A Good Woman (Bromfield)/Part 2/Chapter 21
Since the reconciliation, the Sunday dinner at Elmer Niman's had again been resumed, and Emma, on her way there, suffered as keenly from doubts as her suitor had done on his homeward journey. Now that the thing was accomplished, or practically so, she was uneasy. It was not, she reflected, a simple thing to alter the whole course of one's life at her age. There would be troubles, difficulties, for Moses Slade was not, she could see, an easy man to manage. To be sure, he was less slippery than Jason had been: a Congressman could never run off and disappear. But, on the other hand, he was as rocklike and solid as his own portly figure.
She faced the thing all the way to Elmer's house, examining it from every possible angle, except the most important of all—the angle of ambition. In the bottom of her heart, hidden and veiled by all the doubts and probings, there lay a solid determination to marry Moses Slade. The restaurant was a complete success, enlarged to a size commensurate with the possibilities of the Town. Nothing more remained to be done, and she was still a healthy, vigorous woman in the prime of life. As the wife of Moses Slade, new vistas opened before her. . . . There had never been any doubt about her course of action, but she succeeded in convincing herself that she was going slowly and examining every possibility of disaster.
What she found most difficult to bear was the lack of a confidante. Even though, as she admitted to herself, it was silly to think of such a thing as love between herself and Moses, she had nevertheless an overwhelming desire to share the news with some one. It was almost as strong as the feeling she had experienced twenty-seven years earlier after accepting Jason's declaration. She could not, she felt, go in safety beyond the borders of a discreet hinting to any of her woman friends: a mere rumor soon spread among them with the ferocity of a fire in a parched forest. Naomi was the last person to tell, especially since that queer Mabelle look had come into her eyes. And her brother? No, she couldn't tell him, though she supposed he would be pleased at her marrying so solid a man. It wasn't clear to her why she couldn't bring herself to tell him, save that it was connected vaguely with the memory of his behavior on the occasion of announcing her engagement to Jason. He might behave in the same fashion again; and on the first occasion he had only forgiven her when Jason had vindicated his opinion by disappearing. Elmer, she knew, loved to say, "I told you it would end like this."
There remained only Philip, and he was too ill to be told; but when she thought of it, she began to doubt whether she would have told him if he had been well.
It was the first time since his return that she had had need to confide in him, and now she found herself troubled by the feeling that it wouldn't be easy. Until now she had gone bravely on, ignoring the changes in their relations as mother and son, but now that a test had arisen, she saw that there had been a change. She saw, despite herself, that he had become in a way a stranger—her boy, who had always loved her, whom she worshipped with a maternal passion too intense to be put into words. Her boy, whose very character she had created as she had created his flesh, had become a stranger with whom she couldn't even discuss her own plans. Once he would have believed that whatever she did was right.
As she thought of it, she walked more rapidly. Why, she asked herself, had this happened to her? Hadn't she given all her life to him? Hadn't she worked her fingers to the bone? Hadn't she watched and guarded him from evil and sin, kept him pure? Had she ever thought of anything but his welfare and saving him from the pitfall of his father's weaknesses? A lump came into her throat, and a moisture into her eyes. What had she done to deserve this?
She felt no resentment against him. It was impossible to blame him in any way. He was a good boy, who had never caused her any trouble—not trouble in the real sense, for his doubts about his calling were temporary, and perhaps natural. Since he could never go back to Africa, he would in the end settle down with some church of his own. He might even perhaps become a bishop, for certainly he was more clever than most preachers, a thousand times more clever than the Reverend Castor, and more of a gentleman, more of what a bishop ought to be. And after this illness perhaps he would see the light once more. Perhaps the Lord had sent this illness for just that reason.
No, Philip was a perfect son. She was sure that he still loved her.
She tried to hate the Mills, but that was impossible, and in the end the suspicion came to her that the change was due in some way to Naomi. It must be Naomi. She had always thought that Naomi disliked her. Why, she didn't know. Hadn't she done everything for Naomi? Hadn't she treated her as if she were her own daughter?
And her only reward was spite and jealousy.
While she thought of it, it occurred to her that the change in Philip—the real change—his slipping away from her—had begun at the time that Naomi became his wife in more than name: until that time he had always been her boy who adored her. Suddenly, she saw it all clearly; it was Naomi for whom she had done everything, who had stolen Philip from her.
Her tears were dried by the time she reached her brother's front step, but the lump in her throat was still there, and it remained all through the lunch, so that at times she felt that she might suddenly weep, despite herself. In her sorrow, she paid little heed to her brother's usual long speeches, or to Mabelle's idiotic interruptions. But she was able to despise Mabelle with a contempt which made any previous emotion pale by comparison. Because Mabelle was Naomi's friend, she, too, seemed responsible for what had happened.
After lunch, when Mabelle had gone out to the kitchen for a time, Emma took her brother aside in the grim parlor, and said, "Elmer, I have something to ask of you."
He looked at her sharply, in a way in which he had looked at her for years on occasions when he thought she might be asking for money. It had never yet happened, but the unguarded look of alarm had never wholly died since the moment that Jason Downes left his wife penniless.
"It's not what you think," said Emma coldly. "It's only about Mabelle. I want you to keep her from coming to the house so often."
"But why, Emma?"
"You don't know that she spends all her days there. I never go home without finding her . . . and I think she's bad for Naomi . . . just now."
"How bad for her?"
He was standing with his hands clasped behind him, watching her. For a moment she looked squarely into his eyes, hesitating, wondering whether she dared speak the truth. Then she took the plunge, for she felt suddenly that Elmer would understand. There was a bond between them not of fraternal affection (for there were times when they actually disliked each other), but a tie far stronger. He would understand what she meant to say, because he was, in spite of everything, very like her. They were two people who had to rule those about them, two people who were always right. She knew that he understood her contempt for Mabelle as a woman and as a housekeeper; the fact that Mabelle was his wife made little difference.
"You'll understand what I mean, Elmer. You know that Mabelle doesn't keep house well. You know she's . . . well, lazy and untidy. And that is why she's bad for Naomi. Naomi wasn't meant for a wife and mother, I'm afraid. She's a miserable failure at it. I'm trying to put character into her, to make something of her . . . but I can't, if Mabelle's always there. She undoes all I can do."
He unclasped his hands, and, after a moment, said, "Yes, I think I know what you mean. Besides, Mabelle ought to be at home looking after her own house a little. You'd think that she couldn't bear the sight of it. She's always gadding." He turned away. "She's coming now. I'll speak to her, and if she still bothers you let me know."
Mabelle came through the swinging beaded portières. "It's too bad Naomi couldn't come, too, for lunch. It's a pity she feels like she does about being seen in the street. I have tried to make her sensible about it. Why, when I was carrying Ethel . . ."
Both of them gave her black looks, but Mabelle, seating herself at once in the rocking-chair, rattled on without noticing.