed-room, and the sewing room into a "den", and abandoning to her the large and sunny room which he in times gone-by had shared with his wife. It she had refitted according to her tastes, somewhat in the style of the "library" in the Stockton house where she now resided but rarely.
Norah was waiting for her.
Both, the moment they confronted each other, felt under that curious restraint which we experience in the intercourse of such as disapprove of us; and strange to say, it was the mother who yielded to it most.
"You wished to see me?"
"Yes. I have something to tell you which I thought you had better hear from me than from strangers or through the press...I have left Angus."
Her mother sat down.
Norah laughed. "You are shocked?"
Jane was. Curiously, she tried not to show it. "How about the children?" she asked after a minute or so.
"They are with me." Norah looked coolly, ironically at the older woman who, under that look, seemed to become aware of further implications.
Again it was a minute or so before Jane could find what seemed to her the best way of probing the unknown. "Have you heard from Angus?"
"I should say. We talked matters over fully before I left him - he and Ernest and I."
Jane winced; but she merely looked her question.
"Ernest?" Norah said. "Why, he's the co-respondent."
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Jane rose. "Perhaps I had better not enquire into this any further."
"As you like, mother. But since I am going to ask you for money, I thought I'd volunteer to explain."
There was a short silence. Then Jane sat down again.
Norah smiled. She, too, sat down. "It's the old story. I married before I was aware what marriage meant. To me, the wonder is that it could last as long as it did. Angus was tired of me before we'd lived together for a month. But he was too clever to leave me. He abided his time." She paused to let the connotations sink in.
Jane sat aghast. "But the children are only three and four years old!" she said at last.
"I've often thought of your own married life," Norah replied with smiling but insolent insinuation. "Sidney is only twenty."
Jane stiffened.
Again Norah smiled. "Mother, what's the use saying things like that? You older people, at least in your talk, approach these things from the point of view of morals. All you need to do in order to see that morals have nothing to do with life is to examine your own actions without prejudice. Nobody knows better than I that Angus is not much good. I've been married to him for close on to a decade. But if he were not attractive, I should not have married him in the first place. Do you expect a young woman who lives in the intimacy of a joint household with an attractive young man to lead the existence of a nun? I'd rather not have had children. Accidents happen."
One of Jane's hands moved. "You spoke of money."
"Yes. Angus is willing to sell me my freedom for ten thousand dollars."
"You intend to marry..."
"Ernest? Why, yes, as soon as I can. There are the two divorces to get..."
"Two?"
"Yes. Did I not mention it? Ernest is married himself. There are
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three children. He will have to pay alimony."
Jane rose again. "Don't let us proceed. As for the money, you can let Mr. Anderson at Stockton know what you require. I shall give orders. Meanwhile I prefer not to be informed with regard to the details."
"Very well, mother. Thanks." And she stepped up to the older woman who passively presented her cheek.
Downstairs, the company was breaking up. Sidney came to his mother's side.
"Now listen here, mother," he said with his brilliant smile. "I know I'm not doing the right thing. But I so want to be at that meeting to-morrow!"
Jane took his arm and led him into the garden, away from the crowd. "Sidney, I want you to tell me the truth. Is there a girl in the case?"
"A girl? No. Word of honour. There never will be."
"Never?"
"No. Unless there lives a younger replica of yourself!"
Jane smiled. "You needn't flatter me, Sidney. But I'd like you to promise me that you will never marry without my consent while I live."
"I promise," Sidney said promptly. "I'd promise anything so long as you won't be offended because I skip."
"Run along, you scamp," she said, presenting her cheek. When, the callers having left, and her father sitting asleep in his arm-chair, Jane went in search of Arthur who was not inside, he joined her at the door.
"Shall we walk a little?"
They went along the margin of the field that stretched to the west. At a point where an open bluff of now full-grown poplars straddled the line-fence between the two farms, both their eyes, as if involuntarily, were raised to a piece of half-decayed board which still hung precariously to a nail in the bark of one of the trees.
"Fifty-four," Arthur said; and they stopped.
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"Two more years," Jane remarked irrelevantly.
Arthur looked a question.
"We are both fifty-two."
"Thirty years since we stood here together. Then we stood on opposite sides of the fence."
"Arthur, do I need to explain?"
"Does anything need explaining?"
"Perhaps not. Yet, it was the strangest thing to find you here, unchanged..."
"Unchanged? My hair is grey."
"So is mine. But still you are you. I almost envy you your life through all these years. As if it had been without problems."
Arthur frowned. "We are what we are..."
And the wave carried her on. "I've been wanting to ask you, Arthur. Would you change our present relationship if you could?"
"Would you?"
"I should like to make up for any wrong I may have done."
"Did you deceive me at the time?"
"To the best of my knowledge, no."
"Then there was no wrong."
"You have suffered."
"So have you. An appreciable fraction of all life is suffering. Only through suffering can we realise ourselves. Jane, let me ask you one question. Where do you intend to live when your father dies? I mean if we do not change our relationship."
"I intend to buy the farm from father's estate."
"Then," said the man by her side, "I should prefer not to change that relationship. Instinctively, I suppose, when I was young, I wished to have children provided they could be yours as well as mine. That was not to be. At the present time I am happy in having of you what I have. I sometimes think it is more than most people have of each other in marriage. Rather than lose it, I should endanger it
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by a change. But if I can keep it as it is, let it be."
In the ruddy rays of the westering sun they looked at each other. Then, suddenly, Jane held out her hand; and he took it with a gentle pressure.
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