Part 25 (1/2)
In the afternoon Mrs. Pendleton came over, but the two women were so busy arranging the furniture in its proper place, and laying away Oliver's and the children's things in drawers and closets, that not until the entire house had been put in order, did they find time to sit down for a few minutes in the nursery and discuss the future of Susan.
”I believe John Henry will want to marry her and go to live at the Treadwells', if Susan will let him,” remarked Mrs. Pendleton.
”How on earth could he get on with Uncle Cyrus?” Ever since her marriage Virginia had followed Oliver's habit and spoken of Cyrus as ”uncle.”
”Well, I don't suppose even John Henry could do that, but perhaps he thinks anything would be better than losing Susan.”
”And he's right,” returned Virginia loyally, while she got out her work-bag and began sorting the array of stockings that needed darning.
”Do you know, mother, Oliver seems to think that I might go to New York with him.”
”And leave the children, Jinny?”
”Of course I've told him that I can't, but he's asked me two or three times to let you look after them for a day or two.”
”I'd love to do it, darling--but you've never spent a night away from one of them since Lucy was born, have you?”
”No, and I'd be perfectly miserable--only I can't make Oliver understand it. Of course, they'd be just as safe with you as with me, but I'd keep imagining every minute that something had happened.”
”I know exactly how you feel, dear. I never spent a night outside my home after my first child came until you grew up. I don't see how any true woman could bear to do it, unless, of course, she was called away because of a serious illness.”
”If Oliver were ill, or you, or father, I'd go in a minute unless one of the children was really sick--but just to see a play is different, and I'd feel as if I were neglecting my duty. The funny part is that Oliver is so wrapped up in this play that he doesn't seem to be able to get his mind off it, poor darling. Father was never that way about his sermons, was he?”
”Your father never thought of himself or of his own interests enough, Jinny. If he ever had a fault, it was that. But I suppose he approaches perfection as nearly as a man ever did.”
Slipping the darning gourd into the toe of one of Lucy's little white stockings, Virginia gazed attentively at a small round hole while she held her needle arrested slightly above it. So exquisitely Madonna-like was the poise of her head and the dreaming, prophetic mystery in her face, that Mrs. Pendleton waited almost breathlessly for her words.
”There's not a single thing that I would change in Oliver, if I could,”
she said at last.
”It is so beautiful that you feel that way, darling. I suppose all happily married women do.”
A week later, across Harry's birthday cake, which stood surrounded by four candles in the centre of the rectory table, Virginia offered her cheerful explanation of Oliver's absence, in reply to a mild inquiry from the rector. ”He was obliged to go to New York yesterday about the rehearsal of 'The Beaten Road,' father. We were both so sorry he couldn't be here to-day, but it was impossible for him to wait over.”
”It's a pity,” said the rector gently. ”Harry will never be just four years old again, will you, little man?” Even the substantial fact that Oliver's play would, it was hoped, provide a financial support for his children, did not suffice to lift it from the region of the unimportant in the mind of his father-in-law.
”But he'll have plenty of other birthdays when papa will be here,”
remarked Virginia brightly. Though she had been a little hurt to find that Oliver had arranged to leave home the night before, and that he had appeared perfectly blind to the importance of his presence at Harry's celebration, her native good sense had not permitted her to make a grievance out of the matter. On her wedding day she had resolved that she would not be exacting of Oliver's time or attention, and the sweetness of her disposition had smoothed away any difficulties which had intervened between her and her ideal of wifehood. From the first, love had meant to her the opportunity of giving rather than the privilege of receiving, and her failure to regard herself as of supreme consequence in any situation had protected her from the minor troubles and disillusionments of marriage.
”It is too bad to think that dear Oliver will have to be away for two whole weeks,” said Mrs. Pendleton.
”Is he obliged to stay that long?” asked the rector, sympathetically.
Never having missed an anniversary since the war, he could look upon Oliver's absence as a fit subject for condolence.
”He can't possibly come home until the play is produced, and that won't be for two weeks yet,” replied Virginia.
”But I thought it rested with the actors now. Couldn't they go on just as well without him?”
”He thinks not, and, of course, it is such a great play that he doesn't want to take any risks with it.”
”Of course he doesn't,” a.s.sented Mrs. Pendleton, who had believed that the stage was immoral until Virginia's husband began to write for it.