Stella Dallas (1923, Houghton Mifflin)/Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX
1
Helen Morrison sat in the big library-sort of room where Laurel had first watched her serve tea. She sat by one of the long windows that looked out upon the willow-shaded avenue that wound up to the front door; by the same window, it chanced, out of which she had run to meet Laurel the first time she had come to visit her four years ago. She was dressed very much as she had been then (it was morning and July), in white skirt and waist and low shoes. She sat in front of a desk, writing, in a dilatory fashion. Every little while she glanced back over her shoulder at the clock upon the mantel, then out the window down the willow-shaded drive, then back again to her pen.
Looking at Helen from the clock as she bent over her writing, she seemed not to have changed at all in the last four years, or in the last fourteen years; the same young-girl slenderness (not the slightest thickening of neck and shoulders, hip or ankle), the same young-girl lightness, as she sat poised on the edge of her chair, which was tilted forward on its two delicate front legs. But, when she raised her head, and looked back at the clock, then one saw without a shadow of doubt that she was no longer a girl. It wasn't only her hair (for in the last four years the few white threads Laurel had discovered had become a definite streak of silver cloud that drifted about the left side of her brow and reached backward to the still dark coil in her neck)—it was something more convincing, something less obvious but deeper-rooted. There was on Helen's face a look of settled calm (or was it settled hopelessness?) that hadn't been there four years ago when she had rushed out of the long window down the lawn to meet Stephen and Laurel. There had been laughter and anticipation in her eyes then. Now there were only quiet smiles and submission.
To-day, again, Helen was awaiting the arrival of an automobile. She had sent the car down to the station to meet the train due at ten-forty. It was now after eleven. It was only five minutes to the station. The train must be late. She finished her letter, then rose, crossed the room, and stood looking out of another long window that opened out upon the terrace. Helen was awaiting the arrival of Laurel's mother, of Stephen's wife. She had telephoned last night from New York.
"I'm Mrs. Stephen Dallas," the strange voice had announced. "I want to talk with you. Will you be home to-morrow morning if I come out?"
Helen had replied, with no surprise in her voice, that she would be glad to come in town and meet her there if she preferred.
"No. I'd rather come out."
They had arranged the trains. Helen had told her she would have her met.
When finally the bell rang, and the maid announced Mrs. Dallas, Helen crossed the hall to the reception-room with a sensation as near dread as she had ever felt in her life when about to meet a guest.
Stella was standing up. She had on a dark-blue tricolette suit, and wore a summer fur—white fox, fastened behind. The dead animal's head hung halfway down her back. Stella's coat was tightly buttoned, and fitted her generous bust and hips without a ripple. Her hat was large and broad-brimmed, and didn't take a veil well. Therefore she had adjusted her veil over her bare head before putting her hat on. The veil was drawn tightly over her generous cheeks and chin, and it also fitted without a ripple.
2
Helen looked at nothing but Stella's eyes, as she came toward her smiling, with her hand outstretched.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Dallas," she said. "I hope the chauffeur found you."
"No, he didn't. There was quite a crowd. I walked."
"Oh, I'm sorry. It is such a warm morning. Let me send for some water." She made a movement toward the bell.
"I don't want any water." Why, her hair was snow-white on one side! She couldn't be a day under forty!
"Well, do take off your coat and unfasten your fur."
"No, thanks."
"And sit down. Let us come into the other room. It's pleasanter there."
Helen led the way across the hall, shoved a cool, linen-covered armchair in front of one of the terrace windows. "I always like it here better on a warm morning, looking out on the shadows rather than on sunshine. And there's usually a breeze."
Opposite the armchair Helen placed one of the Sheratons for herself. She made a little waving motion toward the armchair. "Sit down, please," she said; "take that chair."
Stella complied—at least partially. She took the extreme edge of the chair. It was one of those low deep affairs. She'd have a frightful time getting out of it if she sat back. Helen sat down, too. There was a pause—a pause that threatened to become awkward.
"Is it very warm in town this morning?" Helen inquired.
Stella ignored the question. Might as well take the bull by the horns.
"I suppose you think it's funny my coming here."
"No, I don't," earnestly Helen assured her, leaning forward, clasping her hands upon her knees. "You and I have a great deal in common. I don't think it's funny at all."
"Well, funny or not, I had to come. I thought of writing at first, but, gracious, if a thing is important enough to you, you'll do it the right way—at least, the way that seems right to you—whatever any one thinks. There are some things I had to know that nobody but you could tell me, so I decided to come right down here myself and ask them."
"That was the right way."
"I've heard a lot about you."
"And so have I—heard a lot about you."
"From Laurel, I mean."
"Yes, I mean from Laurel, too."
"I suppose you know it, but Laurel thinks a lot of you."
Helen smiled. "And I suppose you know it, but Laurel thinks a lot of you."
"Well, I'm her mother. She has to. But she's got what they call a sort of 'crush'—'mash' we called it when I was a girl—on you. She hates to have me call it that. She won't talk about you very much, now. Thinks I might be jealous or something, I guess. Perhaps I was a little at first, though I hardly knew it. Laurel did, though. Trust her. She's the sort of child knows what you feel before you do yourself almost."
"I know. Sensitive, isn't she—oh, so sensitive! I think a great deal of Laurel, Mrs. Dallas. You have a beautiful child, I think."
"She is a nice kiddie," said Stella.
For an instant the two women's eyes met. Was that bright look tears, they both wondered.
3
Stella was the first to look away. She cleared her throat, coughed, made another attempt.
"How's Stephen now?"
"I think he's well."
"I suppose you see him now and then?"
"No. The last few times Laurel has visited me, Miss Simpson has brought her, and taken her away. Stephen and I haven't met for two years."
"Oh, that so?" Stella looked back at Mrs. Morrison. Gracious! What had happened? The shining look had all gone from her eyes and the light from her expression. She looked gray, ashen, and old, terribly old.
"Look here, Mrs. Morrison," Stella went on, "I'm not going to beat about the bush any longer. I've been thinking a good deal lately of the advantages to me if I got things fixed up between Stephen and myself, the way he wanted them fixed up a while ago. But before I do any more thinking I want to find out how things are now between Stephen and you."
Helen's clasped hands tightened upon her knee, but she showed no feeling when she spoke.
"Mrs. Dallas," she said, "I don't want to be unkind, but self-denial, our duty to others, the toll that must be paid for mistakes, separation from each other—nothing will ever destroy that which exists, even though without form or expression, between Stephen and me."
Stella looked puzzled.
"But what I want to know is, if Stephen was free, if I stepped aside, the way he suggested, would you two get married?" Might as well come right out with the nub. After all, it didn't make her jump.
"We would," Helen replied.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"But you haven't seen Stephen for two years."
"I know, I know. Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Dallas. But the truth is best. I think you want it."
"It's what I came for."
"It's what I shall give you, even though it costs me Stephen himself."
"Well, the next thing I want to get clear is, if you two did marry, what about Laurel?"
"If we did—" Helen drew in her breath quickly, "why, if we did—if we did—"
"Yes, if you did, what about Laurel?"
Helen let her breath out ever so carefully, ever so carefully drew in another.
"Oh, Laurel. Laurel is yours, Mrs. Dallas. A child is always her mother's, I think."
"You mean, Laurel would keep right on making her headquarters with me, the same as she does now?"
"Why, of course. I am a mother, Mrs. Dallas. Once I was the mother of a little girl. My little girl would be just Laurel's age now. As long as I live I shall never be guilty of robbing any woman of her only little daughter."
Stella glanced down at her shoe, out upon the terrace, back to her shoe again, cleared her throat, then boldly raised her eyes to Helen's.
"But if the woman didn't want her daughter. I mean if she couldn't have her very well, if it was inconvenient—"
"Don't you want Laurel, Mrs. Dallas?" Helen exclaimed.
"Oh, of course, I want her, but you see she's a great expense now, and I haven't many maids—no one to leave her with. I'm quite tied down by her, and—"
"Oh," broke out Helen, and again her eyes were shining, "I'd love to have Laurel! I'd love to have Laurel, even if I had her without Stephen."
"No, that wouldn't do," said Stella, hard and practical, her eyes shining, too, but not with tears—with triumph. "If you were married to Stephen your name would be Dallas then, and Laurel's name would be Dallas, too. Don't you see? And everybody would think, who didn't stop to ask, that Laurel was yours. Gracious, she's enough like you—dark and slim as a smokestack, and you've been her model for years, as far as ways and manners go, and when you begin to do things for her—like giving her, well—a coming-out party, or something—you know she's seventeen now—why, then the invitation cards, 'Mr. and Mrs. Dallas, and Miss Dallas,' would read right, don't you see? I've thought it out. And later, if one of the nice young men in your circle fell in love with Laurel, and married her, why, then again, it would read right in the papers and society columns, where those things are printed. And the same way," Stella pursued, warming to her subject, "at hotels and places when you have to register—that is, if you should travel with Laurel in Europe or California. Laurel really ought to travel. It is so expensive, I couldn't manage it myself, what with all the private lessons in riding and skating, and dancing and music, and heaven knows what-not. You'll find she's quite up in those things. Oh, really," earnestly, eagerly she hastened on, unaware of the increasing wonder and surprise in Helen Morrison's wide-open eyes, "really, if you do want a daughter of your own to take the place of that baby you spoke of that died, I'll say this, I don't think you'll ever be ashamed of Laurel. She takes after her father, and if you're crazy about her father, why, it popped into my mind that—honestly I can't see a trace of me in Laurel. Nobody can. She's so refined, and sort of elegant in her ways. You know that yourself. Oh, you needn't have a minute's doubt about what sort of a success Laurel will make if you should bring her out in New York society sometime. She makes a wonderful impression upon strangers. Why, if that girl didn't have me shackled round one foot everywhere she goes, she'd just soar. And another thing I want to make clear to you, don't be afraid I'll be appearing at embarrassing moments. I won't—ever. I've got some common sense, thank heaven. I know what sort of an impression I make, too."
There was no mistake about the tears in Helen's eyes now. She rose, went quickly over to Stella, sat down on the arm of her chair, and put her arm about her shoulders.
"I see! I understand!" she exclaimed, softly.
4
Stella stiffened. No woman had ever understood before. She had never understood herself. The undercurrent of her life had been flowing beneath the surface waters, unnoticed, unobserved for years, wearing a deeper and deeper channel, gathering strength and power in its hidden course. But not until Mrs. Morrison put her arm around Stella had any one looked down through the flotsam and discovered the crystal waters underneath.
"Everything shall be as you wish," said Helen. "Everything. Travel and parties and friends—everything, that to you means happiness for your child. I'll treat her as my very own, but she will always be yours. You will not lose her. You shall see her often. We'll arrange that. Oh, I wonder if I could have done so big a thing for my little girl."
Stella dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief through her veil, struggled to her feet, dabbed her eyes again, bit her lip hard—Good gracious, she mustn't break down and bawl like a baby.
"I'm an awful old fool sometimes lately," she murmured.
"Don't go. Sit down again. Please. We've so much to talk about. I've got so much to learn."
"No, I can't. Laurel thinks I'm in Milhampton, and I must hustle along back to Boston to-night or she'll get suspicious. You've got my idea. There's no need of staying any longer. You tell Stephen I'm ready to get the divorce any day now, and the quicker the better. Only tell him, for goodness' sake, don't put that man Morley Smith on it. I don't believe I could meet that excrescence and be decent to him. Every time I think—but never mind. That's all over. Oh, by the way, one thing more—when Laurel is down here this September visiting you, don't tell her what's up. I can't stand long-drawn-out good-byes. I may mention I'm getting a divorce, but I shan't tell her what for. Don't let on a word till we're ready to shoot. You and Stephen get married, have Laurel down for a Sunday. I'll send her clothes on afterwards. Something like that. I've thought it out. No soft-music, sob-stuff for me, thank you. Is this the living-room?"
"Yes, this is the living-room."
Stella gazed at the high, dignified walls silently a moment. "I can just see her in it, entertaining her young friends; walking around on that terrace with Richard Grosvenor—he's somebody your sons know, a young man that is just crazy about Lollle—walking along in her slow grand way under those big aristocratic-looking trees down there; yes, it will suit her fine. That's why I wanted to come out—to see what it was like. I walked by your city house last night. It was closed, but I could get an idea. I suppose you think that's funny, but I've picked out Laurel's clothes so much—" she stopped. "I couldn't see some of the other rooms, could I? I'll never be here again, and, well—you know, it's sort of nice to be able to think of a person in a house or a room you've seen yourself, when they write. I thought Laurel and I might write."
"Of course you'll write. Oh, it will only be as if she were away at school or college, having all the things you want her to have. Come out into the dining-room. Come out into the garden. Laurel loves the garden. And then come upstairs. The violet guest-room is Laurel's now. Come and see her pretty valanced bed."