Edith Wharton - SSC 09 (6 page)

 
          
“Go
to Switzerland, and let
yourself
be bored there for a
whole winter. Then you can come back and paint, and enjoy your success instead
of having the enjoyment done for you by your heirs.”

 
          
“Oh,
what a large order—” he sighed, and drew out his cigarettes.

 
          
For
a moment we were both silent; then he raised his eyes and looked straight at
me. “Supposing I don’t get well, there’s another thing …” He hesitated a
moment. “Do you happen to know if my mother has made her will?”

 
          
I
imagine my look must have surprised him, for he hurried on: “It’s only this: if
I should drop out—you can never tell—there are Chrissy and Boy, poor helpless
devils. I can’t forget what they’ve been to me … done for me … though sometimes
I daresay I seem ungrateful. …”

 
          
I
listened to his
embarrassed
phrases with an
embarrassment at least as great. “You may be sure your mother won’t forget
either,” I said.

 
          
“No;
I suppose not.
Of course not.
Only sometimes—you can
see for yourself that things are a little breezy … They feel that perhaps she
doesn’t always remember for how many years …” He brought the words out as
though he were reciting a lesson. “I can’t forget it …of course,” he added,
painfully.

 
          
I
glanced at my watch and stood up. I wanted to spare him the evident effort of
going on. “Mr. and Mrs. Brown’s tastes don’t always agree with your mother’s.
That’s evident. If you could persuade them to go off somewhere—or to lead more
independent lives when they’re with her—mightn’t that help?”

 
          
He
cast a despairing glance at me. “Lord—I wish you’d try! But you see they’re
anxious—anxious about their future….”

 
          
“I’m
sure they needn’t be,” I answered shortly, more and more impatient to make an
end.

 
          
His
face lit up with a suddenness that hurt me. “Oh, well … it’s sure to be all
right if you say so. Of course you know.”

 
          
“I
know your mother,” I said, holding out my hand for goodbye.

 
          
  

 
          
Shortly
after my lunch with Stephen Glenn I was unexpectedly detached from my job in
Paris and sent on a special mission to the other side of the world. I was sorry
to bid goodbye to Mrs. Glenn, but relieved to be rid of the thankless task of
acting as her counsellor. Not that she herself was not thankful, poor soul; but
the situation abounded in problems, to not one of which could I find a
solution; and I was embarrassed by her simple faith in my ability to do so.
“Get rid of the Browns;
pension
them
off,” I could only repeat; but since my talk with Stephen I had little hope of
his mother’s acting on this suggestion. “You’ll probably all end up together at
St. Moritz,” I prophesied; and a few months later a belated Paris
Herald I,
overtaking me in my remote
corner of the globe, informed me that among the guests of the new Ice Palace
Hotel at St. Moritz were Mrs. Glenn of New York, Mr. Stephen Glenn, and Mr. and
Mrs. Boydon Brown. From succeeding numbers of the same sheet I learned that Mr.
and Mrs. Boydon Brown were among those entertaining on the opening night of the
new
Restaurant des Glaciers
, that the
Boydon Brown cup for the most original costume at the Annual Fancy Ball of the
Skiers’ Club had been won by Miss Thora Dacy (costume designed by the
well-known artist, Stephen Glenn), and that Mr. Boydon Brown had been one of
the stewards of the dinner given to the participants in the ice-hockey match
between the St. Moritz and Suvretta teams. And on such items I was obliged to
nourish my memory of my friends, for no direct news came to me from any of
them.

 
          
When
I bade Mrs. Glenn goodbye I had told her that I had hopes of a post in the
State Department at the close of my temporary mission, and she said, a little
wistfully: “How wonderful if we could meet next year in America! As soon as
Stephen is strong enough I want him to come back and live with me in his
father’s house.” This seemed a natural wish; and it struck me that it might
also be the means of
effecting
a break with the
Browns. But Mrs. Glenn shook her head.

 
          
“Chrissy
says a winter in New York would amuse them both tremendously.”

 
          
I
was not so sure that it would amuse Stephen, and therefore did not base much
hope on the plan. The one thing Stephen wanted was to get back to Paris and
paint: it would presumably be his mother’s lot to settle down there when his
health permitted.

 
          
I
heard nothing more until I got back to Washington the following spring; then I
had a line from Stephen. The winter in the Engadine had been a deadly bore, but
had really done him good, and his mother was just leaving for Paris to look for
an apartment. She meant to take one on a long lease, and have the furniture of
the New York house sent out—it would be jolly getting it arranged. As for him,
the doctors said he was well enough to go on with his painting, and, as I knew,
it was the one thing he cared for; so I might cast off all anxiety about the
family. That was all—and perhaps I should have obeyed if Mrs. Glenn had also
written. But no word, no message even, came from her; and as she always wrote
when there was good news to give, her silence troubled me.

 
          
It
was in the course of the same summer, during a visit to Bar Harbour, that one
evening, dining with a friend, I found myself next to a slight pale girl with
large gray eyes, who suddenly turned them on me reproachfully. “Then you don’t
know me? I’m Thora.”

 
          
I
looked my perplexity, and she added: “Aren’t you Steve Glenn’s great friend?
He’s always talking of you.” My memory struggled with a tangle of oddments,
from which I finally extricated the phrase in the
Herald
about Miss Thora Dacy and the fancy-dress ball at St.
Moritz. “You’re the young lady who won the Boydon Brown prize in a costume
designed by the well-known artist, Mr. Stephen Glenn!”

 
          
Her
charming face fell. “If you know me only through that newspaper rubbish … I had
an idea the well-known artist might have told you about me.”

 
          
“He’s
not much of a correspondent.”

 
          
“No;
but I thought—”

 
          
“Why
won’t you tell me yourself instead?”

 
          
Dinner
was over, and the company had moved out to a wide, starlit verandah looking
seaward. I found a corner for two, and installed myself there with my new
friend, who was also Stephen’s. “I like him awfully—don’t you?” she began at
once. I liked her way of saying it; I liked her direct gaze; I found myself
thinking: “But this may turn out to be the solution!” For I felt sure that, if
circumstances ever gave her the right to take part in the coming struggle over
Stephen, Thora Dacy would be on the side of the angels.

 
          
As
if she had guessed my thought she continued: “And I do love Mrs. Glenn
too—don’t you?”

 
          
I
assured her that I did, and she added: “And Steve loves her—I’m sure he does!”

 
          
“Well,
if he didn’t—!” I exclaimed indignantly.

 
          
“That’s
the way I feel; he ought to. Only, you see, Mrs. Brown—the Browns adopted him
when he was a baby, didn’t they, and brought him up as if he’d been their own
child? I suppose they must know him better than any of us do; and Mrs. Brown
says he can’t help feeling bitter about—I don’t know all the circumstances, but
his mother did desert him soon after he was born, didn’t she? And if it hadn’t
been for the Browns—”

 
          
“The Browns—the Browns!
It’s a pity they don’t leave it to
other people to proclaim their merits! And I don’t believe Stephen does feel as
they’d like you to think. If he does, he ought to be kicked. If—if complicated
family reasons obliged Mrs. Glenn to separate herself from him when he was a
baby, the way she mourned for him all those years, and her devotion since
they’ve come together again, have atoned a thousandfold for that old
unhappiness; and no one knows it better than Stephen.”

 
          
The
girl received this without protesting. “I’m so glad—so glad.” There was a new
vibration in her voice; she looked up gravely. “I’ve always
wanted
to love Mrs. Glenn the best.”

 
          
“Well,
you’d better; especially if you love Stephen.”

 
          
“Oh,
I do love him,” she said simply. “But of course I understand his feeling as he
does about the Browns.”

 
          
I
hesitated, not knowing how I ought to answer the question I detected under
this; but at length I said: “Stephen, at any rate, must feel that Mrs. Brown
has no business to insinuate anything against his mother. He ought to put a
stop to that.” She met the suggestion with a sigh, and stood up to join another
group. “Thora Dacy may yet save us!” I thought, as my gaze followed her light
figure across the room.

 
          
I
had half a mind to write of that meeting to Stephen or to his mother; but the
weeks passed while I procrastinated, and one day I received a note from
Stephen. He wrote (with many messages from Mrs. Glenn) to give me their new
address, and to tell me that he was hard at work at his painting, and doing a
“promising portrait of mother Kit.” He signed himself my affectionate Steve,
and added underneath: “So glad you’ve come across little Thora. She took a most
tremendous shine to you. Do please be nice to her; she’s a dear child. But
don’t encourage any illusions about me, please; marrying’s not in my
programme.” “So that’s that,” I thought, and tore the letter up rather
impatiently. I wondered if Thora Dacy already knew that her illusions were not
to be encouraged.

 
          
  

 
          
The
months went by, and I heard no more from my friends. Summer came round again,
and with it the date of my six weeks’ holiday, which I purposed to take that
year in Europe. Two years had passed since I had last seen Mrs. Glenn, and
during that time I had received only two or three brief notes from her,
thanking me for Christmas wishes, or telling me that Stephen was certainly
better, though he would take no care of himself. But several months had passed
since the date of her last report.

 
          
I
had meant to spend my vacation in a trip in southwestern France, and on the way
over I decided to invite Stephen Glenn to join me. I therefore made direct for
Paris, and the next morning rang him up at Mrs. Glenn’s. Mrs. Brown’s voice met
me in reply, informing me that Stephen was no longer living with his mother.
“Read the riot act to us all a few months ago—said he wanted to be independent.
You know his fads. Dear Catherine was foolishly upset. As I said to her … yes,
I’ll give you his address; but poor Steve’s not well just now … Oh, go on a
trip with you? No; I’m afraid there’s no chance of that. The truth is, he told
us he didn’t want to be bothered—rather warned us off the premises; even poor
old Boy; and you know he adores Boy. I haven’t seen him myself for several
days. But you can try … oh, of course, you can try … No; I’m afraid you can’t
see Catherine either—not just at present. She’s been ill too—feverish; worrying
about her naughty Steve, I suspect. I’m mounting guard for a few days, and not
letting her see anybody till her temperature goes down. And would you do me a
favour? Don’t write—don’t let her know you’re here. Not for a day or two, I
mean … She’d be so distressed at not being able to see you. …”

 
          
She
rang off, and left me to draw my own conclusions.

 
          
They
were not of the pleasantest. I was perplexed by the apparent sequestration of
both my friends, still more so by the disquieting mystery of Mrs. Glenn’s
remaining with the Browns while Stephen had left them. Why had she not followed
her son? Was it because she had not been allowed to? I conjectured that Mrs.
Brown, knowing I was likely to put these questions to the persons concerned,
was manoeuvring to prevent my seeing them. If she could manoeuvre, so could I;
but for the moment I had to consider what line to take. The fact of her giving
me Stephen’s address made me suspect that she had taken measures to prevent my
seeing him; and if that were so there was not much use in making the attempt.
And Mrs. Glenn was in bed, and “feverish,” and not to be told of my arrival….