AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
'?&&& 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 HEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO DALLAS 
 ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Lm 
 
 TORONTO 
 
IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 J. D. BERESFORD (0**** - 
 
 Author of "The Jervaise Comedy," etc. 
 
 . : 
 
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 jQcto gotfe 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1920 
 
 itt riehU reserved 
 

 V<43 7L3^5~ 
 
 COPYEIGHT, 1920, 
 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1990. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 "TV/TEANING to say, sir?" queried Hall II in 
 
 -I*-*- his brightest manner. 
 
 " Meaning to say, Hall, that when you send me 
 up an essay composed almost entirely of quotations 
 from standard authors, you might at least have the 
 honesty to admit your authorities." 
 
 The class roused itself from the wearied air proper 
 to this last hour in English literature. Old Ser- 
 combe was not one of the regular masters at the 
 King's School, and the general opinion held by the 
 nine boys who came to him for instruction was that 
 the subject had been tacked on to the ordinary 
 school work in Order to give him a job. They had 
 no respect for his particular form of scholarship, 
 and Hall II had expressed the popular feeling when 
 he had said that any fool could teach English." 
 Moreover, the class was held at the tail of the week, 
 and both master and boys accepted the fact that the 
 second hour on Friday afternoon was just a time to 
 be " got through " particularly in the hot weather. 
 
 The prospect of a sparring match between old 
 Sercombe and young Hall presented itself as quite 
 a desirable mean.s of " getting through " the present 
 lesson. Young Hall was rather good at a rag of 
 this kind. His father was editor of the Med- 
 borough News, and it was therefore a fair inference 
 
 i " i 
 
2 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 that the son ought to " know something about writ- 
 ing." The class stiffened to a new alertness. 
 
 " Well, sir," Hall explained, " I did ask my 
 father about it and he said it spoilt your style and 
 gave the comp unnecessary trouble to smother your 
 stuff with quote-marks." 
 
 Old Sercombe winced slightly at the abbreviated 
 technicalities, but made no comment on Hall's facile 
 use of them. 
 
 " Very interesting," he remarked drily. " And 
 did your father give you any other advice, Hall? " 
 
 " Told me to be bright, sir." 
 
 " You are, I presume, proposing to take up jour- 
 nalism as a profession?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Old Sercombe glanced down at the essay before 
 him as if he wished to reconsider it in the new light 
 afforded by young Hall's statement. 
 
 " As journalism it might pass," he remarked in 
 the undertone he so often adopted; speaking, it 
 seemed, more to himself than to his class. But 
 then you understand, Hall, you come here not to 
 study journalism but the right use of English." 
 
 " Meaning to say, sir," young Hall returned 
 cheerfully, " that journalists don't write good Eng- 
 lish? " 
 
 Old Sercombe sighed and glanced round at the 
 now attentive faces of the boys who composed this 
 " special subject " class. He felt old and helpless 
 and altogether out of his proper atmosphere. How 
 could he possibly explain to the uncomprehending 
 youth of the twentieth century all the nice distinc- 
 tions, of which he himself was so sensitively aware, 
 between journalism and literature? The differences 
 as he saw them at that moment were largely due to 
 a wonderful tradition. A finely trained sense of 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 3 
 
 values was essential before one could justly appre- 
 ciate the beauties of phrase or rhythm or ordered ex- 
 pression. This journalist's son with his handsome 
 impudent face, who used such shorthand as " comp " 
 or quote-marks," would be incapable of recognizing 
 the differences if they were displayed for him. He 
 belonged to a new world in which it was the mission 
 of writers to be " bright," and the values of liter- 
 ature as such were of no account. What Hall and 
 his contemporaries wanted was a kind of brisk and 
 pungent shorthand. 
 
 Seeing no way of explanation, old Sercombe at- 
 tempted an evasion. " I have been holding this class 
 twice a week now for two months," he said; " is there 
 any boy, here, who can frame a definition of the dif- 
 ferences between journalism as we find it in such 
 papers as, for instance, the Daily Mail, and classical 
 English literature?" 
 
 For a few seconds there was a blank silence. This 
 was a rather unfair return to teaching. To demand 
 thought from them at half past three on a hot Friday 
 afternoon seemed to the majority of the class as 
 little short of criminal. 
 
 It was Hall II who finally replied. 
 
 " Journalism's much easier to understand, sir," he 
 said with a touch of impertinence. " When you're 
 writing for a paper you have to say what you mean 
 straight out without any " he paused before he 
 added with an emphasis that was designed to antici- 
 pate any risk of his joke missing fire, without any 
 circum-locutions, sir." 
 
 One or two of the class sniggered audibly. 
 
 Old Sercombe hesitated. Secretly he appreciated 
 the boy's wit; but amateur as he was in the business 
 of keeping order, he was afraid to approve a pun 
 that had labeled himself as a tedious pedant. The 
 
4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 dilemma drove him to the usual resource of the in- 
 experienced teacher. He attempted to assert his 
 superiority by the use of irony. 
 
 " No doubt journalism would appeal to you, Hall," 
 he said. " The simple and the bright are just within 
 the limits of your mental capacity. But I must point 
 out that while you've defined journalism quite capa- 
 bly, your suggestion that fine literature is a matter of 
 circumlocution is hopelessly beside the mark." 
 
 Young Hall's expression was one of wicked inno- 
 cence. He was seventeen, one of the " cracks " of 
 the first eleven, and he had no fear that the master's 
 irony would be turned against him by the rest of the 
 class. If he had been less sure of himself, he might 
 have dreaded the playground repercussions of " sim- 
 ple and bright." 
 
 " What's your own definition of ' fine literature ' 
 then, sir? " he asked impudently. 
 
 Old Sercombe was intimidated. He did not un- 
 derstand boys. He ought never to have accepted 
 the head-master's invitation to take this class. He 
 had thought that they would respect his years and 
 proved scholarship; that his relations with them 
 would be those of an honored parent, gently con- 
 descending to his children's admissions of ignorance. 
 But this self-assertive, self-confident youth chal- 
 lenged him, and in these surroundings with that audi- 
 ence, would inevitably defeat him. He could give 
 no definition of fine literature that would strike any 
 response from these callous uncultivated minds. In 
 imagination he heard his explanations repeated along 
 the corridors as another instance of old Sercombe's 
 " locutions." His most scholarly endeavor would 
 sound prosy and pedantic to these young intelligences 
 solely concerned with their vivid encounter with re- 
 ality. They were all of a different class and period 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 5 
 
 from his own, and he had no means of communi- 
 cating with them. 
 
 With a sigh of despair he glanced desperately- 
 round the form and unexpectedly found salvation. 
 
 Among the nine, there was one boy who was not 
 sniggeringly expectant of his defeat; a boy who was 
 regarding him with a look that seemed to express 
 a kindly sympathy with his distress. It was young 
 Kirkwood: the son of the bookseller in Long Cause- 
 way. Sercombe remembered having seen him in his 
 father's shop; but he had never spoken to him there, 
 nor had the boy shown any marked intelligence or 
 aptitude in the course of these lessons in literature. 
 
 " Well, Kirkwood," he said, " can you help us? " 
 He felt curiously relieved, as if he had found ease 
 after pain. 
 
 " I don't know that I can, sir," Kirkwood replied 
 after an obvious hesitation. u I mean, sir, I can't 
 think of any definition. I suppose literature, the 
 kind we're talking about, either appeals to you or it 
 doesn't." He paused before he added, " And if it 
 doesn't happen to, I suppose you'll never be able to 
 understand it." 
 
 No reproof had been intended but Henry Ser- 
 combe felt that he had been reproved and had de- 
 served his lesson. What right had he to teach? 
 Kirkwood's statement applied, also, to him. The 
 minds and ambitions of these boys did not appeal to 
 him and how could he ever hope to understand them? 
 They belonged to a new generation that had grown 
 up without his being aware of it. Nevertheless lie 
 was stirred, now, by the hope that this one boy with 
 his kindly air might possibly serve as an interpreter 
 between him and this new, strange humanity. 
 
 " That goes very near the heart of the whole 
 matter, Kirkwood," he said. " Very near. It is 
 
6 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 true that the best literature while receiving universal 
 recognition does not make an universal appeal." 
 
 With a relieved mind, he turned back to Hall II. 
 11 Can you grasp that point, Hall? " 
 
 " You didn't ask Kirkwood whether literature ap- 
 pealed to him, sir," Hall replied. He was some- 
 what jealous of Kirkwood's popularity. It had a 
 quality so different from his own and Kirkwood's 
 father was only a bally shopkeeper. " He ought to 
 be a fair test, sir," he added; he was born in it, 
 so to speak." 
 
 "You admit you weren't, then?" Kirkwood an- 
 swered without waiting for a ruling from the master. 
 
 " I've admitted that there's a big difference be- 
 tween journalism and literature," retorted Hall in a 
 tone of one who would have added " you ass " on 
 freer ground. " The point is whether there's much 
 use for the old-fashioned sort of literature nowa- 
 days." 
 
 " You seemed to have used it in your essay all 
 right," remarked Kirkwood with a smile. 
 
 " Oh ! anything was good enough for that," Hall 
 retorted rudely. 
 
 " Even Shakespeare," interpolated Henry Ser- 
 combe. He preferred to overlook the impertinence 
 of Hall's answer. This should be the last lesson he 
 would give. He would explain to Dr. Weatherley 
 after school that a more capable exponent must be 
 found for this class in English literature; some 
 younger man who understood this strange new gener- 
 ation. 
 
 " By the way, Hall," he continued, " where did 
 you find all these apt phrases that you lifted without 
 acknowledgment? " 
 
 " Bartlett's dictionary of quotations, sir," Hall re- 
 plied promptly. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 7 
 
 " Ah! you ought to make quite an able journalist," 
 was old Sercombe's comment on that. He had lost 
 his fear of Hall. He was free, now, from further 
 responsibility in this particular connection; and he 
 was no longer, quite alone in the class-room. He 
 felt that young Kirkwood, in some inexplicable way, 
 understood his position; and the sense of that under- 
 standing comforted him. 
 
 u Ah! well . . ." he began, intending to revert 
 after the long interval, to his interrupted comments 
 on the essays before him; but just then came the 
 sound of a door opening on the corridor, one of the 
 class muttered " Bell " in an audible undertone, and 
 the prophecy was immediately afterwards confirmed 
 by the clangor of the bell itself. 
 
 Old Sercombe nodded his dismissal of the class. 
 
 As the boys filed out, not too noisily for they were 
 most of them in the upper school and but recently 
 aware of their dignities, he was wondering if he could 
 decently keep back young Kirkwood. Left to him- 
 self he would probably have made no effort to achieve 
 his desire. He had always been too sensitively con- 
 scious of how such overtures might appear to the 
 object of them. But in this case his problem was 
 solved for him. Kirkwood was quite obviously lin- 
 gering behind the others. 
 
 11 Did you want to speak to me, my boy? " was 
 Henry Sercombe's evasion of the responsibility for 
 detaining him. All his life, he had been haunted by 
 the knowledge that he shirked his responsibilities. 
 
 " You hadn't done my essay, sir," Kirkwood said. 
 " Not that it matters a bit, of course, only . . ." 
 
 Sercombe looked up and met the boy's singularly 
 candid, earnest gaze. 
 
 " You were going to say? " he said, apologetically. 
 
 " You see, sir, my father would rather like me to 
 
8 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 go in for writing and that kind of thing," Kirkwood 
 explained. " That's really why I'm attending this 
 class." 
 
 " And you? Do you feel any special leaning that 
 way, yourself? " 
 
 " Absolutely none, sir. And I don't think I've 
 any particular ability that way, either. Do you, 
 sir?" 
 
 Old Sercombe began to fumble with his spectacles. 
 He was afraid, as always, to give a definite answer 
 to such questions as these. How could he be sure 
 whether the boy had or had not any literary gift? 
 
 " Well, well. It's hard to say from the material 
 I have seen," he prevaricated. " And, then, well, 
 how old are you, now, Kirkwood? " 
 
 " Seventeen, sir." 
 
 Old Sercombe made a gesture that conveyed some 
 effect of renunciation. Seventeen! " he repeated. 
 " Well, my dear boy, one can say definitely at least 
 that you are neither a Chatterton, nor a Keats 
 beyond that well, in ten years' time I might be 
 able to express an opinion." 
 
 Kirkwood's expression was not one of final satis- 
 faction. " You see, sir," he began apologetically. 
 " I would like to prove to my father that there's no 
 chance of me being a writer. I'm I'm not the 
 sort. I'm quite sure of that. But if you could 
 in a way back me up, sir, it would help." 
 
 " Is there any other profession that appeals to 
 you? " Sercombe asked. 
 
 " I believe Mr. Dickinson would take me into his 
 office, sir." 
 
 "Dickinson?'; 
 
 11 James Dickinson, sir. The builder." 
 
 "Ah! yes, to be sure; the builder. And you 
 would like that?" 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 9 
 
 " It would give me chances, sir; and I should be 
 doing something." 
 
 11 You wouldn't prefer to be an architect, for 
 example? " 
 
 Kirkwood was perfectly sure that he would 
 not. He seemed to have an unusually clear recog- 
 nition of his own limitations for a boy of seven- 
 teen. " It would take so long, sir, with my articles 
 and all that before I could make a living," 
 he explained. " And, then, I'm no good at draw- 
 ing." 
 
 Old Sercombe pushed up his spectacles and rubbed 
 his tired, slightly inflamed eyes. " If you've made 
 up your mind ... ? " he suggested. 
 
 Yes, sir. I really only wanted to tell my father 
 that you don't think I'd be any good as a writer. It 
 might relieve his mind. He thinks a lot of your 
 opinion, sir." 
 
 The old man nodded absently. He was thinking 
 of the fussy little bookseller who was given to rather 
 fulsome praise of the half dozen works in criticism 
 that he, Henry Sercombe, had published in the course 
 of the last thirty years. Little Kirkwood was just 
 the kind of man who would boast his acquaintance 
 with a local celebrity, and who would seek the par- 
 ticular kind of prestige that he imagined might be 
 gained by his son's becoming an author. How did 
 Kirkwoood come to have so candid and attractive 
 a son as this, Sercombe wondered? Nevertheless he 
 fidgetted at the thought of the onus that was being 
 put upon him. 
 
 " I I could only say that you were still too 
 young for me to judge," he remarked. " Has he 
 any idea of sending you up to the University? " 
 
 " Oh no, sir. He couldn't afford that," young 
 Kirkwood said. 
 
io AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Old Sercombe elevated his shaggy gray eyebrows, 
 with the air of asking a question. 
 
 11 Journalism first, I suppose, sir," the boy 
 answered with a quiet smile. 
 
 The old man's response accepted the implied con- 
 fidence. 
 
 14 We can safely leave the future of journalism 
 in the hands of our friend Hall secundus," he agreed, 
 and went on in the same friendly voice, "And you 
 want to saddle me with the responsibility of dissuad- 
 ing your father? " 
 
 " Please, sir." 
 
 11 I shall have to tell the truth, you know." 
 
 " I want you to, sir." 
 
 Henry Sercombe realized that he was surprisingly 
 on the verge of pledging himself to an alliance with 
 young Kirkwood against his father; that he was tak- 
 ing sides with the new generation he had so recently 
 despaired of understanding, against a representative 
 of his own period. He dropped his spectacles and 
 stared curiously at the immediate cause of this re- 
 markable change in himself. 
 
 Until this afternoon, he had not particularly 
 noticed Stephen Kirkwood. He had not stood out 
 from the rest of the class as noticeably differing 
 from the species that the unhappy exponent of 
 English literature had come to think of as " those 
 dreadful boys." Kirkwood was less inclined to be 
 obstreperous than some of the others, he looked 
 clean and respectable, but he had had no other 
 distinctive marks that Sercombe could remember. 
 If he had been asked about him, he would, after mak- 
 ing an effort to distinguish his personality from the 
 rabble, have probably replied that he seemed an 
 " unobnoxious sort of youth." Could that one look 
 of sympathy, he had seen, have made so much dif- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER n 
 
 ference that he was, now, ready definitely to shoulder 
 what he regarded as a serious responsibility in order 
 to help the boy to choose his own occupation. 
 
 The habit of a life-time prompted Henry Ser- 
 combe to procrastinate. He fidgetted with his 
 spectacles, again rubbed his tired eyes (young Hall 
 could " do " that trick to perfection) and then im- 
 mensely surprised himself by saying: 
 
 " Very well, Kirkwood, I'll come and see your 
 father and do what I can to bring him over to your 
 point of view. Er you're perfectly sure that this 
 employment at Dickinson's is the best thing you can 
 do?" 
 
 " Quite sure, sir. I'm awfully obliged to you, 
 sir," Stephen Kirkwood replied with a charming in- 
 genuousness. 
 
 After he had gone, old Sercombe suddenly remem- 
 bered that there was something unusual about the 
 boy's mother. What was it? She was something 
 of a musician in a small way; played accompaniments 
 at concerts occasionally and sang rather well. But 
 had not some one told him, quite lately, an incredible 
 story about her and Dr. Threlfall, the cathedral 
 organist? An incredible story. Why the woman 
 must be over forty. 
 
 " But a nice boy, I should say, an unusually nice 
 boy," the retiring preceptor murmured aloud to the 
 lonely resonant spaces of the deserted class-room. 
 " An honest, gentle face and and, oddly, for his 
 age sympathetic. Perhaps, I had better continue 
 the class until the end of term." 
 
 Stephen was quite certain as he hurried down the 
 empty corridor that the world was a thoroughly 
 
12 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 satisfactory place to live in. His father who had 
 been exhibiting signs of that characteristically weak 
 obstinacy of his with regard to his son's choice of 
 profession must be convinced now. When Stephen 
 had elatedly announced last Easter that he had actu- 
 ally been stopped by Mr. Dickinson, himself, in the 
 street, had been asked when he was leaving school 
 and whether he had ever considered the question of 
 going into the building trade, he had repeated the 
 great news to his father with a tremendous burst of 
 satisfaction. Here, Stephen had thought, was a 
 wonderful opportunity unexpectedly, miraculously 
 sprung from heaven; and he had been perplexed and 
 distressed by his father's reception of the news. 
 He had known that he would have to persuade his 
 mother, she had impossible transcendental ambitions 
 for him, but he had been certain that he would have 
 his father on his side. And his father had proved 
 unbelievably difficult; had talked queer stuff about 
 Stephen's "commencing author"; and had finally 
 begged him to attend the new class which the famous 
 Mr. Kirkwood insisted on the adjective Henry 
 Sercombe was to take at the King's School, next 
 term. 
 
 Stephen had consented against his own judgment; 
 and in the^ course of the past two months, a sense 
 of oppression had been growing upon him. Some- 
 thing within him had inarticulately protested against 
 his conscientious endeavors to submit himself to the 
 idea of this new ambition. The writing of his 
 weekly essay had induced a strange feeling of sick 
 distaste, that he could not explain; a feeling that 
 had seemed in some way to be impersonal, as if, 
 as he had stumblingly tried to put it, " something 
 simply wouldn't let him write." He had been har- 
 assed, too, by a persistent nightmare, quite new in 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 13 
 
 his experience, a nightmare of being confined in 
 some intolerably dark and restricted place from 
 which he struggled desperately to break out. Some- 
 times he had succeeded and waked with a beautiful 
 sense of relief. 
 
 He had something of the same sense of relief, 
 now, after his talk in the class-room. With that 
 authority behind him, he felt sure that his father 
 must give way, and he meant to persuade his mother. 
 He had no doubt of his ability to persuade his 
 mother ultimately. He and she understood each 
 other, he believed although another wonderful 
 thing had happened to him that day which he had 
 no intention of confiding to her. There were half a 
 dozen good reasons for that, but the chief of them 
 was that in this case, she could not be expected to 
 understand. 
 
 No one could, except, perhaps, Hall II who 
 knew, and was no doubt " frightfully wild about 
 it." Stephen was prepared to have to fight Hall in 
 the near future. He had, indeed, a distinct feeling 
 that he would like to fight Hall. 
 
 She was only fourteen, the daughter of the head- 
 master, but she was an ideal. The boys only saw 
 her once a day at the school dinner, which was at- 
 tended by a number of the day boys as the new 
 school-buildings that had superseded the old school 
 in the cloisters twenty years ago, were a long mile 
 out of the town. She and her mother, her younger 
 sisters and their governess sat at a separate table 
 in the corner of the Hall, and this term, she had very 
 obviously distracted the attention of perhaps half-a- 
 dozen of the elder boys. It was a thing understood, 
 but, except in the case of the impossible Mallows, a 
 thing not discussed. 
 
 She had been a creature, remote and exquisite, be- 
 
i 4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 longing quite obviously to the world of fairies. 
 Such boys as Hall or Preston, high up in the school, 
 dared an occasional, sheepish glance in her direction 
 now and then; but the only acknowledgment they 
 made of their infatuation was a faint embarrassment 
 if her name happened to be mentioned it some- 
 times took the form of smacking the heads of small 
 boys who spoke irreverently. With Nellie Graham, 
 the dashing, exuberant beauty of the town, one, it 
 was admitted, could take liberties in speech. She 
 was well over twenty and Preston for example could 
 be legitimately envied for the boast that he had held 
 her hand during evensong at the Cathedral. Little 
 Miss Margaret Weatherley's personality was sacred 
 to her admirers for two reasons; the first that she 
 was less a human being than an almost religious sym- 
 bol of the feminine; the second that she was too 
 young. 
 
 Stephen had never been an acknowledged mem- 
 ber of the select group who dared the sacrilege of 
 furtive glances at the headmaster's table. Neither 
 Hall, Mallows, nor Preston had regarded him as a 
 rival, and if Stephen had been openly questioned, he 
 would have said at once that he thought that kind 
 of thing " all rot." It was Miss Weatherley, her- 
 self, who had suddenly raised him to a giddy, un- 
 stable pinnacle. She had never until to-day been 
 known to show by the least sign that she was aware 
 of any one of the fifty odd boys who shared the din- 
 ing hall with her for one-half hour every day. Her 
 mother and her governess sat facing the mob, and it 
 was a safe inference that if Margaret had a prefer- 
 ence, she would be too discreet to attempt any 
 advertisement of it. And to-day, she had percep- 
 tibly lingered in leaving the room most of the 
 boys had already gone when she got up from the 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 15 
 
 table and had astoundingly smiled at Stephen. 
 
 The simple fact, unannounced as it was by any 
 kind of precedent, would have been sufficient to mark 
 the opening of a new era. But as Hall, probably 
 the only witness, knew, the smile had had a very 
 special quality. The fairy had confessed herself 
 mortal. As she had followed at the tail of the 
 female procession towards the mysterious shrine of 
 her father's private house, she had turned round 
 deliberately and hailed the favored Stephen, as a 
 young woman might call to her lover. It had been 
 a beckoning smile, with enough evidence of self- 
 consciousness behind it to give a flavor that was as 
 illicit as it was exciting. Stephen had stood, wonder- 
 struck and blushing. He could not be sure now 
 whether or not he had actually acknowledged her 
 favor by any response in kind an uncertainty 
 that faintly distressed him. He had been so unpre- 
 pared, so simply wonderstruck. And before he had 
 had time to recover she was gone with a little toss 
 of her short skirts and her long hair, that had 
 seemed definitely to place her salute of him as the 
 opening of a fond intrigue. 
 
 The most modest and ingenuous of young men 
 must have been bewilderingly flattered. Stephen 
 felt as if he had in some inexplicable way been 
 amazingly promoted to high honors. . . . 
 
 When he left the class-room, Stephen found Hall 
 waiting for him at the entrance to the playground 
 and braced himself to the quarrel he instinctively an- 
 ticipated. Hall, however, displayed no sign of ill- 
 feeling. 
 
 "Hallo!" was his greeting. "What on earth 
 have you been talking to old Sercombe about, all 
 this time? " 
 
 Stephen stared at his rival with the least touch of 
 
i6 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 condescension. " Oh, I dunno," he said. " About 
 me taking up writing for a living." 
 
 " What did he say?" Hall enquired. 
 
 "He's promised to tell my father I'm no good 
 at it." 
 
 " You aren't keen, are you? " Hall returned, and 
 added. " Coming my way, I suppose? Or are 
 you going up to the field ? " 
 
 " No, I'm going back, now," Stephen said. He 
 was still puzzled, but Hall's suggestion that they 
 should go together appeared to point an intention of 
 11 having it out " in the comparative solitude of the 
 Park Road perhaps in the Park itself. Stephen 
 was quite willing, if that were Hall's object. 
 
 But Hall soon displayed the astonishing fact that 
 his intentions were pacific, even unusually friendly. 
 After a short silence that carried them out of the 
 school precincts he opened the only possible topic 
 of importance, by saying, with a marked embarrass- 
 ment: 
 
 " She seems to have taken a fancy to you." He 
 kept his eyes averted from his companion and sed- 
 ulously dribbled a loose stone along the path as 
 he continued, " I just wanted to tell you that I'm 
 out of it anyway. I've been off it, really, for some 
 time ; she's such a frightful kid, and I'm rather keen 
 on some one else, now ; no one you know. Of course, 
 none of us had any idea that you were playing that 
 game." 
 
 " But I'm not," Stephen interrupted. " I mean 
 I've hardly ever looked at her, even." 
 
 " All serene, keep your hair on," Hall said, re- 
 covering something of his usual aplomb. " / sha'n't 
 give you away. I'm not that sort." 
 
 11 Nothing to give away," Stephen mumbled, sud- 
 denly aware of a new and distinctly unpleasant aspect 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 17 
 
 of HalPs unconditional resignation. It was true 
 that Stephen's conscience was clear of any reproach, 
 but Hall's account of the episode, now that he had 
 definitely resigned all ambition of winning the lady's 
 notice, might contain all kinds of implications. His 
 journalistic ability would " spice " the story, and as 
 a result Stephen would be unmercifully ragged by 
 chaps like Mallows. And Stephen felt that any 
 ragging on that subject would be almost unbearable. 
 He did not delude himself with the notion that he 
 was in any sense " in love " with little Margaret 
 Weatherley, but her smile had marked him out as 
 her champion. After that, he could not let her name 
 be lightly used by such cads as Mallows. 
 
 " Well, you're not going to kid me that you've 
 never spoken to her, in the town or somewhere," 
 Hall replied. 
 
 11 I haven't," Stephen protested indignantly. 
 11 Never once. I tell you I've hardly looked at 
 her, even." 
 
 Hall smiled. " Well, why did she grin at you, 
 then? " He posed his question with the quiet cer- 
 tainty of one who knows that there can be no ade- 
 quate reply. 
 
 " No idea," Stephen said. 
 
 "That won't work, you know obviously," 
 Hall returned. 
 
 " I'll swear on my oath, I've never spoken to her," 
 affirmed Stephen with great solemnity. 
 
 Hall's handsome, dishonest face still wore the 
 same disingenuous smile as he said, " Oh, well, of 
 course, if you say so. . . ." 
 
 11 I'll swear it on anything you like," Stephen per- 
 sisted. 
 
 " Funny, her grinning at you like that," Hall com- 
 mented softly. 
 
18 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen winced at the repetition of that vulgar 
 and inappropriate description of little Miss Weath- 
 erley's more than perfect smile. He knew that the 
 use of the unpleasant word was mere brag meant to 
 confirm Hall's statement that he " was out of it," 
 that henceforward Margaret Weatherley was noth- 
 ing to him but " a kid," entirely beneath his notice; 
 but to pass the insult without protest seemed like an 
 act of disloyalty. 
 
 " She didn't grin," he muttered savagely. 
 
 " Sorry, I forgot," apologized Hall with apparent 
 sincerity. 
 
 " Forgot what? " Stephen asked. 
 
 " Forgot you were so frightfully gone on her." 
 
 Stephen suppressed his inclination to deny that. 
 Three hours before, he would have scorned the idea 
 with careless contempt. Now, he was not so sure. 
 He returned to the main issue. 
 
 " Perfectly rotten of you, if you were to sneak to 
 Preston or Mallows, or any one," he said. 
 
 " I've told you I wouldn't," Hall replied/with an 
 unconvincing warmth. 
 
 " You swear," Stephen insisted. 
 
 " Rather, of course," Hall agreed. 
 
 They had reached the bottom of Park Road, and 
 at Priestgate their ways diverged. 
 
 " I should think you could trust me not to do a 
 rotten thing like that," Hall said as they paused. 
 
 Stephen looked him straight in the eyes, and his 
 stare was returned with a self-conscious defiance. 
 
 " I should have to jolly well lick you, if you did, 
 you know," Stephen said. 
 
 ^ Hall's stare wavered. " Don't be a silly 
 Cuckoo," he protested sheepishly. 
 
 u Well, I should," Stephen persisted. 
 
 " If you could, of course," sneered Hall. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 19 
 
 11 Oh, I could all right," Stephen said. Every- 
 one knew that Hall was rather a funk. 
 
 " Good Lord, what's all the fuss about? " Hall 
 replied. " Haven't I sworn I wouldn't say any- 
 thing? " 
 
 Hall was commonly known at school as " rat," a 
 nickname that he had earned by his habit of biting 
 the tips of his fingers, but it occurred to Stephen at 
 this moment that the description might have other 
 applications. There was something very shifty 
 about young Hall. And his elder brother, an over- 
 grown lout of nearly nineteen, was an awful beast. 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood was alone in the shop when 
 Stephen went in. A kind of general understanding 
 existed that he should not enter the house by that 
 route, but ringing at the side door involved bringing 
 some one down from the first floor to let him in, 
 and in practice he almost invariably entered by the 
 shop. On this particular afternoon, however, his 
 father appeared to resent the accustomed breach of 
 etiquette. 
 
 Couldn't you make any one hear? " he asked on 
 a note of complaint. 
 
 " Didn't try as a matter of fact, father," Stephen 
 answered. " Does it matter? " He paused slightly 
 before he added, " Ada's day out, too. All 
 the same I generally come in this way. Do you 
 mind?" f 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood was bending over a ledger. " It 
 isn't of much consequence when there are no custo- 
 mers here," he mumbled. " You'd better get on 
 with your tea. I don't know if your mother's in or 
 not. I shall have to wait until Green comes back. 
 
20 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 He's gone with a couple of parcels. He shouldn't 
 be long, now." 
 
 Stephen accepted his dismissal, passed through the 
 shop into the room behind, used as a combination of 
 store-room for extra stock and " counting-house " 
 and so through a side door into the passage that 
 led to the house-door and up the stairs to what 
 was always spoken of as " the house." 
 
 He found his two sisters having tea in the kitchen. 
 
 They wore an air of breaking off a conversation as 
 he came in, although they must have heard him com- 
 ing up the stairs. 
 
 "Hello! where's mother?" Stephen asked. 
 
 Emily, the elder girl, looked up at her brother 
 with her habitual, intent stare. Up to the age of 
 fifteen she had peered at life with uncertain, short- 
 sighted eyes. Until then no one had realized the 
 handicap under which she labored. But after rather 
 powerful glasses had brought her the gift of ordinary 
 vision, she peered no longer. " It's such a comfort 
 to be able to see," was her common expression of 
 relief. And it seemed as if for the last five years 
 she had tried to see all she could. Strangers often 
 found her immensely steady stare rather embar- 
 rassing. 
 
 11 She isn't in the house," she said in answer to 
 her brother's question. " Wasn't she in the shop ? " 
 
 Stephen shook his head. " Father said I wasn't 
 to wait for him," he said. " Green's out somewhere 
 with parcels. Where's mother gone? " 
 
 " I've no idea," Emily replied, with an effect of 
 ominous solemnity. " I've only been in a quarter 
 of an hour." 
 
 ** She went out soon after three," volunteered 
 Hilda. " She said she was going to the Cathe- 
 dral." 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 21 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't she?" enquired Stephen 
 brusquely. 
 
 " No reason that I know of," Hilda replied. 
 
 " Why ' she said she was going,' then? " 
 
 " Well, she can't have been at the Cathedral all 
 this time," Hilda returned. ^ " It's half past five." 
 
 M Sh ! here's father coming," whispered Emily 
 with a kind of suppressed violence. 
 
 Stephen frowned. " What on earth's all the mys- 
 tery about?" he asked fretfully. He had noticed 
 that his sisters had lately started a habit of speaking 
 with a veiled innuendo about his mother's doings, a 
 habit that he found increasingly annoying. 
 
 11 Who said there was any mystery? " Emily en- 
 quired with her dominating stare, posing the ques- 
 tion as if she were examining her class at the National 
 School, and was very intent on forcing some unfor- 
 tunate examinee into an obvious mis-statement. 
 
 " Well," Stephen began, and then shrugged his 
 shoulders, as the sound of his father's step reached 
 the landing. " I don't mean there is any mystery, 
 only what you and Hilda try to make out," he con- 
 cluded hastily, in order to get his case clear before 
 he was interrupted. 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood came into the room with a melan- 
 choly air. 
 
 "Tea in the kitchen to-day?" he enquired as he 
 took his seat at the head of the table. 
 
 " Ada's day out, father," Hilda explained per- 
 functorily. 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood had adopted the theory that he 
 was very absent-minded, but neither of his daughters 
 had the least faith in it. 
 
 11 To be sure, so it is," he agreed carelessly, and 
 for a few minutes the meal progressed unenlivened 
 by conversation. The bookseller's demeanor sug- 
 
22 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 gested that he was immersed in a brown study, and 
 wished the fact to be clearly understood. 
 
 It was Stephen who interrupted his father's medi- 
 tations. 
 
 " Mr. Sercombe's coming to see you, one day, 
 soon, father," he said. 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood looked up at his son as if he dimly 
 remembered having seen him before, somewhere. 
 
 " Who did you say? " he asked. 
 
 11 Mr. Sercombe, father," Stephen repeated. " I 
 had a long talk with him to-day about my becoming 
 a writer. 
 
 " And his advice was? " 
 
 11 He said he hadn't seen any marks of genius, 
 yet," 
 
 "Well, you didn't expect him to, did you?" 
 Emily inquired. 
 
 "/didn't," Stephen said. 
 
 His father sighed emphatically. " You've set 
 your mind against becoming an author, Stephen," 
 he remarked. 
 
 " Got no gift that way, you see," his son explained. 
 
 " How can you tell, yet? " Hilda put in. 
 
 " Negatively, you can," Stephen responded. " I 
 mean if you're going to suffer from cocoethes 
 scribendi, the symptoms show pretty early." 
 
 " Not always," Mr. Kirkwood commented. 
 " Neither de Quincey nor Charles Lever began to 
 write until they were over thirty." 
 
 u Well, but, father," Stephen pleaded, " if the 
 symptoms develop later, I could begin just as well 
 then like de Quincey or Lever." 
 
 His father sighed again, patiently this time, and 
 was apparently preparing to explain away his over- 
 sight in having quoted a bad precedent for his own 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 23 
 
 case, when they heard the house-door slam with 
 vigor. 
 
 " Did your mother have the latch-key? " Mr. 
 Kirkwood asked quickly. 
 
 " I don't know that she did, but that's her right 
 enough," Hilda replied cheerfully. 
 
 For a moment they sat in silence, listening, until 
 the sound of another door closing reached them. 
 
 " Gone to take her hat off. She'll be in in a 
 minute," Hilda unnecessarily explained. 
 
 Emily jumped up, took the tea-pot and went over 
 to the range. 
 
 They were all suddenly more alert, more alive 
 than they had been a minute before. Some vitaliz- 
 ing spirit seemed to have entered into them with the 
 slamming of the house-door. 
 
 Less than a year ago, the Kirkwoods had been to 
 all outward appearances, an unusually united family. 
 They bickered less among themselves, they were 
 more bound by a common interest, than the members 
 of an average family of their class. But in the 
 course of the past ten months, they had ceased to 
 be a family and become a group of individuals; 
 although they were not yet aware of the great change 
 in their relations to one another. Each of them 
 had a secret, and it was the same secret; but while 
 all of them suspected that the others knew, only 
 the two girls, Emily and Hilda, had dared to whis- 
 per together of the dreadful fear that was shaking 
 them. 
 
 The bond that had held them so closely together 
 and was, now, so alarmingly relaxed, was a common 
 admiration. Cecilia Kirkwood was no romantic 
 
24 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 prototype of motherhood. Of the four beings 
 under her immediate influence only Stephen truly 
 loved her, and even his devotion had wavered dur- 
 ing the uncertainties of the last few weeks. But 
 she had an astonishing gift of begetting and retain- 
 ing admiration. In the town she was regarded with 
 a curious mixture of respect and suspicion which 
 was Medboro's manner of concealing an admiration 
 it dared not openly display. Medboro\ as a cathe- 
 dral city, held all artists to be suspect; and Mrs. 
 Kirkwood aggravated the offense by being an artist 
 married to a perfectly respectable book-seller in the 
 Long Causeway. The combination was frankly a 
 contradiction of all probability, and the town did 
 not believe in improbabilities. 
 
 Another reason for the town's suspicion was added 
 by the fact that Mrs. Kirkwood had the bad taste 
 to look ten years younger than her age. The clois- 
 ters with their nice respect for the accepted decencies 
 of life, regarded it as improper for a woman of over 
 forty with a grown-up family not only to dress but 
 to look as if she were thirty-five, or less. After 
 more than twenty years of married life, she ought 
 to have lost her figure, her prettiness and most cer- 
 tainly her vivacity. Other women in the same cir- 
 cumstances looked respectably more* than their age, 
 and it was Mrs. Kirkwood's Christian duty to do as 
 other women did. The cloisters and the town as 
 represented by feminine opinion never said these 
 things openly, but they thought them, and on dis- 
 creet occasions even hinted them. 
 
 Then again, Mrs. Kirkwood had an air- possi- 
 bly due in part to that suspicious artistry of hers 
 of being a foreigner. English women over forty 
 living in the provinces do not -walk about the town 
 with their heads in the air, do not laugh gayly in 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 25 
 
 public places, nor, generally, go about as if they 
 thoroughly enjoyed life. There was only one infer- 
 ence possible; she did these things to attract atten- 
 tion; and, almost sinfully, succeeded. 
 
 Nevertheless, Medboro', however grudgingly and 
 surreptitiously, admired Mrs. Kirkwood. 
 
 Her own family had certainly set the town a good 
 example. Her husband and her two daughters had 
 never aspired to do more than serve as a chorus to 
 her. From the beginning,, little Kirkwood from 
 the days of his astounding engagement and his 
 daughters from their earliest realizations of terres- 
 trial values, had recognized the fact that she was 
 inimitable. Any attempt to copy either her method 
 or her manner only made them ridiculous. She had 
 been for them a source of idolatry rather than a 
 model. If their recognition of her superiority had 
 been less marked, they might have loved her more 
 truly. 
 
 Even her son, though he had known her better 
 than the others, had been over inclined to adoration; 
 and she had permitted it. There had . been mo- 
 ments when she had longed for a truer intimacy with 
 him, but her insatiable temperament, always thirsty 
 for applause, had proved too strong for her. She 
 had sometimes consoled herself with the thought, 
 that destiny in setting her apart from life, was hold- 
 ing some greater achievement in reserve. Not until 
 she was forty-one had she fallen passionately, hu- 
 manly, in love. It seemed to her, then, that never 
 before had she met her superior. . . . 
 
 She came in, now, to the kitchen, with her usual 
 air of vivacious interest in the little affairs of the 
 family God had lent her. 
 
 " My dears, I hope you haven't waited for me," 
 she said. " Dr. Threlfall has been giving me an 
 
26 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 organ-lesson in the Cathedral, and I felt so splendid 
 up there rolling out the Missa Brevis, I simply 
 couldn't come away. Though of course, I can't 
 play it with my silly hands." She looked down with 
 a serious contempt at her beautiful hands, so bril- 
 liant and mobile but so small that she could never 
 properly master a series of full chords on the octave. 
 . It's about ten times worse on the organ than it is 
 on the piano," she added. 
 
 Her eyes were bright with the joy of living, but 
 she had mentioned the name of her lover without the 
 least appearance of self-consciousness. It was such 
 evidences as these, eagerly watched for by her daugh- 
 ters, that still inspired them with the hope that their 
 incomprehensible mother was safe from ultimate 
 disaster. 
 
 " Oh ! I wish I'd been, there," Hilda said, eagerly. 
 " You might have told me, mother. I've been all 
 alone in the house since you went out." 
 
 " Yes, and who would have got tea for our two 
 men and Emily," her mother replied; " if you'd 
 been attending my murder of Palestrina? " 
 
 " I could easily have got back in time for that," 
 Hilda said. 
 
 " I'll take my next lesson when it isn't Ada's day 
 out," Mrs. Kirkwood consoled her. " Only don't 
 say anything about it, because, it's just possible the 
 Dean might object to my playing the Cathedral or- 
 gan. Well, what's the news, dears, all this long 
 time?" She looked at Stephen, but it was her 
 husband who answered. He had something to say, 
 and they were always so glad when they could feed 
 her with anything like real news. 
 
 " Mr. Sercombe's coming up to see me about 
 Stephen," he said. " They've fixed it up between 
 'em, seemingly, that he's not to be an author." 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 27 
 
 Stephen shook his head. " There was no ques- 
 tion of fixing it up, mother," he submitted. 
 
 The firm curves of Mrs. Kirkwood's mouth lifted 
 to a rather quizzical smile. " Stephen!" she ad- 
 jured him; " admit you're trying to back out! " 
 
 He answered her smile but with a greater gravity. 
 " Mr. Sercombe agrees it's no good," he said. 
 
 " You've been persuading him," she returned, 
 " pleading with those serious eyes of yours to be 
 allowed to go and play with your horrid bricks 
 and mortar." 
 
 " Really, I haven't, mother," Stephen said. " Mr. 
 Sercombe said if he came, he'd have to tell father the 
 truth, and I told him that was just what I wanted 
 him to do." 
 
 His mother looked as if she hadn't heard 
 Stephen's defense. Her dark blue eyes were still 
 turned towards him but her attention was withdrawn. 
 It was as if her expression marked her place in the 
 conversation like a finger thrust into a book she was 
 no longer reading. 
 
 " I see," she remarked with an unnecessary grav- 
 ity, and instantly turned to her husband and con- 
 tinued. " I met Arthur in the Square. He and 
 your sister are coming round after supper to talk 
 or something. I asked him to bring some music." 
 
 Little Kirkwood looked a trifle disconcerted. 
 11 To talk? " he said. " What about? " 
 
 " He didn't say," his wife replied. She and her 
 husband were watching each other as if they tried 
 to search the other's defenses, while guarding their 
 own safety. 
 
 " Was Eleanor with him? " he asked. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But he said she was coming? To talk? Was 
 that exactly what he said?" 
 
28 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " He said, I believe, that he and Eleanor might 
 very likely look in after supper to-night, and that she 
 wanted to have a talk with you. He said distinctly 
 with you; and he looked at me over the top of his 
 gold spectacles to see how I should take it. And I 
 said, ' Oh, do. Bring some music, won't you? ' He 
 was just leaving the Bank." 
 
 11 Aunt Eleanor," Emily began; and then stopped. 
 Her mother was obviously not listening She was 
 leaning her elbows on the table and pressing a little 
 slip of a muslin handkerchief against her lips. She 
 looked as if she were bracing herself to some great 
 trial of the spirit, and had forgotten the presence 
 of the four other people about her. 
 
 The shadow they so persistently avoided was sud- 
 denly taking a visible shape. It was there with 
 them in the room as an acknowledged presence. 
 They watched her for a moment, and then hastily at- 
 tempted to occupy themselves. They were confused 
 and nervous, afraid to meet each other's eyes, lest 
 any sign of a common recognition of the shadow 
 might add one tittle of evidence against her. It 
 seemed to them that if once their fear was admitted 
 and shared, it would become a reality that could 
 never again be denied. 
 
 The little bookseller noisily pushed back his chair 
 and stood up. " Well, I'm sure we'll be very glad 
 to see them," he said. " We haven't been over- 
 burdened with their company lately." 
 
 His wife turned her eyes towards him without 
 changing her pose. " I expect Arthur will bring 
 some music," she said as if she offered some conso- 
 lation. 
 
 For the moment they were released. The two 
 girls also stood up and began to clear away the tea 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 29 
 
 things. Mr. Kirkwood after a short hesitation 
 went downstairs to the shop. 
 
 For a few seconds after he had gone Stephen and 
 his mother still sat opposite to one another at the 
 table. The girls had taken a tray full of crockery 
 into the combination of pantry and scullery that 
 led out of the kitchen. As they left the room, 
 Stephen looked up at his mother with a quick glance 
 of enquiry, and for an instant their spirits met in a 
 perfect understanding. 
 
 " Not yet, little boy, not yet," she said, and then 
 breaking the liaison, left him puzzled, still, but a 
 trifle comforted. 
 
 " It's no business of Aunt Eleanor's, anyway," was 
 the thought with which he expressed the conviction 
 of the family. 
 
 But, indeed, it was the business of the whole town 
 of Medboro'! Mrs. Kirkwood had compelled its 
 admiration too long, and already a relieved sense of 
 reaction was flaming about the streets and licking at 
 the doors of great houses in the precincts. 
 
 The owners of Medboro' had made many allow- 
 ances, but when it came to using the Cathedral as a 
 rendezvous they must really insist on the thing be- 
 ing put a stop to. 
 
 She was up there alone with him in the organ 
 loft of the Cathedral, this afternoon, for two hours 
 or more," was the report that was burning up the 
 town's last trickle of championship for their one 
 artist. 
 
 Every one knew. 
 
 And after all she was not properly speaking a 
 native of Medboro'. Her father, Handel Ed- 
 wardes, the agnostic sunken now to the indignities of 
 piano-tuning, had brought her to the town when she 
 
30 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 was sixteen. They had come from the North, orig- 
 inally, Leeds or somewhere. 
 
 Eleanor Bell, Andrew Kirkwood's sister, was a 
 little, anxious-eyed woman of forty-five, who still 
 retained an appearance of pinched prettiness. Her 
 life had been spent in responding to the urgent call 
 of convention. As a church worker and Sunday- 
 School teacher before her marriage, and later as 
 the wife of Arthur Bell and the mother of her two 
 daughters, she had untiringly modeled herself on the 
 pattern proper to one who aspired to rank one 
 degree higher than her actual status. 
 
 Her husband, although less preoccupied with a 
 single ambition, had nevertheless shared her aspira- 
 tion. He had started life as a choir-boy, and had in 
 virtue of his vocation, received a free education at 
 the King's School. He was, now, manager of the 
 City and County, perhaps the most important Bank 
 in Medboro', and was counted a person of social im- 
 portance, admittedly higher than that of the average 
 shopkeeper, and something lower than that of the 
 learned professions. 
 
 It was to this latter level that Mrs. Bell aspired. 
 She longed to move in the circle of these doctors, 
 solicitors, and minor clergy, whose circle in its turn 
 cut into the further, finally select circle of the Pre- 
 cincts: with the Bishop's wife, Lady Constance 
 Olivier at its ideal center. Mrs. Bell's movement 
 towards the achievement of this ambition had been 
 noticeably assisted by her husband's musical ability. 
 He was leader of the celebrated quartette of men's 
 voices which included as its incomparable alto, the 
 person of plump little Adam Neale, managing clerk 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 31 
 
 for Mr. Folliett, the town's chief solicitor, who did 
 all the cathedral business and whose grandfather 
 had been Bishop of Medborough from 1829 to 
 1843. Neale, it was reported, would one day be 
 taken into partnership with his employer who had 
 not his father's ability, and so another step on the 
 difficult ladder of ascent might be taken by Mr. 
 Neale's most intimate friends the Bells. 
 
 And now Mrs. Bell's whole future was being 
 threatened by this growing rumor of scandal about 
 her incomprehensible sister-in-law. " Something 
 ought to be said to her," Mrs. Bell maintained to her 
 husband, but she continually put off saying it, herself, 
 because she lacked the moral courage. She did not 
 for a moment believe that Mrs. Kirkwood would 
 do anything "actually wrong"; women in Mrs. 
 Bell's circle did not do those things; but all these 
 meetings with Dr. Threlfall gave people the chance 
 to talk; and to do that showed a terrible incapacity 
 to appreciate the true worth of life. Mrs. Bell, in 
 fact, had made up her mind to " say something " to 
 her brother, even before her husband brought the 
 report of the desecration of the Cathedral on that 
 Friday afternoon. He had had it, after his meet- 
 ing with Mrs. Kirkwood, from Adam Neale. 
 
 Mrs. Bell announced her disturbance by the ab- 
 stracted kiss with which she greeted her niece Emily, 
 when she opened the door. It was a kiss intended to 
 mark a general effect of disapproval for despite her 
 announced intention of speaking definitely to her 
 brother, she still hoped that a general effect of dis- 
 approval might be enough to fulfill her purpose. She 
 never made " scenes." She disliked emotional dis- 
 plays of any kind, and her method of persuading her 
 husband when he proved in any way refractory was 
 the method of quiet, almost sweet, persistence. 
 
32 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 When she had wanted the new drawing-room suite 
 they could not afford, it had figured in her conver- 
 sation as a steady undercurrent for eighteen months. 
 During that period Arthur Bell could count with ab- 
 solute certainty on his wife's apology for their pres- 
 ent furniture, whenever they had a visitor. 
 
 On this occasion, she had made some preparation 
 for the staging of her effect by requesting her hus- 
 band not to bring any music. She saw that omission 
 as signifying a certain formality; and her ideas of the 
 evening's occupation was a discreet conversation, 
 relating chiefly to their own position in the town 
 into which she saw opportunities of introducing a 
 series of hints with reference to the reprehensibility 
 of getting " talked about." 
 
 Her entrance admirably set the note of her inten- 
 tion. She came into her sister-in-law's sitting-room 
 with an air of restrained sadness, sat rather apart 
 from the others when she had conceded the usual 
 formalities of greeting, and took no part in the open- 
 ing conversation. 
 
 Stephen was upstairs doing his home-work ex- 
 aminations were to begin the week after next 
 and Mr. Kirkwood found a preliminary topic in a 
 rediscussion of his son's career. 
 
 Arthur Bell listened sympathetically, but ex- 
 pressed the opinion that Stephen could not do better 
 than go into the office of James Dickinson. 
 
 " He's probably the richest man in the town," 
 Bell said, "with the exception of Mr. Spentwater." 
 His profession had rrfade him a trifle too apt to judge 
 a man by the quality of his balance and investments. 
 
 Mrs. Bell saw her* first opportunity at this point. 
 
 11 He might have been Mayor, if it hadn't been 
 for his wife's failing," she put in. 
 
 Her husband looked a trifle uncomfortable. His 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 33 
 
 long practice of absolute discretion with regard to 
 his depositors' affairs had induced a habit of dis- 
 taste for anything approaching public scandal. He 
 slightly adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and 
 frowned absent-mindedly at the piano. 
 
 11 Drinks, doesn't she? " remarked Cecilia. 
 
 She was sitting on the music-stool, wearing an 
 almost girlish dress of sprigged muslin. Her de- 
 meanor since the entrance of her husband's relations, 
 had been, however, anything but girlish. She had 
 hardly spoken since they came, and her whole air was 
 that of one primed to resent the least allusion to her 
 recent conduct. 
 
 "Oh! well, well," the bank-manager answered, 
 " we can't say that for certain. Some people have 
 insinuated that er well that there was some 
 kind of trouble." 
 
 11 People will, you know, if you give them the least 
 chance," Mrs. Bell said demurely. 
 
 " Nothing else to talk about," Cecilia commented. 
 
 " So very unfortunate in every way," Mrs. Bell 
 remarked rather allusively. 
 
 Cecelia stared at her sister-in-law for one moment 
 as if she dared her to say another word, and then 
 turned to Bell and asked him why he had not after 
 all, brought any music. 
 
 He excused himself cm the grounds of being rather 
 tired. 
 
 " Too tired for music, but not too tired to come 
 all the way up here and spend the evening. . . ." 
 Cecilia's tone indicated that her sentence was incom- 
 plete, and they waited a moment in embarrassed 
 silence, for her to fill in the description of how the 
 evening was to be spent. The rising inflection of 
 her voice foreshadowed the coming of resentment 
 perhaps against the boredom of futile conversation 
 
34 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 indirectly designed to warn her back to the comforta- 
 ble ways of propriety. 
 
 But she added nothing to her indictment. She 
 sat poised on the music-stool, gripping the seat of it 
 with her hands, and staring across the room with 
 a look of set determination at the mirror over the 
 fireplace. 
 
 Mrs. Bell coughed gently. " We felt that we had 
 been rather neglecting you, lately," she said on a 
 note of conciliation; ' and as Arthur had seen you 
 this afternoon and made the appointment, I thought 
 we had better keep to it, even if he was a little 
 tired. ,, 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure. Very kind," murmured 
 Mr. Kirkwood. 
 
 " All the same if you'd play us something, Cicely," 
 Bell added nervously. He felt, as indeed they all 
 did, that in Mrs. Kirkwood's present mood, an un- 
 fortunate outburst might occur at any minute. 
 " My not bringing any music," he went on more 
 bravely, " was after all, you know, nothing more 
 than an intimation that I didn't feel up to doing any- 
 thing particularly, myself; I'll admit that nothing 
 rests me more than listening to really good music." 
 
 " It would be so nice if you would play us some- 
 thing," his wife concurred. Surely the moral effect 
 of this visit, she consoled herself, would do some 
 good. 
 
 Cecelia seemed to disengage her thoughts from 
 the mirror by a strong effort. " What would you 
 like?" she asked her sister-in-law. 
 
 Mrs. Bell blushed and looked at her husband. 
 Her own taste in music was, she knew, a little com- 
 mon. The only composers she could remember just 
 them were Mozart and Strauss, and she was not 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 35 
 
 quite sure whether either of them would be the 
 
 right " person to ask for. 
 
 " No, I asked you, Eleanor," Cecilia prompted 
 her mischievously, before Bell could reply. " Your 
 choice is much more likely to suit Andrew and the 
 girls ; Stephen is the only one of our family who can 
 tell Bach from Beethoven." 
 
 Mrs. Bell simpered. " A little Strauss, perhaps," 
 she suggested gently. 
 
 Cecilia nodded, turned round to the piano and 
 flung herself into a brilliant execution of one of 
 Dvorak's dances. 
 
 Bell pulled himself together with a little start as 
 she began, and then frowned gravely at his wife. 
 He did not wish her to be trapped into making a fool 
 of herself, and he knew that she was quite capable of 
 taking Dvorak for Strauss. He thought Cecilia's 
 trick in very bad taste. 
 
 Mrs. Bell imagined that the frown was meant to 
 convey disapproval of her choice of composer, and 
 the slight shrug of the shoulders with which she an- 
 swered her husband left him still uneasy as to the 
 state of her understanding. He determined to ex- 
 pose the fraud, himself, the moment Cecilia paused, 
 but she saved him the necessity. The instant she 
 had finished, she swung round on the stool and apolo- 
 gized to her sister-in-law. 
 
 " Sorry, Eleanor," she said, u but I didn't feel in 
 the mood for Strauss." 
 
 Mrs. Bell rose to the occasion. She may perhaps 
 have been perplexed by so unusual a version of the 
 waltz she had been expecting and although she would 
 probably not have had the courage to venture the 
 opinion that Dvorak was not Strauss, she was at least 
 prepared. 
 
36 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " What you gave us was quite delightful," she 
 murmured. 
 
 " That particular dance of Dvorak's, isn't often 
 played," Bell commented quickly. 
 
 " Too rebellious," Cecilia replied at once. 
 11 That was why I played it, to-night." 
 
 She got up from the music-stool, walked quickly 
 over to the fireplace and remained standing there, 
 leaning one elbow on the mantelpiece as she con- 
 tinued. 
 
 " Have you ever felt rebellious, Eleanor? " 
 
 " I suppose every one does, at times," Mrs. Bell 
 said. " It's just one of those feelings one has to 
 suppress." 
 
 "Why?" Cecilia asked sharply. 
 
 Mrs. Bell bowed her head a little, as if she were 
 humbly interpreting some splendid religious prin- 
 ciple. " I'm afraid the world would be a dreadful 
 place to live in, if we didn't," she said. 
 
 M But what I can't understand," Cecilia returned, 
 disregarding that answer, " is why, at least, we can't 
 be honest." 
 
 Mr. Bell coughed. No one, he believed, could 
 impeach his honesty. 
 
 Why, for instance," Cecilia went on, with an im- 
 patient gesture, " should you and Arthur pretend 
 that you didn't come here to-night to to tell me 
 or Andrew that I must really behave myself in 
 future? Obviously you did. Why make all kinds 
 of excuses and evasions and hint things instead of 
 saying them? Is it because you're afraid, or be- 
 cause you don't really believe I'm doing any harm 
 by seeing Dr. Threlfall so often? " 
 
 Mrs. Bell contented herself by looking at once 
 shocked and demure. 
 
 Her husband displayed more courage. He had 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 37 
 
 often had more difficult situations than this to handle 
 in his management of the Bank's affairs. He 
 slightly adjusted his glasses, looked firmly at his an- 
 tagonist, and assumed the inflexible sternness he wore 
 when refusing an overdraft. 
 
 11 As you've opened the subject, Cicely," he said 
 gravely, " I am glad to take this opportunity to say 
 that Eleanor and I think you are being very ill- 
 advised in seeing so much of Dr. Threlfall. We 
 are, of course, convinced that your intentions are per- 
 fectly innocent, but you give the town an opportu- 
 nity to gossip which is a very great pity." 
 
 I suppose you've heard about this afternoon? " 
 Cecilia replied quietly. 
 
 " Yes, I did," Bell said. " After I had met you, 
 however, I consider that incident, deplorable, in 
 every way. The Dean will certainly be extremely 
 vexed if he hears of it." 
 
 11 And supposing," Cecilia said, with a great calm- 
 ness, " supposing that my, our, intentions were not 
 perfectly innocent? " 
 
 Up to that moment, her own family had been 
 content, as always, to act as a kind of almost mute 
 chorus to her star performance. When there were 
 visitors to be entertained, the two girls waited on 
 their mother's mood and if she were inclined to talk 
 they sat in silence. They knew that they could not 
 compete with her. But, now, in a sentence she had 
 dangerously strained an allegiance that for the 
 past few months had been very hardly tried. 
 
 It was Emily who answered that daring challenge 
 of Cecilia's. 
 
 " Mother! How can you say such things? " she 
 said, in her even, sedate way. 
 
 "Are you afraid it might be true, Emily?" 
 Cecilia asked, turning her head a little to look down 
 
38 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 at her two daughters, tucked together into the sofa 
 set across the corner by the fireplace. 
 
 " No, of course not, mother," Emily returned. 
 
 Cecilia straightened herself; standing, now, erect 
 on the hearthrug as if she were on a platform, about 
 to sing as she commonly did with no score in her 
 hands. They watched her, then, with an increas- 
 ing fear that she might be going to make some 
 scandalous announcement. She so dominated them. 
 She held them in expectancy, as she sometimes held 
 her audiences; so sure of her own power not only to 
 please but even to compel her hearers to like just 
 what she chose to give them. 
 
 When at last she spoke, she looked over their 
 heads. " I will not be interfered with," she said 
 in a clear steady voice. " So please make up your 
 minds to that all of you. I can't help your criti- 
 cizing me or talking about me, but you must keep it 
 to yourselves. I shall go my own way whatever you 
 say or think." She paused before she added in the 
 same tone. " And now, I'm going to bed. I don't 
 feel in the mood for music or conversation to-night. 
 Good-night, Arthur. Good-night, Eleanor. It was 
 good of you to come up." 
 
 She did not offer to shake hands with them. She 
 left the room with a little flutter of haste as if she 
 dared trust herself no further. 
 
 " You ought to use your authority, Andrew," his 
 sister said as soon as the door was closed. 
 
 Little Kirkwood's hands were trembling visibly. 
 
 "Authority, Eleanor?" he quavered. "You 
 ought to know well enough that I've never had any 
 authority over her." 
 
 He had apparently no shame in making that state- 
 ment in the hearing of his two daughters. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 39 
 
 " You simply can't say anything of that sort to 
 mother, Aunt," Emily agreed. 
 
 " I don't believe the Bishop, himself, could," 
 added Hilda. 
 
 With a common movement, the father and his two 
 daughters were drawing together to defend her. 
 The secret was still safe. She had only been threat- 
 ening them. There was still a hope that she would 
 not finally betray them all. 
 
 Now that Cicely was gone, Mrs. Bell found her 
 voice. But all her scolding and indeed all the rest 
 of that evening's conversation in the bookseller's 
 sitting-room, was no more than an embroidery of the 
 original theme. 
 
 Mrs. Bell thought it so " unwise " to give the gos- 
 sips of the town the least opportunity." 
 
 " In any case, she must understand that the Cathe- 
 dral is sacred," was her husband's chief contribu- 
 tion. 
 
 " But, uncle Arthur, she is really having organ 
 lessons," was Emily's confession of a renewed fealty. 
 
 Uncle Arthur set his lips sternly. " You see, An- 
 drew," he said, disregarding his niece, " the point is 
 that the organ was hardly played at all. Simpson, 
 the verger, told Adam Neale." 
 
 Cecilia did not go to bed when she fled the com- 
 pany of the repulsed evangelists, she went straight 
 up to Stephen's room at the top of the house. He 
 was reading in the accepted school-boy attitude, with 
 his elbows on the table and his hands over his ears ; 
 and he looked up with an expression that boasted his 
 diligence when his mother came in. 
 
4 o AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " I say, mother, you don't want me to come 
 down? " he said. 
 
 Cecilia shook her head. 
 
 "They haven't gone, have they?" he asked in 
 surprise, and looked at his watch. " Why they 
 haven't been here much over half-an-hour." 
 
 " They haven't gone," Cecilia replied, shutting the 
 door. I've left them to gossip. I want to talk 
 to you, Stephen. Put your book away." 
 
 He marked his place with a slip of paper and obe- 
 diently closed his book. 
 
 " About my going to Mr. Dickinson's? " he asked, 
 mechanically. 
 
 Something in the manner of her coming had 
 already warned him that this visit to him had been 
 made for some more intense purpose than the dis- 
 cussion of his profession. Outwardly she appeared 
 calm and collected, but some emotion seemed to 
 radiate from her. His little room had been trans- 
 formed by her presence from a school-boy's study 
 to the stage of a dramatic encounter. 
 
 She may have been aware of some necessity for 
 making this change; or it may only have been her 
 natural need for facing the light that induced her 
 before she began to talk to him to remove the green 
 shade he had made for his little round-wicked 
 " opaline " china lamp. 
 
 She took no notice of his question. " Now I can 
 see you," she said, but it was more probable that she 
 had wanted him to be able to see her. 
 
 "What is it, mother? " he asked, with a hint of 
 trepidation in his voice. 
 
 She had seated herself on his bed, in much the 
 same attitude in which she had posed iherself on the 
 music-stool; her body very upright, her arms hang- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 41 
 
 ing straight down with an effect of tensity. But, 
 now, her preoccupied gaze at the mirror had given 
 place to an earnest, searching enquiry of her son's 
 face. 
 
 11 I must tell some one, Stephen," she said; " and 
 there's only you. Will you be very patient with 
 me?" 
 
 " Is it is it about Dr. Threlfall? " he asked 
 timidly. 
 
 " Oh ! but there are reams and reams before that, 
 if you are ever to understand in the very least," she 
 said. " Take it as a story, my dear; a long one, but 
 you ought to know it, because you are another chap- 
 ter, yourself. Perhaps you'll be the most important 
 chapter, but all the same my own little adventure 
 isn't finished yet." 
 
 Her dark blue eyes were watching the attentive 
 eyes of her son, so like her own, yet with that inde- 
 finable difference that stamped them as essentially 
 masculine. 
 
 " If you'd been a daughter, Stephen," she said, 
 breaking off her prologue, and then anticipating his 
 answer she pursed her mouth and shook her head. 
 " No, no, not like Emily and Hilda," she exclaimed. 
 11 They're Kirkwoods, they're nearly all Kirkwood. 
 They accept. They submit. They've accepted me, 
 just as your father did. They don't understand me ; 
 they've hung me up on the wall like an ikon you 
 know those religious pictures the Russians have 
 something to be admired and reverenced and won- 
 dered at. And, now, I'm going to fall down with 
 a bang and there'll be a mess of broken glass, 
 that they'll have to pick up and clear away very 
 carefully for fear of cutting themselves. You 
 know that's what they'll do, don't you, dear? And 
 
42 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 the silly old picture will have to be shut away in a 
 dark cupboard somewhere ; and it will get more and 
 more like a skeleton every day." 
 
 " But, mother, you don't mean to say that you're 
 going to . . . ? " Stephen interrupted. 
 
 " Oh ! the story, the story, first, little boy," she 
 said. " I can't answer any questions till I've told 
 you that." 
 
 Her tone was becoming more confident. She had 
 " got her audience " as she was wont to boast; and 
 she had no doubt of her own powers as a raconteuse. 
 She had told stories from the stage, before now, to 
 fill a gap ; and people had told her that that was her 
 true metier. But up to this time, she had been 
 faithful to her first love to music, although no 
 one knew better than she that she could never reach 
 any height of achievement, either as a singer or a 
 pianist. She often referred to herself as a third- 
 rate professional." 
 
 " But, mother. . . ." Stephen still protested. He 
 felt that he could not listen to any " story " until he 
 knew the truth she had, now, so definitely threatened. 
 
 She knew better than that. She meant to fling 
 her enchantment over him, the magic of her person- 
 ality. " You can't understand till you know every- 
 thing, dear," she pleaded. " And I want you to un- 
 derstand. You must understand. You're the only 
 one who can, and I want to keep you." 
 
 Stephen looked down and began to fidget with the 
 cover of his Trigonometry. " Very well, mother, 
 go on," he said. Nothing but the detail was lack- 
 ing, after all. He could no longer doubt that the 
 dreaded disaster was, now, imminent. In his heart 
 he was cursing the image of Dr. Threlfall. 
 
 She played with his attention by keeping him wait- 
 ing for still another minute before she began. It 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 43 
 
 was by such tricks as these that she tested the quality 
 of her own power. She liked, as she put it, " to 
 make it harder " for herself; certainly when she was 
 perfectly sure of winning. She never attempted to 
 play a losing game. 
 
 " I can't go as far back as I should like to," was 
 her opening, " because I don't know who our ances- 
 tors were earlier than the end of the 18th century. 
 But my great grandfather, Stephen, was a baker who 
 had a shop on Holborn Hill, and he was nearly 
 hanged by the crowd in the Gordon Riots. The 
 story is that he tried to stop them from burning 
 Newgate Prison. Have you ever read ' Barnaby 
 Rudge'?" 
 
 Stephen nodded. 
 
 " Don't look so puzzled, little boy," she said. " I 
 only want you to know that your great-great-grand- 
 father must have been a very brave little man. And 
 so was his son, my grandfather. He was a Chartist, 
 and went to prison for his opinions at Liverpool, 
 I think. And then there's my father. He was the 
 organist of St. Barnabas' Church in Leeds, you know, 
 and he had a lot of pupils and we were quite com- 
 fortably off. And then he found that he didn't be- 
 lieve in religion, and gave up his position as organist 
 and lost most of his pupils, because he wouldn't pre- 
 tend; and we came here and were dreadfully poor. 
 That was when I was sixteen. 
 
 " You see I want you to know just that much of 
 your mother's family history, dear; so that you may 
 understand that I come of a rebellious family. And 
 I was a rebel, too; when I married your father. 
 My father was tremendously against it; oh! passion- 
 ately he used to be very passionate in those days 
 it's twenty-two years ago, now. And, Stephen, 
 it's a dreadful confession, but it has to come, I should 
 
44 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 never have married your father if my father hadn't 
 been so set against it. He warned me. He told me 
 I should never be happy. He explained exactly how 
 I should feel in a few years' time. And the more 
 he argued with me, the more rebellious I got. It's 
 in my blood, I suppose. And, Stephen, for twenty- 
 one years, I have really kept going on my rebellion 
 against my father's opinion. I was so determined 
 to prove that he was wrong and I was right, although 
 I've known for twenty years that it was the other 
 way round. Have you got enough of me in you, 
 to understand that? " 
 
 Stephen was gnawing the end of a pencil. " Do 
 you mean to say, mother, that you've always been un- 
 happy since you married father? " he asked. 
 
 ' Heavens, no, child," she flung at him. " I 
 couldn't live if I couldn't find happiness for myself, 
 somehow. But I have never been satisfied, and if 
 it hadn't been for my pride in proving myself right, 
 I might have," she threw up her hands with a sud- 
 den gesture of abandonment, " oh, I should surely 
 have tossed my bonnet over some windmill or other 
 before this. You see it was only father that counted. 
 His was the only opinion that mattered to me in all 
 Medboro'. He and I were so different from all the 
 others, that they've always seemed to me nothing 
 more than an audience. 
 
 "Have you told grandfather, now?" Stephen 
 put in. 
 
 She shook her head. " You're the first, dear," 
 she said. 
 
 " But you haven't told me, yet," Stephen expos- 
 tulated. His voice trembled a little. He was sev- 
 enteen and he stood a good chance of taking the form 
 prize in the lower sixth this term. But he had a hor- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 45 
 
 rible premonition that he would not get through this 
 confession without crying. 
 
 14 I'm telling you, now," she returned with a little 
 jerk of impatience, and she got up from the bed and 
 began to pace the very narrow limits of Stephen's 
 bedroom. " Only, I can never, never explain to 
 you," she went on suddenly, facing round and con- 
 fronting him " not while you sit there as gloomy 
 as a rock. It's sympathy I'm asking you for, little 
 son, sympathy and understanding." 
 
 She frowned at him as if she were meeting some in- 
 comprehensible opposition, and was uncertain how to 
 pitch her note. 
 
 " Do you think that you know anything whatever 
 about me, dear? " she asked. 
 
 He could find no answer to that question. He 
 was not sure that he did know anything of this new 
 mother of his, who had come to life in the last few 
 months. With all his adoration of her, he had still 
 taken her so much for granted. Unconsciously, he 
 had placed her, broadly, in the category of mother- 
 hood. She was different, admittedly, from all other 
 mothers, but, he had assumed nevertheless, that all 
 mothers were in some way alike. Now, with this 
 new and calamitous revelation hanging over him, he 
 had to amend his generalization. It seemed that she 
 was less a mother than a distinctly perplexing young 
 woman. 
 
 " Nothing at all? " she prompted him. 
 
 "I I thought I did, until lately," he said. 
 
 " Are you jealous, Stephen? " she asked. 
 
 He propped his face in his hands and stared down 
 at the tablecloth. " No," he mumbled, " that would 
 be idiotic. I just hate Dr. Threlfall, that's all." 
 
 She drew a deep breath and threw back her head. 
 
46 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 For a moment she seemed to admit defeat, then she 
 began to talk rapidly as if she would make him for- 
 get what he had said. " I'm like those plants that 
 turn towards the light," she began. " I must have 
 light and air and freedom. And I had them in a 
 way, or thought I had until he came here last Feb- 
 ruary. You see you don't know him, Stephen. I 
 want you to know him, well. You shall, you must. 
 He's so big. He understands all sorts of things 
 not only music. He's creative. He oh ! hear- 
 ing and seeing him has made me realize that I was 
 shut into a dark little stuffy room. I must get out, 
 now. Everything has altered. I've seen it all for 
 the first time as what it is. This town, these people, 
 the whole atmosphere of the place." 
 
 "Then you're going right away?" Stephen in- 
 terrupted her, with the sound of dismay in his voice. 
 
 This was the crucial question she had tried to 
 postpone until such time as she had won his sym- 
 pathy. But that task was proving unexpectedly 
 difficult. She had spoken only of herself and she 
 was beginning to understand that the time had come 
 for her to make concessions to him. He, also, had 
 a point of view, and she had too lightly overlooked 
 the necessity for deferring to it. 
 
 She came back to the bed, and sat down again, so 
 near to him that she could touch him by leaning 
 forward. 
 
 " Does my going away seem the end of every- 
 thing, Stephen?" she asked gently. "Tell me, 
 dear, I've been rather up in the clouds lately." 
 
 " Is it is it absolutely necessary for you, to 
 go away? " he said. 
 
 " Absolutely necessary for a hundred reasons," 
 she replied, in a low voice. She was prepared to 
 be humble, now. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 47 
 
 " But, mother; it seems so so awful," he pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "Does it? To you? Yes, I daresay it does," 
 she admitted. " But we have only one life, Stephen, 
 and I've done my duty for twenty-two years; given 
 all my best time to you and Andrew and the girls." 
 
 He did not weigh that statement against the 
 earlier boast that her rectitude had been largely 
 upheld by her determination to justify herself for 
 having married Andrew Kirkwood in the first in- 
 stance, possibly both accounts were equally true. 
 He was too much occupied just then by the prac- 
 tical aspects of the problem. 
 
 " It'll be awful for us," he said. 
 
 " Will it ? Why should it be ? " she asked. She 
 had had some glimmering of this complication, but 
 had resolutely put it away from her. 
 
 " Oh ! well, all the talk and everything," he ex- 
 plained. 
 
 11 Of course, they'll talk, but they do, now," she 
 commented. " Will it be so very much worse, after- 
 wards? " 
 
 11 Bound to be, isn't it? " he replied. 
 
 " Couldn't you bear it, for my sake? " she asked. 
 
 He shuddered. " Oh, mother, must you?" he 
 said. 
 
 They were near the equality she had sometimes 
 desired, but now, she was afraid of it. On this level, 
 she could find no justification for rebellion. He was 
 asking her for self-sacrifice, and she dared not meet 
 that demand frankly. If this desire of hers was to 
 be judged ethically, she would, she knew, have no 
 case. 
 
 " I must, I must, Stephen," she replied, rising 
 again to her pedestal. " I have given more than 
 twenty years of sacrifice, now it's your turn. Be 
 
48 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 just to me, at least. Aren't you willing to give any- 
 thing? I don't say anything about the others. 
 They must take their chances. But you won't you 
 try to forgive me and go on loving me? After all 
 these ages of darkness, won't you let me have a 
 little light and happiness before I'm an old woman? 
 We sha'n't be separated altogether, little boy. You 
 can come to stay with us in London. That's why I 
 wanted you to be an author. I thought you would 
 come to live near us, then. Couldn't you? Even 
 now?" 
 
 11 No, I couldn't do that," he said. " It's no use 
 my trying to write, because I haven't got it in me. 
 And I don't think I want to meet Dr. Threlfall 
 again, ever." 
 
 " But, Stephen, you don't know him," she pro- 
 tested. 
 
 Stephen looked obstinate. " I don't want to, 
 either," he said. 
 
 "Oh! you're a Kirkwood, I suppose, after all," 
 she flared out, suddenly. " I thought you'd under- 
 stand, but evidently you can't. You're just as self- 
 ish as the others. You can only think of what effect 
 it will have upon you. You won't think of me, any 
 of you. Just as long as I make love to you, you'll be 
 adoring and all the rest of it proud of me, aren't 
 you, in a way? But when I really want your sym- 
 pathy. . . ." Her voice broke in a wave of self- 
 compassion. 
 
 She was getting up, when Stephen threw himself at 
 her feet and held her. " It isn't that, mother, it 
 isn't that," he gasped. " But I hate him for taking 
 you away. I do, I hate him." 
 
 And with that burst of expression, the tears he had 
 been dreading so long, came with a rush, and he was 
 no longer ashamed of them. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 49 
 
 " Don't go away, yet, mother," he besought her. 
 11 Not yet, not for a month or two. Promise me 
 that." 
 
 She held him close to her and promised. She was 
 so moved by his outburst, that just then she was 
 willing to admit herself defeated; almost ready to 
 promise him that she would not go at all. 
 
 Stephen was almost asleep when a memory re- 
 curred to him. For more than six hours he had 
 forgotten the smile with which little Margaret 
 Weatherley had so surprisingly honored him that 
 day. Now, the thought of it came back to him as a 
 new hope in this drowning world of his. No doubt 
 she had meant nothing by her childish encourage- 
 ment; she was hopelessly far above him in the social 
 scale; but her approval had been very sweet, and 
 vaguely he was aware of it as promising some kind 
 of exchange. 
 
 Stephen had this at least of his mother in him; he 
 instinctively turned towards the light. 
 
II 
 
 STEPHEN found that life was taking a new 
 shape or was it a new color? when he 
 woke the next morning. It was a Saturday and the 
 King's School was playing the Town that day, one 
 of the most important cricket matches of the term. 
 Stephen would be out of school by eleven o'clock, the 
 morning was brilliantly fine, and he ought, by all 
 precedents, to have awakened with a keen sense of 
 anticipation and enjoyment. But his first conscious 
 sensation when he came out of sleep was one of 
 spiritual discomfort. He was aware of a feeling of 
 gloom and depression. Just so might a man feel 
 who learns in the prime of life that he is suffering 
 from an incurable disease. It was as if he saw all 
 the brightness of the day through blue glasses. 
 
 Yet before he reached school, he had begun to 
 hope again. His young optimism refused to accept 
 as unalterable the verdict that had been passed on his 
 happiness. He was not ready to find alleviations in 
 the prospect of the life he anticipated if his mother 
 persisted in the dreadful intention she had confessed 
 to him; but he found relief in the assurance that she 
 would certainly change her mind. The more he 
 thought of it, the more convinced he was that she 
 could never run away with " that fellow, Threlfall." 
 In the sunshine of the Park Road, the idea became 
 inconceivable. 
 
 50 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 51 
 
 She had not come into breakfast. Stephen had 
 been glad. He had been afraid that, in her presence, 
 he would be unequal to meeting the stolid enquiry of 
 Emily's stare. As it was, his sister had appeared to 
 suspect him of some complicity but he believed that 
 he had effectively hidden himself behind a screen of 
 rudeness and bad-temper. He had returned her 
 stare with the challenging boyish impudence that 
 Emily used to reprove as " cheek." On this occa- 
 sion she had shown signs of embarrassment and had 
 looked away as if she had been caught spying. 
 
 They had all been uneasy during the meal; and to 
 Stephen, his father and his two sisters had seemed to 
 stand out more clearly than usual for the vague, 
 assimilating background of the familiar home-life. 
 He had been more aware of them as personalities, as 
 individuals. It was as if he had never before been 
 conscious of their complete separateness from each 
 other and from himself. 
 
 After breakfast, he had come straight out of the 
 house without seeing his mother. Usually, when she 
 did not come in to breakfast, he went to her room to 
 say " good-by " before he went off to school. He 
 was sorry, now, that he had omitted that ceremony. 
 He saw that she would probably believe that he was 
 angry with her. But, at the time, he had not thought 
 of that. The truth was that he had been afraid to 
 go to her. He had known that his sisters would re- 
 gard his omission to say good-by to his mother, as 
 having some special significance but he had felt too 
 shy to face her. He had been to her room hundreds 
 of times on a similar errand, but this morning the 
 prospect of that visit had had the air of being a new 
 occasion. Since that talk of the night before, she 
 seemed to be in some way less his mother, less his 
 father's wife. She, too, was newly separated from 
 
52 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 some generalized background of experience. She 
 had always been different from the others. He had 
 seen her as the important individual of the house- 
 hold. But this morning he saw her as a stranger. 
 He was perplexed about her. He had to confess 
 that he had never understood her either her secret 
 life or her relations to himself, his father and his 
 sisters. It was such an amazing thought that she 
 might be in love! He had no test for that in her 
 case. He had assumed that love, of that kind, was 
 the prerogative of the young. He thought of little 
 Margaret Weatherley, and blushed. The compar- 
 ison seemed to him sacrilegious, indecent, an insult 
 both to the child and to the mature woman. 
 
 He saw young Hall in the playground, but no sign 
 of greeting passed between them. Hall was enter- 
 taining a group of younger boys, talking to them in a 
 high, excited voice, posturing, trying to make them 
 laugh. Stephen pretended not to see him. There 
 was something subtly repellent to him in the sight 
 of this striving to win popularity by playing the 
 mountebank for the benefit of the juniors. Young 
 Hall was always doing it. His elder brother did it, 
 too, but in a more furtive way. He had favorites. 
 Ypu sometimes saw him walking down Park Road 
 with his arm on a little boy's shoulder. 
 
 Stephen frowned. He was seeing the world, 
 again, through his blue glasses. The very sunlight 
 had lost its power of illumination. 
 
 But in the Lobby, the cloud lifted again. He was 
 hailed by Noakes, the captain of the XI a stupid 
 honest bullet-headed boy, but very good at games. 
 Noakes was a boarder, the son of a parson, and ac- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 53 
 
 cording to the accepted social standards of the 
 school, a being recognizably superior to the ordinary 
 day-boy. Stephen was conscious of being flattered 
 when Noakes hailed him. 
 
 44 Hallo ! Kirkwood. You're the man I wanted to 
 see," he said. " I hope you'll be on your day, this 
 afternoon. I'm going to put you in third wicket. 
 The Town are showing up an awfully hot lot against 
 us. E. P. Dennis is playing for 'em." 
 
 Stephen whistled. " E. P. Dennis!" he ex- 
 claimed. " Why he's almost a pro. Plays for the 
 County." 
 
 Noakes nodded dolefully. " And our bowling's 
 so absolutely putrid," he commented. " Our only 
 chance is to win the toss and make a decent score. 
 Dennis is safe for a century if he once gets set." 
 
 " I'll do my best, of course," remarked Stephen, 
 reverting to Noakes's opening. 
 
 1 You're so confoundedly unreliable," Noakes 
 complained. " If only you could come off 
 to-day. . . ." 
 
 " I'll admit I don't feel much like it," Stephen 
 said. 
 
 "Why not?" Noakes asked with an anxious 
 scowl. "Nervous?" 
 
 44 No no not in that way," Stephen ex- 
 plained. " I feel a bit blue all round this morning 
 I don't know why." 
 
 14 Good Lord! You don't think you're going to 
 have the measles, do you? " Noakes said. There's 
 no end of it, about. They're not sure the Weather- 
 ley kids haven't got it. The Head told me this 
 morning that he was sending them all into the coun- 
 try at once. Might have to shut up the school, you 
 know, if they have. You haven't got any spots, or 
 cold shivers or that sort of thing, have you? " 
 
54 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen laughed. He was glad to be able to 
 laugh in order to relieve his embarrassment. He 
 was not much concerned by the possibility that little 
 Margaret Weatherley might be sickening for the 
 measles, nor that she had probably been sent away 
 with the other " kids " to the country; but he found 
 that any reference to her, now, made him abomin- 
 ably self-conscious. 
 
 Oh! no, nothing of that sort," he said. 
 
 "What sort, then?" persisted the anxious 
 Noakes. 
 
 " Oh, home trouble of a kind," Stephen said. 
 The admission came automatically, and his hasty 
 qualification failed to disguise it. " I mean . . ." 
 he began, hesitating to find some explanation of his, 
 as he supposed, inexplicable confession. 
 
 But Noakes did not wait for the explanation. 
 " Oh! I see," he said with a queer look at Stephen, 
 that seemed to combine sympathy and contempt. 
 " Bad luck," he added as he turned away. 
 
 Stephen gazed after him with a stare of dismay. 
 Surely it was not possible that Noakes could know 
 anything about that? Did the whole town know? 
 
 The bell was ringing for roll-call and prayers in 
 the big Hall, and the gushing uneven current of boys 
 began to set strongly up the long corridor. If 
 Noakes who was a boarder, had had news of the 
 scandal by some side wind, argued Stephen, the day- 
 boys might be posted to the latest detail such as 
 yesterday's desecration of the Cathedral. He 
 watched uneasily as the younger boys clattered past 
 him. He was ready to misinterpret every laugh or 
 grimace, every glance thrown at him as evidence that 
 the truth was out and being discussed on every hand. 
 And when at the top of the big Hall, right under 
 the Head-master's rostrum, he saw Mallows and 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 55 
 
 Hall primus sniggering together, and looking point- 
 edly in his direction, he had no longer any doubt. 
 
 The incident of the second hour before the 
 " break " that to-day would mark the end of school 
 for the members of the first XI, was, however un- 
 pleasant in itself, something of a relief to Stephen. 
 
 Dr. Weatherley was taking the upper and lower 
 sixths together. The class was in Latin, a prepared 
 translation of Horace. As a rule this was as stren- 
 uous an hour as any in the week. Weatherley al- 
 though he had no gift for teaching, was an enthus- 
 iastic scholar and a conscientious master. But this 
 morning, he was obviously worried by matters out- 
 side the subject immediately before him. He passed 
 several howlers that sent up the eyebrows of the 
 upper sixth, dropped viciously on young Winter for 
 an uninspired but literally accurate piece of con- 
 struing; and then, on a slightly peevish note, an- 
 nounced that the lower sixth as a whole had come 
 disgracefully unprepared. 
 
 " Look through the passage again," he added in 
 a more conciliatory voice. " I shall be back in five 
 minutes." 
 
 Every boy, there, knew that he had made an excuse 
 to return for a few minutes to the affairs that were 
 absorbing his attention to the neglect of the class, 
 but Weatherley on some principle of his own never 
 admitted the boys into his confidence. He may have 
 imagined that this reserve maintained the influence 
 of his prestige. 
 
 He had hardly closed the door behind him before 
 the class was discussing with the dignity proper to 
 its average age, the chances of an outbreak of 
 
56 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 measles. Stephen still absorbed by his private griev- 
 ance ostensibly devoted himself to the reconsidera- 
 tion of the Ode of Horace, but his ears were pricked 
 to catch any allusion to his mother's defiance of the 
 town's opinion, and when Mallows stepped out from 
 his desk, crossed the room and renewed his confab- 
 ulation with Hall I, he had no doubt that himself or 
 his family was the subject of the conversation. 
 
 He could no longer keep up his assumption of in- 
 difference. He raised his head and stared defiantly 
 at the two elder boys; a stare that they answered by 
 a coarse laugh. 
 
 Mallows had given Hall I a sheet of paper, and 
 the two of them were bending over it. From where 
 he sat, Stephen could see that the subject of their 
 amusement was a drawing of some kind. And the 
 face of young Winter who sat next above Hall I at 
 the bottom of the lower sixth, was burning with em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 Stephen's instinctive leap to his feet was made in 
 defense of his mother. He was prepared to run 
 amuck if need be to proclaim his ..championship. 
 What momentarily defeated him was the fact that 
 Hall instantly pocketed the drawing with a sneer of 
 contempt. 
 
 " Give me that paper," Stephen demanded. 
 
 Hall and Mallows jeered at him in concert. 
 
 " Damn you, give it to me," Stephen insisted. 
 
 " Naughty language," commented Mallows. 
 
 Hall leaned slightly back from his desk and taunt- 
 ingly dared him to take the paper if he could. Hall 
 was certainly two stone heavier than Stephen and 
 eighteen months older. Also, he had Mallows to 
 help him if physical violence were offered. 
 
 Stephen trembled with impotence. 
 
 " I'm going to have it," he said passionately, and 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 57 
 
 might have dared the attempt if Noakes had not 
 interposed. 
 
 " Here, good Lord, what's the row? " he asked 
 coming over to the group at the bottom of the form. 
 
 " They've got some filthy drawing or other 
 about about me," Stephen exclaimed. 
 
 Mallows raised his eyebrows. " Really not," he 
 said calmly. " Absolutely no concern whatever of 
 Kirkwood's, Noakes. Just a private joke between 
 Hall and myself." 
 
 Noakes was not a clever boy, but he was as stub- 
 born as a mule, and he strongly disapproved of the 
 friendship between Mallows and Hall I. He 
 thought Stephen rather a decent kid for a day- 
 boy. 
 
 Well, let me see the thing," he demanded of 
 Hall. 
 
 " Oh! hang it all, Noakes," Mallows interposed. 
 
 " I'm not talking to you," Noakes replied to his 
 fellow prefect. " I'm talking to Hall." 
 
 11 My drawing, though," Mallows said. 
 
 Noakes chose to ignore that. " Hand it over, 
 Hall," he said, on a note of authority. " I'm not 
 going to have this sort of muck in the school." 
 
 Hall looked sullen but uneasy. " What if I 
 don't? " he asked. 
 
 " I shall report it," Noakes said. 
 
 "Oh! damn it all, you couldn't," Mallows pro- 
 tested. 
 
 " Directly Dr. Weatherley comes back," Noakes 
 said quietly, " I'm going to put a stop to this kind of 
 thing. It's been going on too long." 
 
 Mallows shrugged his shoulders. " Of course if 
 Noakes is going to play a dirty game like that," he 
 said, addressing Hall. 
 
 Noakes held out his hand for the paper. He had 
 
58 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 no gift either for argument or repartee, but he had 
 a reputation for keeping his word that in the present 
 circumstances was more effective. 
 
 Hall took the paper from his pocket, hesitated as 
 if he were about to tear it up and then sheepishly 
 gave it to Noakes with the remark " Absolutely 
 nothing in it, really." 
 
 Stephen caught one glimpse of the drawing before 
 it was transferred to Noakes's pocket. It was not 
 what he had dreaded. The figures represented were 
 recognizable even without the initials that proclaimed 
 their identity as those of himself and little Margaret 
 Weatherley. Mallows was a clever draughtsman. 
 
 " What are you going to do with it? Mallows 
 asked with a manifest anxiety. 
 
 " Burn it as soon as I get the chance," Noakes 
 said, and added in a tone of disgust for the benefit of 
 the two classes at large. u What a couple of filthy 
 swine you are." 
 
 He stalked back to his desk, the picture of right- 
 eous anger. 
 
 There could be no question that his was the pop- 
 ular party. Medboro' was a clean enough school as 
 schools go, and both Mallows and Hall I had long 
 been stigmatized as " dirty devils." 
 
 Stephen, returning to his place, was trying to catch 
 the eye of the perjured Hall secundus, who, alone, 
 could have been responsible for the information that 
 had inspired the subject of Mallows's obscenity. 
 But young Hall was pretending a complete absorp- 
 tion in the Odes of Horace; and Stephen had hardly 
 sat down again, before Dr. Weatherley returned, 
 evidently in a great hurry, with his gown bellying be- 
 hind him, and wearing that look of grave abstrac- 
 tion which in the eyes of the school made him appear 
 almost incredibly adult. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 59 
 
 Fortunately for Stephen, he was not called to " go 
 on " before the clangor of the bell, rung five min- 
 utes earlier than usual, announced for him the end 
 of his week's work. He could not fix his attention 
 on Horace. The incident of the drawing had tem- 
 porarily closed the two ends of the ring that had be- 
 gun to encircle him when little Margaret Weatherley 
 had so unexpectedly put him in a class apart from all 
 the other boys. That smile of hers, the dread of a 
 scandal about his mother, his sight of her the night 
 before as a young and ardent woman in the thrall of 
 an illicit passion, and now this final branding of him- 
 self as a lover all these influences combined to 
 hedge him into a limited world in which he moved, 
 alone, but conspicuous. He had a sense of wrong- 
 doing, of being ashamed, of somehow ranking with 
 such boys as Hall I and Mallows, whom he had al- 
 ways disliked. And he saw no way of escape. He 
 would surely " have it out " with young Hall for his 
 despicable breach of faith; but even if he could be 
 induced to fight, the incident would confirm rather 
 than otherwise, the impression that there was some 
 ground for well, for the implications of that 
 beastly drawing of Mallows's. Moreover, if that 
 ridiculous scandal could be exposed for the canard 
 that it was, a far greater and more valid threat still 
 hung over him. His mother had said she would 
 come up to the Town ground to watch the match 
 after lunch, and some of the boys would be talking 
 about her and pointing her out as " young Kirk- 
 wood's mother." He must, however innocently, be 
 associated with her coming disgrace; and fellows like 
 Hall primus would have the chance to say that 
 Stephen was precociously following in her footsteps ; 
 that at seventeen he was making love to the head- 
 master's daughter. It wasn't true. In act, Stephen 
 
60 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 was perfectly innocent. Yet he felt guilty. Little 
 Margaret's smile had flattered him, and he would 
 have been glad to be sure that it was the expression 
 of a particular preference for him as a man. He 
 had made up his mind that should he meet her in 
 the town and should she smile at him again, he would 
 if he dared return her salutation with a sig- 
 nificance that shq could not misunderstand. He 
 liked to picture that meeting, and to endow the 
 thought of it with the glamour of true romance. He 
 would like her to know that her favor had been 
 gratefully accepted, that he was her true and de- 
 voted slave. 
 
 As to the other affair, which seemed to him by 
 comparison sordid and in some way slightly indecent 
 (his mother and Dr..Threlfall were so hopelessly 
 old) he was unfortunately inextricably involved. 
 If a slur were cast on his family's reputation, he 
 could not hope to escape the taint of it. He hoped 
 desperately that if his mother did come to the match, 
 she would not bring Dr. Threlfall with her. 
 
 It was his preoccupation with this last threat to 
 his reputation, that permitted Hall II to escape 
 when the bell rang for the interval. At that mo- 
 ment Stephen had forgotten the necessity for having 
 an immediate interview with the mischief-maker, and 
 Hall took full advantage of the opportunity afforded 
 him. When Stephen remembered him, he was no- 
 where to be seen; and later, on the way up to the 
 Town ground, Stephen saw his enemy walking arm- 
 in-arm with his brother and Mallows, well protected 
 against any hostile approach. The combination was 
 already marked as being definitely inimical to him. 
 It represented a party that might find many new 
 adherents in both the upper and the lower schools. 
 And just then, Stephen forgot that his own party 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 61 
 
 would probably be the larger of the two, and cer- 
 tainly of a better standing; he thought of himself 
 as alone and conspicuous, as an object of shame ex- 
 posed in the public stocks. 
 
 His experience of the first three-quarters of the 
 match was not of a kind likely to raise his spirits. 
 The Town won the toss and took first innings; lost 
 one wicket for seven, and then proceeded to make 
 389 in less than four hours. The redoubtable E. P. 
 Dennis was chiefly responsible for this score, and 
 once he had got the measure of the school bowling 
 he gave the field a strenuous and fatiguing outing. 
 Stephen at long-oft and deep square leg, except for 
 three disastrous overs in which he was tried as a 
 bowler was very thankful when the innings 
 closed. 
 
 In the last hour and a half, he had almost forgot- 
 ten his spiritual troubles. Dennis was a powerful 
 hitter, and Stephen had been kept very actively em- 
 ployed in his efforts to save boundaries. But as he 
 trotted rather wearily across the length of the field 
 towards the pavilion, he was hailed out of the com- 
 parative ease of his physical tiredness by the sight 
 of his mother, coming to meet him, in company with 
 Dr. Threlfall. 
 
 Even if she had not gayly beckoned to him with 
 her sunshade, Stephen could not have avoided them 
 without unmistakable rudeness, but he slackened his 
 pace and his approach to them displayed quite clear- 
 ly the marks of his reluctance. 
 
 His mother chose to overlook that evidence. 
 
 " Poor Stephen," she said, as soon as he was well 
 within hearing distance. " You must be tired out. 
 
62 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 How we've been hating that horrible Dennis person. 
 Haven't you even got the energy left to say ' How 
 doyoudo' to Dr. Threlfall?" 
 
 Stephen held out a limp, hot hand, feebly mum- 
 bling some inaudible acknowledgment of his as- 
 sumed pleasure at the meeting. 
 
 He was resentful. He had guessed at once that 
 his mother had planned this. She had said last 
 night that she wanted him to meet Dr. Threlfall. 
 She was trying to persuade him into complicity with 
 her. She was suffering from the delusion that any 
 one who met Dr. Threlfall was sure to like him. 
 And all Stephen's desires at that moment were con- 
 centrated on the task of showing her that she was 
 mistaken. He had not yet looked at the organist 
 himself. He was of no account save as a means of 
 communication between Stephen and his mother. 
 She, for practical purposes, was his only audience. 
 
 And to her, his intention was evidently sufficiently 
 obvious. " Surely, dear bov, you're not so tired that 
 you can't hold your head up ? " she remarked sharply. 
 
 " I am rather done," Stephen muttered. " It's 
 been so beastly hot." 
 
 The sound of Threlfall's voice came with an effect 
 of pleasant coolness. " When do you go in?" he 
 asked. " Shall you have time for a rest? " 
 
 " Third wicket," Stephen mumbled. 
 
 He was suddenly ashamed of his gaucheness and 
 his manner of speaking. Threlfall's voice had that 
 tone and finish, associated in Stephen's mind with a 
 kind of rare aristocracy. The Bishop spoke like 
 that and his wife Lady Constance. There was 
 something more in it than their pronunciation. You 
 knew at once that that way of speaking was natural 
 to them, that it was free from all effort or imitation. 
 
 " Well, we'll hope that you won't have to go in 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 63 
 
 for a long time yet," Threlfall continued gently. 
 
 Stephen looked up. He had seen the organist 
 before at a distance, hurrying up the aisle of the 
 Cathedral in his gown, or crossing the cloisters, but 
 never until to-day at such close quarters as this. 
 And the effect of him accorded, almost startlingly, 
 with the sound of his cultured, musical voice. There 
 was about him a complete air of gentleness. His 
 good looks were only saved from femininity by the 
 dominating stamp of their intellectuality. His 
 steady eyes, his forehead, the shape of his head, 
 and the clean curves of his mouth and chin all pro- 
 claimed him an intellectual. But behind these more 
 obvious evidences was something that produced a 
 dominating impression, of softness, of tenderness, 
 and of grace. 
 
 And Stephen succumbed, with one last flash of 
 impatience to a fascination that was, so far as he 
 was concerned, irresistible. He was impressed, and 
 almost too ready, perhaps, to offer instinctive hom- 
 age to one whom he recognized as a social and in- 
 tellectual superior. He saw Threlfall for an instant 
 as Cecilia Kirkwood saw him, and there came to him 
 a passing vision of his own father as hopelessly de- 
 graded by the impression. How could the little 
 bookseller, with his untidy beard, his common 
 speech, his absurd little affectations of scholarship 
 hope to compete, in love, with this charming aristo- 
 crat? 
 
 Later, Stephen was in his own thoughts inclined 
 vehemently to defend his father; but just then, he 
 was able to realize his mother's weakness. He saw 
 with her eyes and appreciated her inability to resist. 
 Indeed it seemed to him that wonderful as he had 
 always thought her to be, she was honored by this 
 man's devotion. 
 
6 4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " I hope I sha'n't," Stephen said in reply to Threl- 
 fall's comment, " but I'm afraid we don't stand much 
 of a chance." He looked up frankly now, smiling a 
 little shyly. 
 
 u Because you've had such a gruelling in the 
 field?" Threlfall asked, sympathetically. 
 
 " Partly," Stephen admitted. " But really they're 
 too good for us all round." 
 
 " Oh! well, of course, if you're going in to bat, in 
 that spirit . . ." his mother said. 
 
 " It's quite extraordinary how an eleven can be 
 affected in that way," Threlfall replied, as they all 
 three walked slowly back towards the pavilion. 
 " The phrase about a ' rot setting in ' is founded on 
 jolly good psychology. It's absolutely true, isn't it," 
 he went on turning to Stephen, " that when a team 
 gets its tail down, it goes all to pieces? " 
 
 "Oh! rather," Stephen agreed, flattered at this 
 reference to him as to an expert. 
 
 " I have to. get back now," Threlfall said as they 
 reached the Pavilion. " I left the service to Walker 
 for once, but I've got an appointment with the Dean 
 at four o'clock. Jolly to have met you, Stephen. I 
 hope that we shall see a lot more of one another 
 later on." 
 
 Stephen still under the influence of the organist's 
 fascination responded with a shy enthusiasm. 
 
 " Oh ! thanks," he said awkwardly. 
 
 Not until the graceful figure of Dr. Threlfall had 
 turned the corner of the pavilion, did Stephen awake 
 to a consciousness of the fact that he and his 
 mother were standing alone in the focus of attention. 
 It seemed to him that they were suddenly displayed 
 as a single object for the censure of the crowd, and 
 that at any moment a drastic judgment might de- 
 scend upon and wither them. He had not the cour- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 6s 
 
 age to raise his eyes. It was a shock to him when 
 he heard his mother's voice saying clearly and con- 
 fidentially, as if she and he were safely in the seclu- 
 sion of the house : 
 
 " Now own up, Stephen. Admit that you were 
 wrong about him." 
 
 He frowned nervously. " Oh ! I say, mother, 
 let's get out of this," he said. 
 
 Cecilia smiled, and twirled her parasol with a 
 gesture that had an effect of careless defiance. " My 
 dear little boy," she remonstrated, " it's no use run- 
 ning away. I know that they're all staring at us and 
 trying to hear what we say. Does it matter? 
 We've nothing to be ashamed of; and I'm quite used 
 to being stared at. Courage, Stephen, courage. 
 They'll pelt us directly we turn our backs on them." 
 
 He was too uncomfortable to get the flavor of 
 that image. " We must go sometime," he grumbled. 
 " And anyway I shouldn't be sorry to sit down." 
 
 " Oh! dear, how feeble you are, this afternoon," 
 she exclaimed impatiently. " Well, let's go and sit 
 somewhere. I want to talk to you about last 
 night, about everything. Now you've seen him, it 
 makes all the difference." 
 
 " Oh, mother, not now; not here," he protested. 
 
 He resented both her frankness and her selfishness. 
 He felt vaguely that she ought to be ashamed of her 
 obsession. Why couldn't she realize that her sub- 
 mission to the organist's fascination was something 
 to be fought against and subdued? He admitted 
 the fascination now, and saw the whole problem in 
 a new light; but even in its new aspect, it only ap- 
 peared as a more subtle snare. Nothing could make 
 it right. Moreover, a further complication was 
 puzzling him. His mother must be older than Dr. 
 Threlfall. She was, he knew, forty-one; and until 
 
66 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 this near sight of him he had supposed without en- 
 quiry that the organist was at least as old. He had 
 heard people say when Threlfall was appointed a 
 few months before that he was very young to hold 
 that position; but for all Stephen knew, fifty might 
 have been young for a cathedral organist. 
 
 " How tiresome you are," his mother said. " Do, 
 for goodness' sake, go and lie down somewhere until 
 it's your turn to go in." 
 
 Stephen looked down at her apologetically; her 
 temper always slightly intimidated him. 
 
 " But mother, surely you can't want me to talk 
 about that; now? " he expostulated. 
 
 " Not if you don't want to," she returned petu- 
 lantly. " And, in any case here's that awful aunt of 
 yours coming to save the rags of my reputation, if 
 she can." 
 
 Mrs. Bell was, indeed, bearing down upon them 
 with a lingering directness that expressed a kind of 
 steady intention without impulse. She came not be- 
 cause she w*ished to, but because she felt that she 
 " simply must," as she would have put it. She could 
 no longer bear to see her brother's wife, posed in the 
 public eye, and flaunting her light-minded courage. 
 People were talking about her, almost openly, as an 
 abandoned woman; and an unbearable reflection of 
 the scandal was falling upon Mrs. Bell, herself. 
 Personally, she did not believe that her sister-in-law 
 " meant anything." She was just a victim of her de- 
 plorable vanity. She enjoyed, incredible as it 
 seemed, to be talked about, even though the talk 
 were malicious. 
 
 " My dear Cicely," she said, a trifle breathlessly, 
 as she came up. " Is it wise to stand about in this 
 sun, like that? Why not come in the shade? " 
 
 She had not had the least intention of using a 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 67 
 
 metaphor, and was shocked by her sister-in-law's 
 laugh. 
 
 My dear Eleanor," Cecilia replied with a frank 
 imitation of Mrs. Bell's manner. " I happen to en- 
 joy the sun." And again she gave that vigorous 
 twirl to her sunshade, which bespoke her defiance of 
 all Medboro' opinion. 
 
 Mrs. Bell simpered. " I can't think it's wise," 
 she suggested with an air of apologetic, yet stead- 
 fastly determined reproof. 
 
 " I'm not wise, Eleanor," Cecilia said. " And in 
 any case, I'm going home. There's nothing to stop 
 for, now." 
 
 Even Stephen, still waiting reluctantly, winced at 
 that rather brutal statement. Mrs. Bell literally 
 quivered. " Really, Cicely," she said, " I can't im- 
 agine what you mean. Sha'n't you stay to see 
 Stephen go in? " 
 
 Oh ! Stephen hasn't pleased me this afternoqp," 
 his mother said, looking round at him with an ex- 
 pression of contempt. And I feel absolutely cer- 
 tain that he'll be out first ball. He's so tired al- 
 ready that he's hardly got the energy to stand up. 
 If he weren't so horribly afraid of being stared at, 
 he'd probably drop down on the grass at our feet 
 this minute." 
 
 " Mother! " Stephen protested feebly. 
 
 She made a little gesture of disdain. She was so 
 able to display her mood; and her son was so well 
 versed in reading the varying shades of her expres- 
 sion. And a sign such as she had now given him 
 was sufficient to plunge him into despair. They had 
 often had these lover's quarrels in recent years, and 
 he knew that for this afternoon at least, he was 
 " out " with her. 
 
 He had always hated that sense of being " out " 
 
68 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 with her; but to-day as he accepted his dismissal and 
 drifted off to a comparatively quiet corner where he 
 could throw himself down and reflect at his leisure, 
 he was aware of a feeling of abandonment that was 
 new to him. He was facing for the first time the 
 full realization that she might, almost any day, be 
 finally lost to him if, indeed, she were not lost 
 already. And after his recent emotions, he was not 
 perfectly sure whether the loss of her might not, af- 
 ter all, carry certain compensating advantages. He 
 had a feeling of release, as if some almost unbearable 
 strain upon his loyalty had been mercifully relaxed. 
 If she no longer loved him; if she had ceded every- 
 thing that she had to that man of all the gifts whom 
 Stephen in his present mood longed, and yet failed, 
 to dislike; he was in some sense relieved from the 
 responsibility of dissuading her. The thought gave 
 him ease in the midst of his pain. He had been a 
 slave, finding his greatest joy in submission, but now, 
 despite the misery of his ache, he might be free. He 
 was a trifle uncertain of his glories, as yet; he 
 trembled a little at the vastness of the new places in 
 which he found himself free to wander; but he was 
 distinctly aware of great possibilities in his thought 
 of that freedom. 
 
 His mind presented a picture of little Margaret 
 Weatherley, turning with a dainty whisk of short 
 skirts and long hair to single him out with the en- 
 chanted smile of her favor. 
 
 A groan, from a small knot of lower school boys 
 close at hand, turned his attention back to the match. 
 
 Graham was out; and his spread-eagled wicket ad- 
 vertised the cause of his dismissal. The telegraph 
 board was being hoisted. 17 1 11. Noakes, 
 the Captain, was in at the other end, playing his usual 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 69 
 
 careful game with even more than his customary cau- 
 tion. Mallows was the next man, a hitter. He 
 might knock the professional off .his length. It was 
 invariably the town pro. who took the majority of 
 the wickets. And then Mallows spooned his second 
 ball into the hands of mid-off an absolute sitter ! 
 
 Stephen got up and went back to the pavilion to 
 put on his pads. By the entrance he met Hall I com- 
 ing out. They did not speak to one another, Hall 
 was just going in to bat, but the confrontation re- 
 called Stephen to the thought of his second problem. 
 
 But, strangely enough, it came back to him in a 
 new guise. He no longer looked upon the ragging 
 he anticipated from Mallows and Hill as likely to 
 cast some sort of slur upon him. It was true that 
 the innuendo of that drawing was a thing of disgust, 
 if it were only in the cause of little Margaret Weath- 
 erley's reputation he must resolutely suppress he 
 would have all the decent-minded fellows in the sixth 
 on his side any attempt to sully the affair by such 
 hideous suggestion as that of the morning. He 
 would begin his campaign by fighting Hall II. But 
 all the feeling of disgrace that had been so present 
 with him a few hours ago, had gone. He could not 
 understand why he should ever have thought that 
 there was anything shameful in the accusation of 
 being in love with the headmaster's daughter. 
 
 As he fastened the buckles of his pads he looked 
 boldly round from his elevation on a seat back of 
 the pavilion, to see if little Miss Weatherley, herself, 
 had come to watch the match. He hoped, quite des- 
 perately, that she had, and that a chance might be 
 given him to do something heroic in her sight 
 save the school from a bad licking, for instance. 
 But there was no sign of any of the Headmaster's 
 
70 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 party, nor even of Dr. Weatherley, himself. Per- 
 haps that rumor concerning the outbreak of measles 
 had had good foundation. 
 
 Hall I did not look likely to stay long, and 
 Stephen tried to collect his thoughts and concentrate 
 them on the determination to save the school from 
 defeat. He had made 41 not out in the match 
 against Whittlesea on the school ground, a month 
 ago, and if he could but recover the sense of mastery 
 that had come to him on that occasion, he might 
 make a century to-day. He had never made a cen- 
 tury and it would be a magnificent achievement to 
 make one, now, when runs were so badly wanted. 
 Confidence was the thing. If he could go in, feeling 
 sure of himself, he would be all right. But, then, 
 his thoughts flew off again to the question of how he 
 was going to get young Hall up to the scratch of an 
 actual fight in the gymnasium. It was queer how 
 little interest cricket had for him that afternoon. 
 
 And even after Hall I had been well caught in the 
 long field from a wild swipe that had sent the ball 
 soaring to a tremendous height, Stephen could not 
 concentrate his attention on the important task be- 
 fore him. As he went out to join the patient Noakes 
 at the wickets, he was still pondering the difficulties 
 of stimulating the courage of Hall II. 
 
 " For goodness' sake, play carefully," Noakes 
 murmured as Stephen passed him. 
 
 Stephen nodded. He would do his best, of 
 course, but just then, cricket really didn't seem to 
 matter. 
 
 It seemed to matter less and less, as the overs 
 passed ; though he grew more interested in demonstra- 
 ting to himself how absurdly easy it was to play the 
 town's bowling. Something inside him responded 
 automatically to the threat or promise of each 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 71 
 
 delivery. He did not know why he played forward 
 to one good length ball and back to another, or why 
 he knew instantly which balls it was safe to hit; the 
 fact was obvious, and it was quite an amusing game 
 to realize his own competence. Nothing else inter- 
 ested him for the time being. He did not know 
 how many he had scored; the encouraging shouts of 
 the school appeared to have nothing to do with his 
 own play ; the one truly fascinating phenomenon was 
 that the ball looked as big as a cabbage, and that it 
 was practically impossible to miss it. It was cer- 
 tainly a dreadful bore watching his patient captain 
 refusing splendid chances to score; but on the other 
 hand it was good fun to show him how to take them 
 when his own turn came. 
 
 " Steady, old chap, you're playing frightfully 
 well. Don't get reckless," Noakes urged him once 
 between the overs. 
 
 " All right," Stephen had replied, and for a few 
 moments he had tried once more to concentrate on 
 the determination to make a hundred; but before 
 his turn to play had come again, he had forgotten his 
 intention. The truth was that for some reason 
 he had not time to examine, he did not care whether 
 he got out or not. 
 
 Meanwhile the bowling was unquestionably get- 
 ting looser. When the pro." came on again for 
 the third time, he was pitching them short and giving 
 Stephen just the opportunities he wanted to pull 
 them round to leg. He had always been strongest 
 on the leg side. He was a well built boy, but he had 
 not the power as yet to make long drives on the off. 
 
 He was immensely astonished, when instead of 
 crossing at the end of the over, the players began to 
 move off the field. He had heard the pavilion clock 
 strike a few seconds before, but it seemed to have 
 
72 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 been striking every ten minutes since he had been in. 
 He was still more surprised when he found himself 
 the center of a wildly enthusiastic crowd, and felt 
 himself being lifted shoulder high and carried back 
 to the pavilion. 
 
 And then his intense preoccupation with something 
 altogether disconnected with cricket, suddenly broke. 
 He leaned down and spoke to Graham who was 
 carrying his right leg. 
 
 " I say, Graham," he asked with a great burst of 
 excitement. " How many have I made? " 
 
 " A hundred and thirty-six," Graham told him. 
 
 5 
 
 Some guardian angel gifted with a nice sense of 
 earthly values and the power of interference with 
 worldly affairs seemed to have been guiding Stephen's 
 destiny that afternoon; for that " century " of his 
 was unquestionably a very powerful influence in the 
 determination of his immediate affairs. However 
 modestly he had tried to conceal his elation while 
 he was still on the field, he was very conscious of his 
 recent promotion to the rank of hero, as he slammed 
 into the shop in Long Causeway at seven o'clock. 
 Noakes had slapped him on the back with a magnifi- 
 cent heartiness in the enthusiasm of the moment, and 
 had eulogized his performance as " a thundering 
 good innings." Stephen had good cause for satis- 
 faction all round. 
 
 His father looked up with a nervous jerk as his 
 son came in, then catching some reflection of the 
 triumph that shone in Stephen's face, asked, " Did 
 you win? " 
 
 " No, we drew," Stephen said, doing his best not 
 to appear too vainglorious, and added as quietly as 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 73 
 
 he could, " I say, father, I made a hundred and 
 thirty-six, not out." 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood beamed and began to rub his hands 
 together, a trick of his that Cecilia had never been 
 able to cure. " A hundred and thirty-six not out," 
 he repeated on a note of flattering astonishment. 
 " I say! I say! Stephen; that's something like." 
 
 " Yes, and there's more in it than that, father," 
 Stephen went on, forgetting his modesty in this at- 
 mosphere of safe admiration. " I mean, the town 
 went in first and made 389, Dennis was playing for 
 them, you know he made 108 and when we 
 went in we lost three wickets for 27. Then I went 
 in with Noakes and we played out time together. 
 We should have licked 'em if we'd had more time. 
 Noakes only made 81 not out. He's awfully slow, 
 you know." 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood produced a handkerchief and wiped 
 his eyes. " Let's go and tell mother," he said. 
 " She's upstairs. She came in to tea and hasn't 
 been out again since." 
 
 " Noakes and I stopped the rot, you see," 
 Stephen explained as he and his father went upstairs, 
 both of them brimming with boyish excitement. 
 
 " I see, I see," Mr. Kirkwood agreed eagerly. 
 " You made the runs, just in the nick of time, eh? 
 They'll think a lot of you up at the school after 
 this." 
 
 " Noakes was frightfully pleased," Stephen ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 They broke into the sitting-room together so hot 
 with pride and enthusiasm that Cecilia and the two 
 girls started up with an exclamation of something 
 that sounded like dismay. 
 
 " It's all right, all right," Mr. Kirkwood stam- 
 mered reassuringly, while Stephen stood a little be- 
 
74 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 hind him, ready to prompt his willing trumpeter 
 should he fail to emphasize the great dramatic value 
 of the perfect innings. " Here's Stephen been doing 
 great things, mother oh ! very great things 
 saved the school in the nick of time and made 136 
 not out." 
 
 " Oh! Stephen! " gasped Emily and Hilda, rising 
 at once to the proper note of applause. " Did you 
 really? Do tell us all about it," they continued 
 antiphonally. 
 
 .In their acclamation of the family achievement, 
 Mr. Kirkwood and his two daughters seemed to have 
 temporarily forsaken the worship of their usual idol, 
 and to have set up a new image in her pi' ^he 
 
 bookseller, flushing with pleasure at thii re- 
 
 sponse to his son's exploit, had turned his back on his 
 wife, and was staring at his son, rubbing his hands 
 together and beaming upon him with a simple, boyish 
 glee. Cecilia must not be judged too harshly on this 
 occasion, for displaying what appeared to be nothing 
 more than a childish jealousy. 
 
 The truth is tf at she, alone, was able to appre- 
 ciate the spirit 'hat underlay this slightly hysterical 
 ovation of S 4 ;aen. She had failed them. In the 
 past few we *ks, she had strained their loyalty. The 
 admiration ae had been able to evoke without ef- 
 fort, was being tendered more and more grudg- 
 ingly. The worship that had been a spontaneous ex- 
 pression of emotion was degenerating into a dogma. 
 And she resized the significance of their instinctive 
 willingness to turn their regard towards a new ob- 
 ject of admiration. She had worried and tired 
 them. It was a relief for them to forget her. If 
 Stephen had performed his feat six weeks ago, the 
 tribute of it would have been flung at her feet. Now 
 her husband and her two daughters grasped eagerly 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 75 
 
 at an excuse for diverting their attention from her; 
 and Stephen, himself, had become she could read 
 the signs of it in his face and attitude self-suffi- 
 cient. He was satisfied with the applause he had 
 been, and was still, receiving. She was no longer 
 essential to his happiness. After their quarrel of 
 the afternoon, she had expected him to come back 
 submissively asking her forgiveness. Instead of that 
 he returned flushed with pride, and almost forgetful 
 of her existence. 
 
 Her temperament could not endure the slight to 
 her vanity. Her vivid imagination pictured the 
 probable development of the conversation through- 
 out th> -ening; the elaborations of Stephen's per- 
 forman he endless repetitions and descriptions in 
 which his^ innings would be played over and over 
 again. She felt that she could not endure the awful 
 futility of that prospect. She was aware of being 
 suddenly mature, of having passed the summit of her 
 powers and of falling into .the pitiful condition of 
 one who lives on her reputation 
 
 She got up with a quick movement of determina- 
 tion as if she would fly from the sigitf of her defeat, 
 and walked over to the door. iaoj^ 
 
 But, at that, Stephen did at last male jin effort to 
 reach out to her. He had been con%ous of his 
 triumph over her. In his boyish way hd had been 
 glad to brag of his independence; glad to be able 
 to come back after their quarrel of the aj^ernoon 
 and show her that she had not, aftejf ( all, spoilt 
 his day. But he could not let her go without a 
 protest. 
 
 " Mother, aren't you going to say anything? " he 
 asked, half in supplication, half in defiance. 
 
 She turned and looked at him. " Oh! you don't 
 want me any more," she said. 
 
76 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Even then, the scales of their destiny had not ir- 
 recoverably dipped. 
 
 As she stood there by the door looking back at 
 her son, the alternatives were perfectly clear in her 
 mind. She was not irretrievably committed. She 
 was in love with Christopher Threlfall. He stood 
 to her for all that was adorable in a man; for beauty, 
 grace of mind, culture, ability. He was deeply in 
 love with her. He had been trying his best to per- 
 suade her to go away with him to London, where 
 he promised her that they would be enthusiastically 
 received by a large circle of his friends and acquaint- 
 ances; musicians, artists and writers; broad-minded 
 men and women who would honor rather than 
 despise them for their brave flouting of convention. 
 
 Yet the lure of that bewildering picture had not 
 completely bemused her quick intelligence. In her 
 most fascinated contemplation of it, she had been 
 able to reckon her probable loss. She had not lived 
 for twenty-five years in a provincial town without 
 absorbing something of its opinions. Moreover 
 greatly as she affected to despise the audience she 
 had won for herself in Medboro' she realized that 
 it would be a loss to turn all that deftly-won admira- 
 tion into contempt. She was still aware of her suc- 
 cess in Medboro'. It sometimes palled as being 
 too similar in kind, but it supported her. And some- 
 how, she ranked her husband and her two daughters 
 in this category of general support. In one other 
 class quite apart, stood Stephen. If the other in- 
 fluences tipped, on the whole, the balance in favor 
 of Christopher, love, and the larger society of musi- 
 cians, artists and writers in London; her love for her 
 son might yet have turned the scale. 
 
 And as she watched him, now, she definitely wav- 
 ered. His merely physical attraction alone made 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 77 
 
 her ytarn towards him. He looked so clean and 
 young and vigorous. His white flannels set off the 
 delicate strength of his slender limbs and graceful 
 body. The sunburn on his face emphasized the 
 handsome lines of his features, the rather dark blue 
 of the eyes that were so like her own. He was un- 
 doubtedly a nice-looking boy; and there was, even in 
 this hour of his triumph, something wistful and 
 pleading about his beauty that appealed to her 
 womanhood. 
 
 It is almost certain that he might have won her 
 even at that eleventh hour, had he realized the climax 
 and responded as she would have had him respond. 
 But he was too elated for humility, just then; and 
 her apparent indifference to his success had wounded 
 him. Moreover she had put into words his thought 
 of the afternoon. " You don't want me any more," 
 she had said, and again a sense of freedom from 
 some old restraint, a sense of enlargement and lib- 
 erty flashed through his mind. 
 
 His reply was merely petulant. He shrugged 
 his shoulders and turned away from her, with the 
 same boyish rudeness of gesture with which he might 
 have snubbed one of his sisters. But with that ges- 
 ture he made a decision that was to alter the course 
 of all their lives. 
 
 Cecilia turned quickly away, and left the room, 
 shutting the door after her. 
 
 Emily turned the embarrassment of her steady 
 gaze immovably upon her father. 
 
 " I don't know what's come to mother, lately," 
 she said. 
 
78 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood began to fidget with his sparse little 
 beard. " She's a little out of sorts, perhaps," he 
 hazarded feebly. 
 
 "Well, oughtn't we to do something, father?" 
 Emily continued still pinning him with her stare. 
 
 " Oh ! what can you do? " put in Stephen irritably. 
 Everything was spoilt, now; and it was all his 
 mother's fault. Why couldn't she behave sensibly? 
 Surely she hadn't expected him to come straight 
 home, and beg her pardon, and ask her to talk to 
 him about Threlfall, after that innings? 
 
 Emily turned herself about, and focussed her at- 
 tention upon her brother. " If she's out of sorts, 
 she ought to see a doctor," she said. 
 
 11 That wouldn't be any good," Stephen returned 
 without hesitation. 
 
 "Well, but why wouldn't it?" Emily enquired, 
 with a meaning in her tone that could not be mis- 
 taken. 
 
 11 No good asking me," was Stephen's evasion. 
 
 " Well, I think it's time something was done," 
 Emily said, sharpening the point of her now obvious 
 intention. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Emily," little 
 Kirkwood put in nervously. 
 
 Emily knew, they all three knew, that their 
 father's remark had been intended as a reminder 
 that any open discussion of a mother's failings was 
 impossible between father and children; but Emily 
 had made up her mind that the time had come when 
 they must, in her own phrase, " face the facts." 
 
 I don't think it's right for us to let things go on, 
 and not make any effort to stop them," she said in a 
 low, but determined voice. I don't see the good 
 of our going on pretending, when we all know per- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 79 
 
 fectly well what's happening. Do you, Hilda?" 
 11 No, I don't," Hilda emphatically agreed. 
 Stephen sitting on the sofa, disconsolately nursing 
 
 his foot, was staring straight out in front of him 
 
 with just such an expression as his mother had worn 
 
 the evening before. 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood began to fret. " No, no, Emily 
 
 really I can't see the use of our discussing things 
 that we at least that you don't understand. It 
 
 it isn't it can't do any good our talking 
 about them. Besides. . . ." He was valiantly do- 
 ing his best to stop these disloyal confidences; yet he 
 had a strong disinclination to take the obviously ef- 
 fective course of immediately leaving them with the 
 excuse that he must go down to the shop. It would 
 have been an immense relief to him to confide some 
 of the tortured arguments that had perpetually 
 haunted him during the last few weeks, and now that 
 Emily had spoken out he found a kind of solace in 
 playing with the temptation. But all the man he 
 had made of himself, resolutely opposed the idea of 
 making confidants of his, and her, children. More- 
 over, the one argument that rose up so overshadow- 
 ingly at those times when he had found a dozen mag- 
 nificent reasons to prove that Cecilia could never be 
 finally unfaithful to him, was an argument that could 
 not conceivably be repeated to any living person. 
 Most certainly he could never in any circumstances 
 ever hint to Emily, Hilda or Stephen that their 
 mother had not, in a way, been his wife, now, for 
 more than five weeks. 
 
 She had made no excuse for her evasions, and he 
 had asked her for none. He had done his best to 
 pretend that he did not care. 
 
 " Besides . . ." he was going on, trying to show 
 good cause for avoiding the subject, while still keep- 
 
80 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 ing the shadow of it just within sight; but Emily in- 
 terrupted him. 
 
 " Sh! Listen! " she said, adjuring him with an 
 uplifted forefinger. " There ! " she added, as 
 through the silence that followed they heard the 
 sound of their mother's feet upon the stairs. 
 
 Hilda jumped up and went to the window. 
 
 " She's gone down the street towards the Lin- 
 coln Road," was her report, given a few seconds 
 later. 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood chose to overlook the implication 
 conveyed by his daughter's mention of the road in 
 which Dr. Threlfall lodged. 
 
 " It's nearly eight o'clock," he said, looking at his 
 watch. " I must go down and close the shop. 
 We'd better not wait supper for her." 
 
 His hesitations had been instantly resolved by this 
 last evidence as he regarded it, of Cecilia's inten- 
 tion. As Emily had held up the podgy forefinger 
 that was a feminine copy of his own, a dreadful cer- 
 tainty had come to him. It seemed to him, now that 
 he had always known that this would happen. He 
 felt suddenly tired and hopeless. He wanted to 
 think of some plan by which a pitiful remnant of 
 Cecilia's affection for him might yet be saved; or re- 
 stimulated. If his imagination would have obeyed 
 him, he would have devised pictures of romantic 
 self-sacrifice to win her pity, if not her esteem. But 
 his thoughts were not under his own control. De- 
 spite his emphatic asseverations that it was all over, 
 his mind continued to run in the groove that had 
 been worn so deeply in the course of the past five 
 weeks. He could not stop the tedious procession of 
 argument that still pleaded the cause or uncertainty, 
 although he continued to assure himself that he had 
 no longer any doubt. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 81 
 
 " . . . but at her age; after all these years; she'd 
 think of the children if she didn't of me; for 
 Stephen's sake, if it were only that; it isn't likely that 
 he's in love with her; they've got their music to 
 talk about; she has had her flirtations before, but it's 
 never been serious; naturally she likes admiration; 
 she'd never face the town; and he must be five years 
 younger than she is at the very least ; why, at her 
 age . . ." 
 
 He could not stay the endless repetition in which 
 he had found his chief consolation. The mechanism 
 of his imagination ran on with a kind of ironical 
 serenity. He could by a great effort cover it over 
 for a time by a fierce concentration as the assertion 
 that he knew it was all over, but the moment his ef- 
 fort was relaxed, the same movement slid into action 
 again. 
 
 Green, the assistant, staggering through the shop 
 with a load of shutters, wondered why his master 
 didn't get on with the tidying up. His employer had 
 mercifully come down at ten minutes to eight and 
 given the order to close the shop, and now he was 
 wasting precious time fiddling about behind the 
 counter. If he had been prompt, Green might have 
 " got off sharp for once." 
 
 Later on, Green was to remember that night as 
 the first occasion on which Mr. Kirkwood was " took 
 funny"; and it became the subject of a composed 
 reminiscence in the days when Green, himself, had 
 become the master of those same premises. But 
 that evening he was anxious to get away as soon as 
 possible in order to keep an engagement with a cer- 
 tain Miss Paley for whose society he had an especial 
 predilection; and he displayed no kind of sympathy 
 for his employer's queerness of manner. Neverthe- 
 less he did notice and reported, partly by way of 
 
82 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 excuse, to Miss Paley afterwards, that old Kirkwood 
 didn't seem able to make up his mind what to do 
 next. Couldn't set about clearing up the report 
 continued, M I 'ad to do it all in the end, and then 
 I 'ad no end of a job to get 'im to pay me my wages. 
 All mazed like he was." 
 
 " It's that wife of 'is is at the bottom of it, I 
 lay," replied Miss Paley. 
 
 Green couldn't say about that, but he'd seen her 
 go out not two minutes before Mr. Kirkwood came 
 down, looking, he thought, much as usual. 
 
 Miss Paley tossed her head. She had noticed be- 
 fore that Green was inclined to defend the reputa- 
 tion of his employer's wife. " Makes eyes at every 
 man, I suppose," was Miss Paley's inference. " She 
 ought to be ashamed of 'erself, at 'er age. Why 
 that great staring girl of 'ers, the teacher, was 
 twenty if she was a day." 
 
 Stephen had inherited just so much of his mother's 
 temperament as was sufficient to emphasize his en- 
 joyments and despondencies without disqualifying 
 him for the solid business of life. And on the even- 
 ing of this day which was, although he did not realize 
 it either at the time or in retrospect, the most crit- 
 ical day of his development, the effect of his inherit- 
 ance was peculiarly noticeable. He had been greatly 
 stirred not only by his triumph in the cricket field 
 and the subsequent adulations he had received, but 
 also and perhaps in an even greater degree by the 
 sudden extinction of those high emotions. His sis- 
 ters unconsciously completed the work that their 
 mother had begun. Now that the subject which was 
 to them of paramount importance had been plainly 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 83 
 
 displayed and the truth of all their determinedly 
 smothered suspicions practically admitted by their 
 father and brother, they came to the discussion of 
 it with the frank greediness of the half-starved. 
 Stephen's feat of the afternoon was for the moment 
 completely obliterated from their minds. 
 
 " Where do you suppose she's gone? " Hilda said 
 as soon as her father had left the room. She had 
 an air at once scared and rapturous, as if she gloated 
 over the danger of this immense and threatening de- 
 velopment. 
 
 Emily pursed her mouth and profoundly con- 
 templated the design of the table cloth. u Perhaps 
 Stephen could tell us," she remarked after a solemn 
 interval. 
 
 " Why me? " he replied irritably. 
 
 " Do you mean you don't know? " Hilda asked. 
 
 " No more than you do. Why should I ? " grum- 
 bled Stephen. 
 
 Emily brought her gaze to bear upon him with a 
 menacing deliberation. " Hasn't she told you any- 
 thing, herself? " she enquired. 
 
 " Oh ! Lord, what is the good of talking about 
 it? " Stephen protested, wriggling under the menace 
 of his sister's concentrated attention. 
 
 " It seems to me that we ought to talk about it," 
 Emily persisted, threatening him, as it were, with 
 open sights. 
 
 " What for? What good can we do? " Stephen 
 said uncomfortably. 
 
 " You admit that we ought to do something," 
 Emily continued. " You must admit that. And if 
 you're sure there's something wrong, Hilda and I 
 ought to know about it. We don't know what we 
 ought to do, until we are sure." 
 
84 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 "What could you do if you were?" posed 
 Stephen, trying to avoid the direct issue. 
 
 u Speak to her," Emily announced solemnly, and 
 in the wonder of that announcement, she temporarily 
 released her brother, staring past him at the head of 
 the sofa. 
 
 He jumped up with a quick movement of relief, 
 as if he had been gratefully unpinned. " Well, I'm 
 not sure," he said, beginning to pace up and down 
 the room. " Not a bit sure. And even if I was, 
 what earthly difference do you suppose it would make 
 you speaking to her? When she's set on anything, 
 she doesn't care a hang what we say, or what we 
 think. You know that as well as I do." 
 
 Emily had lost her advantage. She couldn't sight 
 with any effect on a moving target, but she main- 
 tained her magnificent concentration on essentials. 
 
 " You do know she's set on this, then?" she 
 said. 
 
 " No, I don't," Stephen replied. " How could 
 I?" 
 
 " Well, you know there's something in it," Emily 
 urged. 
 
 We all know that, more or less," Stephen re- 
 turned contemptuously. 
 
 " I do think you might at least be honest with us, 
 Stee," Hilda put in. She was getting a little tired 
 of her sister's method of examination, and had de- 
 cided to try the effect of a human appeal. 
 
 "Well, aren't I being?" Stephen remonstrated 
 petulantly. 
 
 " That's what Emily and I don't know," Hilda 
 explained, on a note of conciliation. " You see we 
 aren't a bit sure if there's anything in it at all, 
 really. I mean if it's just one of her usual flirtations. 
 Because if it is, it doesn't matter much. But if it 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 85 
 
 isn't, and you know it isn't, Emily and I think you 
 ought to tell us, so that we can decide what ought to 
 be done about it." 
 
 Stephen paused in his walk, and then feeling Em- 
 ily's gaze getting back into action, hastily said, " Oh ! 
 for the Lord's sake, Em, don't stare at me, or I'll go 
 out of the room." 
 
 " I didn't know I was," Emily excused herself, and 
 added, u I don't seem able to help it." 
 
 For a moment it seemed that Stephen had been 
 saved by this diversion, but his sisters immediately 
 swooped back again with a fierceness that could not 
 be denied. 
 
 " You see that, don't you, Stee? " Hilda pleaded. 
 
 " See what? " was Stephen's evasion. 
 
 " That if you're sure this is something more than 
 a flirtation. . . ." 
 
 11 But how can I be sure? " he interrupted. 
 
 " Well, you are, aren't you? " put in Emily, point 
 blank. 
 
 "Oh! Lord!" Stephen ejaculated, and he sud- 
 denly sat down on the sofa and hid his face in his 
 hands. 
 
 11 What did she say to you about it, last night? " 
 Hilda pursued him. 
 
 " Lots of things," murmured Stephen, keeping his 
 face hidden. 
 
 " Practically admitting that she was in love with 
 Dr. Threlfall? " asked Emily. 
 
 Stephen shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Oh! Em, isn't it awful?" Hilda broke out. 
 "What shall we do?" 
 
 "Does she mean to go off with him?" Emily 
 continued, wallowing in horror. 
 
 " I've no idea," Stephen said. 
 
 " Did you know she was going to see him to- 
 
86 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 night? " Hilda went on. They had got him down, 
 now; and meant to squeeze him dry. 
 
 " No, I didn't," Stephen said. 
 
 44 But you thought she might? " 
 
 44 No, I didn't." 
 
 " Was she at the match, this afternoon? " 
 
 Stephen nodded. 
 
 44 With him?" 
 
 He nodded again. 
 
 44 Did they speak to you? " 
 
 Stephen could bear it no longer. 44 I've told you 
 everything I can," he said, getting up. 44 I've told 
 you that I'm afraid it is more than a sort of flirta- 
 tion; and that's all I know for certain. Now, shut 
 up. You can speak to her if you like when she 
 comes in, but you needn't say I've told you anything 
 because as a matter of fact I haven't. And it's 
 jolly well a quarter past eight, and time we had 
 supper. Why doesn't Ada bring it in?" 
 
 44 Her mother's ill again," Emily explained. 
 44 Hilda and I've got to get it. It's only cold meat. 
 What do you mean by you've told us everything you 
 can, Stephen? Why can't you tell us all you 
 know? " 
 
 Stephen made a grimace. 44 I'll go down and see 
 if dad's ready," he said. 44 Buck up! " 
 
 As he left the room he heard the quick insurgence 
 of his sisters' eager whispering. There was some- 
 thing in the sound of their voices that produced the 
 same effect at once scared and rapturous that had 
 been revealed in Hilda's face when she had turned 
 away from the window. 
 
 Stephen shrugged his shoulders. He was dis- 
 gusted, with himself for having betrayed some- 
 thing of his mother's confidence; with his sisters for 
 having wrung the secret out of him. He paused 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 87 
 
 for a moment on the landing and then went up to 
 his own room instead of down to the shop. He 
 had a vague intention of " thinking the whole thing 
 out." He even began to frame the beginning of a 
 conversation with his mother. But when he was 
 alone in his attic, a feeling of weariness came over 
 him. He threw himself down on his bed, and in- 
 stantly his thoughts forsook the subject that so per- 
 sistently intrigued the minds of his father and his 
 sisters, presenting in its place the pleasant memory 
 of his own successes. He went over again his tri- 
 umphs of the afternoon, and had a brilliant and con- 
 vincing vision of the report of his innings being 
 carried to little Margaret Weatherley. She would 
 be certain to hear of it, and the knowledge must 
 surely confirm him in her favor. Perhaps she would 
 guess that he had, in a way, made those runs for her. 
 He was walking in the clouds when he heard the 
 impatient tinkle of the little bell calling him down 
 to supper. The shrill imperative sound of it 
 brought him back with an unpleasant jerk to the 
 contemplation of the miserable reality that awaited 
 him. He frowned moodily, as he washed his hands 
 and face. He was in no hurry to get down. Why 
 couldn't his mother have behaved decently? 
 
 8 
 
 They were very quiet at supper. Some definite 
 change had taken place in their relations, since they 
 had been together in that room an hour before. # It 
 would have been impossible, now, for Emily or Hilda 
 to have persisted in the demand for plain statement 
 that had been interrupted by their mother's extraor- 
 dinary departure. 
 
 The principal cause for this change, so far as it 
 
88 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 could be analyzed, was in the behavior of Mr. 
 Kirkwood. In ordinary circumstances the girls 
 would have regarded their father's abstraction and 
 hesitations as nothing more than a slight exaggera- 
 tion of the " absent-minded " manner, he sometimes 
 adopted; to-night, they noted his every eccentricity 
 as if it had a peculiar and alarming significance. 
 When he dropped his fork, and seemed unable to 
 decide whether or not to pick it up again, they 
 looked at each other and at Stephen with raised 
 eyebrows, surreptitiously conveying the implication 
 that there was something ominous and sinister in 
 these evidences of his distress. When they directly 
 addressed their father, they spoke in the cajoling 
 voice of one who humors an invalid. 
 
 Stephen was irritated by his sisters' air of tragedy. 
 His mind was still eager to luxuriate in the thought 
 of himself as hero; and all this elaborate cringing 
 to the shadow of disaster indicated, in his opinion, 
 a merely feminine love of emotion. The sense of 
 his grievance returned to him, and directly sup- 
 per was over he announced that he had " a heap of 
 work to do," and went back to his own room. 
 
 His father took no notice of him. He had not 
 once addressed him directly since he had come in. 
 " Poor old father," Stephen reflected. " It is 
 frightfully rough on him. I wonder how much he 
 knows? " 
 
 He settled down to work without any hesitation, 
 but his reading only engaged a small part of his 
 attention. He was reading history, and all the 
 movement of it was colored by the elation of his 
 own recent success. Every now and again he would 
 raise his eyes from his book, and indulge in a brief 
 orgy of day dreaming. 
 
 It had been after nine when he came upstairs, and 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 89 
 
 he was astonished to find that it was a quarter to 
 eleven when he heard a tap at his door. At first he 
 thought it might be his mother, and then he heard 
 Hilda's voice, asking if he had gone to bed. 
 
 " No ; come in," he called out, and Hilda entered 
 with an expression of portentous gravity. 
 
 11 What are we going to do, Stee? " she asked ner- 
 vously. 
 
 " We can't do anything to-night," he said irri- 
 tably. 
 
 " We can't go to bed till she comes in," Hilda 
 said. 
 
 "Oh! Hasn't she come in?" he replied more 
 gently. " I didn't know what you meant. Where's 
 father?" 
 
 " Well, he went upstairs, soon after you did," she 
 said. " But he hasn't gone to bed. He's been 
 walking up and down the room all the time." 
 
 " Is Em down there?" Stephen asked. 
 
 " Of course," Hilda said. " We don't know 
 what we ought to do." 
 
 " I'll come down," Stephen volunteered. He was 
 impressed, at last. The seeds of tragedy that his 
 sisters had been so sedulously nursing, had suddenly 
 flowered. He was newly aware of something 
 ominous about his mother's absence. Subcon- 
 sciously, he had been supported by her promise of 
 the night before. She had said that she would not 
 go away yet, not for a month or two; and without 
 having realized the grounds for his confidence he 
 had relied on that promise of hers. Now, it seemed 
 probable that she had already broken it. 
 
 Stephen's face was not less anxious than his sis- 
 ters' when he confronted them in the sitting-room. 
 
 " I say, she hasn't taken any things away, has 
 she? " he asked. " Have you looked? " 
 
90 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " We couldn't," Hilda replied. " Father's been 
 up there all the time. But she couldn't have taken 
 much, anyway. Not boxes or anything we should 
 have heard her. Besides, she hadn't time to pack." 
 
 " I expect she'll be in directly," Stephen said more 
 cheerfully. " She was rather annoyed with me this 
 afternoon, as a matter of fact. I daresay this is 
 only one of her tantrums." 
 
 " What was she annoyed with you about? " Em- 
 ily asked. 
 
 " Nothing particular. The usual sort of thing," 
 Stephen procrastinated. 
 
 For a few seconds no one spoke again, and 
 Stephen's attention was drawn to the sound of the 
 slow footsteps that paced backwards and forwards 
 overhead. 
 
 " He's been going on like that for about two 
 hours, now," Emily remarked. 
 
 " He ought to go to bed," Stephen said. " No 
 use his sitting up." 
 
 " Shall I go up and tell him that we're sitting 
 up? " Hilda suggested. 
 
 Stephen hesitated. " Perhaps I'd better go," he 
 said after a moment's thought. 
 
 " Perhaps you'd better," Emily agreed. u Just 
 say we'll wait up." 
 
 " All serene," Stephen said. 
 
 He went quickly out of the room, but on the stairs 
 his mind misgave him. Suppose his father were to 
 ask him any direct question, what could he say? He 
 must pretend complete ignorance; that was the only 
 possible course to take. 
 
 He stood outside his father's door for a full 
 minute before he knocked, listening to the slow mel- 
 ancholy thudding of the footsteps that plodded end- 
 lessly backwards and forwards. Seven steps, then 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 91 
 
 a pause at the turn, and seven steps back again. 
 They ceased with a startling abruptness when 
 Stephen knocked. 
 
 It's only me, father," Stephen said in a timid 
 voice, but it apparently reached his father's under- 
 standing for the steps instantly resumed their mo- 
 notonous burden. 
 
 " I say, father," Stephen began again, and then 
 realizing the impossibility of carrying on a conver- 
 sation through the thickness of a closed door, he 
 turned the handle, opened the door a few inches 
 and continued, " I say, father, we'll sit up, the girls 
 and me. Hadn't you better go to bed? " 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood stopped in his walk. He was near 
 the end of his beat, close to the wall at the bed head, 
 and he paused there with his back to Stephen, as if 
 he were waiting for some further speech from him. 
 
 Stephen could think of nothing more to say. He 
 found that his hand, still resting on the white porce- 
 lain door knob, was cold and wet, and he wiped it 
 on his jacket. He was afraid. His father looked 
 so queer standing there with his face to the wall. 
 Was it safe to leave him alone? He might do 
 something awful, if he wasn't watched. 
 
 " I say, father," he tried again, making a great 
 effort. Could I speak to you a moment?" 
 
 The familiar phrase seemed to recall Mr. Kirk- 
 wood to a sense of his surroundings. He took one 
 more step towards the wall, as if some mechanical 
 impulse forbade him to turn without completing his 
 beat, and then came half way back across the room 
 to where his son was standing. 
 
 Stephen was surprised to find that his father 
 looked much as usual. He often responded to that 
 request for an interview, especially if it fore- 
 shadowed a petition for money, with just such a 
 
92 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 look of preoccupation with more important affairs 
 as he was wearing now. 
 
 The shock came when the little bookseller began 
 to speak. He began suddenly in the middle of a 
 sentence, as if he were continuing a long conversa- 
 tion. And he spoke with a passionate air of dem- 
 onstrating an argument, quite new in his son's ex- 
 perience of him. 
 
 "... but not the only explanation," he said in 
 a low rapid voice. " For instance, what more likely 
 than that she's gone up to her father's. Something 
 had put her out, no doubt. How should I know 
 what? She was in one of her quiet moods before 
 Stephen came in. I'd noticed that at tea-time . . ." 
 Father! " Stephen interrupted him, in a pained 
 voice. It was horrible to hear his father talking 
 about him as if he were not there confronting, 
 almost touching, him. " Shall I go up to grand- 
 father's and see if she's there? " he went on, speak- 
 ing fast and rather loud. " We hadn't thought of 
 that. I could easily pop up there and back in twenty 
 minutes. And if she's there I'll bring her back with 
 me. Shall I do that, father? " 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood stared hard at his son's face for a 
 moment, and then nodded emphatically. 
 
 " All right, I'll go at once," Stephen shouted re- 
 assuringly; instinctively attempting to reach the 
 deeply secluded place in which his father's spirit had 
 taken refuge^ 
 
 " I'll send the girls up to keep you company," he 
 added as he left the room. 
 
 But his father had already reentered the deadly 
 solitude of his monotonous, trudging walk. He was 
 afraid of the bleak world of bitter reality. For the 
 present, he desired feverishly to hold his life at that 
 period in which he could still cling fondly to the un- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 93 
 
 certain joys of hope. His argument had gone one 
 step further leaping the memory of that fatal mo- 
 ment in which he had accepted the horrible truth. 
 The moment that he was determined at all costs to 
 obliterate. 
 
 11 I'm going round to grandfather's," was 
 Stephen's report to his sisters. " We forgot she 
 might be there. But, I say, I don't think you'd bet- 
 ter leave father alone. He's awfully funny some- 
 how. He talked as if I wasn't there. I told him 
 I'd send you up for company. You'd better both 
 go. I left the door open. He won't answer when 
 you knock. I'm off now." 
 
 He delivered his message breathlessly. He had 
 put on his cap, and once or twice as he spoke, he 
 strained it further down on his head as if he antic- 
 ipated going out into a gale of wind. He wanted 
 to avoid any further questions about his father's 
 condition; but beyond that, he had a feeling of tre- 
 mendous urgency, as if the least delay on his part 
 might lead to some irredeemable disaster. 
 
 The streets were still fairly full of people. Up 
 at the other end of Long Causeway, the marketplace 
 was still noisy with Saturday night traffic. Stephen 
 could hear the hoarse shoutings of the men at the 
 stalls, selling off at tremendous sacrifices all the per- 
 ishable food that it would not be safe to keep over 
 Sunday. But as he came out on to the pavement, 
 one of the new electric trams clattered by, packed 
 with women of the poorer class, going home to the 
 railwaymen's suburb down at New England. That 
 was Stephen's direction also, and he hesitated for a 
 moment whether he would not run after and board 
 the tram they never cared how much they were 
 
94 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 overloaded on Saturday night but then he thought 
 of the endless stoppages and delays that he would 
 have to endure and decided that it would be quicker 
 to run. He strained his cap down again with the 
 same nervous movement he had twice repeated in 
 the sitting-room, and set off at once. He was jus- 
 tified in his estimate of the tram's slowness. He 
 passed it at the corner of Westgate and Park Road, 
 and it never caught him again. 
 
 He was glad to be going to his grandfather's in 
 Stamford Street instead of to Dr. Threlfall's lodg- 
 ings in the Lincoln Road. He saw his grandfather 
 very seldom, but he was always easy to talk to. 
 That other visit would have demanded considerable 
 moral courage. Suppose she had been there, what 
 could he have said before Dr. Threlfall? One 
 couldn't lose one's temper with a man like that; one 
 couldn't very well argue with him. He had such an 
 air of belonging to the ruling classes. It must be all 
 his mother's fault. She must have encouraged him. 
 But it was any odds that he wasn't. . . . Stephen 
 could not even in his thoughts, say " in love." It 
 was too grotesque, too horrible to suggest that 
 Threlfall was in love with Stephen's mother. Love 
 in this connection was a word sacred to such bright 
 and beautiful ardors as he might one day suffer for 
 Margaret Weatherley. In relation to his mother 
 and Dr. Threlfall, the word had a coarse and rather 
 disreputable significance. But just suppose. . . . 
 No, he wouldn't even suppose so repulsive an idea. 
 His mother had certainly spent the evening with 
 her father in Stamford Street. Stephen would find 
 her there and persuade her to come home with him. 
 After that it would be all right. They were all 
 willing enough to get back to the old terms again. 
 She must see that that was the only thing to do. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 95 
 
 It was a warm night and Stephen was wet with 
 perspiration when he reached No. 69 Stamford 
 Street and looking up at the first-floor window of 
 the dingy little house, saw with relief that there was 
 still a light in his grandfather's room. The window 
 was wide open but he could hear no sound of voices. 
 He had meant to call " mother " but the portent of 
 that silence influenced him to substitute " grand- 
 father." If, after all, she were not there, and the 
 people of the house heard him, they might think it 
 funny that he should be going about the town at a 
 quarter to twelve looking for his mother. 
 
 He called up to the window in a secret, suppressed 
 voice, but the response was instantaneous. He 
 heard a chair pushed hastily back and almost im- 
 mediately old Edwardes appeared at the window. 
 
 "Is that you, Stephen?" he replied softly. 
 " Thought I recognized your step coming up the 
 road. What do you want?" 
 
 " Is mother there? " Stephen whispered. 
 
 " Lord, no," his grandfather replied. 
 
 11 Hasn't she been here, all the evening? " 
 
 " Haven't seen her for more than a week," old 
 Edwardes said. "Why?" 
 
 Stephen felt as if he had been suddenly doused 
 with cold water. " May I come up, grandfather? " 
 he said with a shiver. " I want to speak to you." 
 
 " I'll come down and let you in," his grandfather 
 responded at once ; and a few seconds later, Stephen 
 heard the lock of the front door gently turned. 
 
 " They're all in bed, and asleep, probably," old 
 Edwardes whispered as soon as the door had been 
 opened. " Don't make a noise, boy." He had a 
 candle in his hand, and paused on the threshold, 
 staring at his grandson's face. u Has she gone? " 
 and then without waiting for a reply, put a hand on 
 
96 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen's shoulder, drew him into the passage, cau- 
 tiously closed the door, and pointed to the stairs. 
 " Mind the third step up," he said. " The tread's 
 broken." 
 
 11 So she's gone, eh? " he repeated, as soon as he 
 and his grandson were safe in the neat little bed-sit- 
 ting room. He spoke in a low, clear roice, that 
 Stephen unconsciously intimated when he replied : 
 
 u Well, we don't know. We thought she might 
 be here." 
 
 Edwardes shook his head and began to fill his 
 pipe. " Let's have the facts," he said. " I shall 
 know, then. Don't raise your voice. I can hear as 
 well as ever, thank God." 
 
 Stephen gave the facts as well as he could, omit- 
 ting, however, all mention of his mother's interview 
 with him the night before and of their quarrel in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 " Aye ! " Edwards murmured when his grandson 
 had apparently finished. " Have you ever seen him ; 
 Threlfall, I mean?" 
 
 " I met him this afternoon on the cricket field," 
 Stephen said. 
 
 His grandfather thrust out his lower lip, smoking 
 steadily and gazing down at the empty grate. 
 " He's one of us," he remarked thoughtfully. 
 " She was bound to go to him, sooner or later. 
 I've known it for six weeks or more. They were 
 here together just over a week ago, and I talked it 
 over with her afterwards. She's as headstrong as 
 ever. She would marry your father, though I did 
 all I could to stop her. This time, I'm not so sure 
 that I want to. It's hard for you to understand, 
 at your age, being her son and all; but the wonder 
 to me is not that she should be kicking over the 
 traces now, but that she shouldn't have done it long 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 97 
 
 ago. I fancy it's only you that have kept her, 
 Stephen." 
 
 " Me? " Stephen ejaculated. 
 
 14 Aye, you," his grandfather said. u I suppose 
 you don't feel that you were worth it." 
 
 " I don't understand, grandfather," Stephen re- 
 turned. 
 
 11 Never having been either a father or a mother 
 you probably wouldn't," Edwardes remarked. 
 " And I can't explain to you a thing you've never 
 felt." He paused before he added. " Have you 
 been failing her, lately? " 
 
 "I I didn't want her to to go away, of 
 course," Stephen said. 
 
 "Then you knew all about it?" Edwardes en- 
 quired keenly. 
 
 11 She told me a little about it last night," Stephen 
 admitted, " but we all knew there was something 
 wrong before that." 
 
 His grandfather turned and looked him straight 
 in the eyes as he fired his next question. 
 
 u You haven't been falling in love, yourself? " he 
 asked. 
 
 11 Oh! no, grandfather; rather not," Stephen pro- 
 tested, blushing vividly. 
 
 "Quite sure?" old Edwardes pressed him. 
 
 " Quite," Stephen affirmed. 
 
 "Well, does she think you have?" 
 
 "Oh! no; how could she?" 
 
 " All the same, she probably knows," the old man 
 said enigmatically. 
 
 "Knows what?" Stephen enquired, greatly 
 puzzled. 
 
 " That there's some difference in you ; that you 
 haven't been giving her your best attention, or de- 
 votion, or something like that. She must be first. 
 
98 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 YouVe just got to the age when you're sure to be 
 casting sheep's eyes at some girl or another." 
 
 Stephen's face flamed again. " But," he began 
 to protest. 
 
 His grandfather interrupted him.^ 
 
 " I'm not putting the blame of this on to you," he 
 said. " It was bound to happen sooner or later. 
 You couldn't be expected to help yourself. Better 
 that you shouldn't. But if I know anything of 
 Cecilia and if I don't know her, no one does or 
 ever will she's noticed some difference in you the 
 last week or two, that . . ." 
 
 u Oh ! no, not as long ago as that," Stephen put 
 in. " If there was anything at all, it was only yes- 
 terday." 
 
 u What happened yesterday, then?" his grand- 
 father asked. 
 
 11 Nothing, really," Stephen protested. 
 
 " You're mighty red about it, anyway," old Ed- 
 wardes commented. 
 
 Stephen fidgetted impatiently. " Oh, does it mat- 
 ter about me, grandfather? " he asked. 
 
 11 Aye, it seems to me that it does," the old man 
 replied. " I can't help thinking that somehow or 
 another, you've put the finish to this affair of hers. 
 However, in another way, it's of no account. What 
 we have to do is to see that she doesn't make too big 
 a fool of herself and him. We'd better find her, 
 and there's only one place we need look for her and 
 that's at Threlfall's rooms in the Lincoln Road. Fll 
 come, with you, boy. We've the excuse that your 
 father's ill ill enough for our purpose, in any 
 case. Come along." 
 
 He got up, knocked out his pipe, took down his 
 soft felt hat from the wall, lighted the candle, and 
 then turned out the gas and led the way downstairs. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 99 
 
 Stephen followed him with the comfortable feel- 
 ing of one who goes under the command of a trusted 
 leader and expert. His grandfather was, in the 
 eyes of the town, nothing more than a piano-tuner. 
 Indeed he was not even a satisfactory piano-tuner; 
 for he was unquestionably eccentric and his stand- 
 ing did not justify eccentricity, a peculiarity only 
 justifiable by wealth, position or great fame. Yet 
 even his critics admitted some of them solely by 
 their omissions that there was an effect of breed 
 about old Edwardes. He was shabby, but he was 
 always clean; and he had an air of authority with 
 the shop-keepers that compelled an unwilling respect. 
 If he had not been so morose and self-centered, he 
 might have found a few friends. 
 
 He hardly spoke to his grandson as they made 
 their way back towards the town, entering the Lin- 
 coln Road from its upper, comparatively poverty- 
 stricken end. As a road it exhibited three definite 
 stages. For the first quarter of a mile out of the 
 town, it had all the marks of a first class residential 
 suburb. The houses were detached, stood in their 
 own grounds sometimes well back from the road, 
 and were the " residences " of the town's more pros- 
 perous professional men. James Dickinson the 
 builder lived there. But further up the style stead- 
 ily declined. The houses were smaller, closer to the 
 road, and nearer together, rapidly merging into that 
 phase of semi-detachment which led on to the disaster 
 of villas in a row and ultimately, at the New Eng- 
 land end, into workmen's cottages. 
 
 Dr. Threlfali's lodgings were about half a mile 
 out of the town in one of the transition villas 
 semi-detached, but still with a good ten yards of 
 privacy between them and the road, an endowment 
 that was emphasized by the protection of hedges in 
 
ioo AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 laurel, privet or yew behind dwarf walls with an 
 " ornamental " iron railing. Many of the gardens 
 boasted lime, laburnum, acacia or sweet-chestnut 
 trees, and the effect on a summer night was pleas- 
 antly suggestive of greenery and seclusion. 
 
 11 It's number 123 ; the house is called ' Yaxley, 1 ' 
 Stephen said as they came into the odor of respec- 
 tability. "Do you know it, grandfather? I've 
 never been there." 
 
 11 I know it," Edwardes returned, and added bit- 
 terly, " I've tuned the piano there for twenty years. 
 There's an old Collard in Threlfall's room not a 
 bad instrument, still. This is the house." 
 
 Stephen could just read the name " Yaxley " in 
 elaborate capitals, by the light of the street-lamp. 
 The gold of the lettering was tarnished and chipped, 
 and the gate, itself, in urgent need of re-painting. 
 His grandfather pushed it open with a gesture that 
 was almost violent, and when they had passed 
 through, let it swing back by its own weight. As 
 they walked up the ten yards of path that imitated 
 the pretentiousness of a " drive," they were accom- 
 panied by the sound of the gate's accelerated click- 
 ing as the latch passed and repassed the post with a 
 swiftly diminishing beat. 
 
 It occurred to Stephen that his grandfather was 
 deliberately making all the noise he could to warn 
 his daughter and Dr. Threlfall of the coming in- 
 vasion of their solitude; and old Edwardes's further 
 approach served to confirm this suspicion. He 
 tramped with a somewhat unnecessary harshness on 
 the recently turned gravel of the path, and when he 
 had reached the house, he passed the front door, and 
 then tapped lightly on the " French " window of the 
 ground-floor room beyond. There was a light in 
 that room, but the blind was down. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTH Eli 101 
 
 As they waited for a reply, Stephen could hear 
 the faintly startled whispering of disturbed voices. 
 Nearly a minute must have passed before the blind 
 flew suddenly up, and the figure of Dr. Threlfall 
 appeared silhouetted against the light of the room. 
 He paused for another few seconds, peering out, be- 
 fore he opened the window. 
 
 " It's all right," murmured old Edwardes. 
 " Stephen's here. He has come with a message. 
 His father's in a queer way." 
 
 He did not ask if Cecilia were there. Perhaps he 
 had seen her although to Stephen she was still invis- 
 ible, sitting on the sofa behind the lamp on the fur- 
 ther side of the room. Or it may be that her 
 father's sensitive ear had recognized her voice dur- 
 ing the hushed colloquy that had preceded Threl- 
 fall's appearance at the window. 
 
 1 You'd better come in," Threlfall said with a 
 quick glance over his shoulder; and he moved aside 
 to let old Edwardes and Stephen enter, shutting the 
 French window behind them, and redrawing the 
 blind. 
 
 10 
 
 "What is it? What's the matter?" Cecilia 
 asked calmly. 
 
 Stephen looked at her with an ashamed and hesi- 
 tating curiosity. In the course of the last few hours 
 the relationship between them had been obscurely 
 changed. She was no longer above criticism. In- 
 deed, at this moment he was aware of a strong feeling 
 of resentment against her a feeling that was in- 
 tensified by her present appearance. She looked so 
 happy; more than happy elated. He had seen 
 her in that state of exaltation before when she had 
 
isyx\:\tftf)WPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 had a success at some concert. She would come 
 home flushed and brilliant, to entertain them with the 
 story of her triumph. Stephen had worshiped her 
 on those occasions, but, now, her happiness annoyed 
 and hurt him. He remembered his father's misery 
 and his own sisters' anxiety. What right had she, 
 he thought, to disregard them all as she had done? 
 Also, some sense within him told Stephen that there 
 was a vital difference between the woman who had 
 walked out of the house in Long Causeway that 
 evening and the woman who was sitting on the sofa 
 with that strange look of exaltation. What had 
 caused that difference, he dared not ask himself, as 
 yet. But the effect of it was to cut her off from 
 him and change their relations. He might have ex- 
 perienced much the same sense of bewildering inex- 
 plicable loss, if the lover he had adored had proved 
 to be the mistress of another man. 
 
 He looked down at the carpet, sulkily, fumbling 
 with his cap, as he answered his mother's question. 
 
 " We didn't know where you were," he said. 
 
 " And now that you do know ... ? " she re- 
 plied lightly. 
 
 " Are you coming back? " Stephen muttered. 
 
 Cecilia shook her head. 
 
 Old Edwardes had sat down in a chair at one end 
 of the center table and Threlfall stood near him. 
 Both of them had an air of waiting, of definitely re- 
 fusing to interfere until this clash between mother 
 and son reached a climax that directly evoked the 
 need for their intervention. 
 
 "Why not?" Stephen asked, still in the same 
 sulky, abashed tone. He thought that she was tak- 
 ing an unfair advantage of him; that he should not 
 have been called upon to make his appeal in the 
 presence of his grandfather and a stranger. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 103 
 
 " You'll know some day, Stephen," Cecilia replied, 
 more gently. 
 
 " But, mother, you don't mean to say that you're 
 not coming back with me now? " he protested. 
 
 44 I do," she said. 
 
 He frowned and fidgetted. " But you must," 
 he grumbled. 
 
 Cecilia shook her head. Her expression was one 
 of slightly contemptuous amusement. 
 
 Old Edwardes cleared his throat and made a 
 movement as if he were about to speak, and then ap- 
 parently changing his mind he leant a little forward, 
 and covered his eyes with his hands. 
 
 44 Why not? " Stephen repeated. 
 
 14 I explained everything to you last night," Cecilia 
 said. " Have you forgotten already? Surely you 
 don't want me to say it all over again." 
 
 44 1 haven't forgotten that you promised me you'd 
 wait at least a month," Stephen grumbled. 
 
 44 So many things have happened since then," 
 Cecilia said, and looked at her lover. Stephen 
 saw the signal of happiness that passed between 
 them and it aggravated his feeling of grievance. 
 
 44 You've no right to go away," he said with a 
 greater boldness than he had yet shown, and his 
 frown deepened into a scowl. 
 
 44 I've a right to live my own life," his mother re- 
 plied without anger. " I've devoted all the best of 
 it to you. Now, I'm going to be frankly selfish. 
 You needn't use all the conventional arguments, 
 Stephen. I know them all much better than you 
 do, and they don't affect me one little bit. You 
 must try and think of me as an individual in future, 
 instead of as a slave to that shop and house in Long 
 Causeway. I'm emancipated. I've become a hu- 
 man being, like yourself." 
 
104 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " We know it must be very hard for you to un- 
 derstand, Stephen," Threlfall put in, and his gentle 
 voice had the same effect of tranquil authority that 
 it had had on the cricket-field. " But you must try 
 to see things from another point of view. If we 
 are being selfish, aren't you being selfish, too? " 
 
 Stephen made no reply. In his present mood his 
 instinctive respect for Threlfall as a social superior 
 was almost overcome by indignation and resentment. 
 After all, this man was the thief, the real culprit. 
 He had made no sacrifices. He had just come as 
 a perfect stranger and with no kind of justification, 
 was preparing to wreck the lives of at least four 
 people. He might be a gentleman, but he was be- 
 having like a cad, now. 
 
 As he considered these things, Stephen's anger be- 
 gan to boil again, but before he could give any 
 expression to it, old Edwardes asked a question, and 
 for a time, Stephen became nothing more than a 
 spectator. The other three persons in the room 
 seemed to overlook and forget him. 
 
 "What are you going to do, then?" Cecilia's 
 father asked. I don't mean in the future, I mean, 
 now, to-night." 
 
 " She's going up to town by the half-past two 
 train," Threlfall explained. " It runs as usual on 
 Sunday morning. She can go to the Great Northern 
 hotel when she gets in. . . ." 
 
 11 And afterwards, I shall go on to Rhoda Bel- 
 lew's," Cecilia added. " She'll understand. She 
 asked me to go and stay with her when she was 
 singing down here last winter." 
 
 You're giving up the Cathedral organ, of 
 course?" Edwardes asked, turning to Threlfall. 
 
 He nodded carelessly. " As a matter of fact it's 
 giving me up," he said. " Or rather the Dean is. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 105 
 
 I saw him this afternoon and he gave me the choice 
 of resigning Cecilia or the organ. Naturally I gave 
 up the organ. I'm going on for another fortnight 
 to save appearances. I promised that I wouldn't 
 see Cecilia again during that time. And as she's 
 going to London, that will be easy. To-night an 
 exception." 
 
 " After that you'll go to London, too, I suppose," 
 commented Edwardes. " What do you propose to 
 do? No more organs for you after this, you know, 
 my boy, and I can't see you tuning pianos." 
 
 " I'm doing the score for a burlesque," Threlfall 
 said with rather a wry face. " There may be some 
 money in that. It isn't altogether a speculation. 
 Arthur Joyce has written the book. I've known 
 him for years and he has often pestered me to write 
 with him. I know it's rather a come down from one 
 point of view, but as a matter of fact, I've really got 
 rather a feeling for light stuff of that sort. I can 
 already hear some of the things I've done on the 
 barrel-organs." 
 
 Edwardes shrugged his shoulders.^ "Lord, # I 
 don't blame you," he said. " One kind of hack- 
 work is no better nor worse than another." 
 
 " And I shall try to get engagements for telling 
 stories," Cecilia put in, gayly. " Rhoda Bellew said 
 I could, easily, if I wanted to. And, father, as soon 
 as we're settled and going strong, we want ^ you to 
 give up your drudgery here and come and join us. 
 Don't we, Christopher?" 
 
 Threlfall nodded emphatically. 
 
 Stephen listened to their high-hearted plans for 
 the future, with his mind full of amazement. Not 
 one of them had, apparently, any thought either for 
 the tragic drama of the present situation, or for the 
 misery they were bringing upon himself, his sisters 
 
106 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 and his father. Their one idea was to escape from 
 Medboro'. If they were free and independent, 
 their innocent victims might suffer as they would. 
 It was, perhaps, comprehensible that his grandfather 
 and Dr. Threlfall should feel like that, but it was 
 still incredible to Stephen that his mother could in- 
 stantly leave all her family cut herself off and be- 
 gin an entirely new life. She was his; his very own 
 belonging; and he was surely an intimate, essential 
 part of her existence. He was too astonished to be 
 angry any more. He stared at her; longing for 
 something to break; some detestable spell that had 
 been put upon him or her, and had horridly changed 
 all the values of his existence. 
 
 It was Threlfall who presently realized the com- 
 plete omission of Stephen from all their plans. 
 
 " It's hard luck on you, Stephen," he said, turning 
 to him. 
 
 ^ " What about the others? " Stephen asked. He 
 did not look at Threlfall as he spoke. He had over- 
 come his sulkiness, and he stared directly at his 
 mother prepared to entreat her for the first time. 
 
 She bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " Father's awfully queer," he went on, still watch- 
 ing her, and a pleading tone came into his voice as 
 he continued. " He's nearly off his head, I think. 
 After supper, he was walking up and down in the 
 bedroom for more than three hours. And and 
 he spoke funnily. He talked to me as if I was some 
 one else. I believe he'll go absolutely mad. I do 
 really." 
 
 " That's only a kind of pose," Cecilia replied 
 coldly. " He has often been like that before. You 
 may not have seen it, but I have." 
 
 " I don't believe you have, not like he was to- 
 night," pleaded Stephen. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER i 7 
 
 " He has had over twenty years of my life," she 
 said sharply. u I can't afford to give any more." 
 
 For a moment Stephen was repelled, angry with 
 her again for her heartlessness, but then he saw her 
 lip quiver and his mood instantly changed. She had 
 never resorted to tears as a method of getting her 
 own way. She was above that weakness. Only 
 once had Stephen ever seen her cry, and that was 
 three years ago when her father had been danger- 
 ously ill. And the sight of her weakness touched 
 him as nothing else could have done. He took a 
 step towards her, and there were tears in his own 
 voice as he said: 
 
 " Oh! mother, don't go. Don't leave me." 
 
 It was the one appeal that she had dreaded. 
 
 There, so near, now, the gates of Happiness stood 
 wide open for her to pass through. Her love for 
 Christopher Threlfall had been the deciding factor 
 in her determination to enter the promised land; but 
 the temptation included far more than that. She 
 saw so vividly the two alternatives: on one hand 
 the dull duty of her life in Medboro' with all that it 
 implied; on the other the lure of the spiritual, intel- 
 lectual and emotional freedom that was still possible 
 for her. All the load was on one scale. Christo- 
 pher, London, the impulse to self-expression; against 
 these there was no weight at all. The thought of 
 her husband, or her two Kirkwood daughters, of the 
 life of Medboro' only served to make the other 
 picture shine more brilliantly attractive. The single 
 influence of remorse and desire that held her back 
 was Stephen. And she would not, dared not, con- 
 sider it. She had but to take one more step to pass 
 into the land of Perfect Delight she had no doubt 
 of its perfection it would be sheer folly to go 
 back. She could not go back. 
 
108 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 She had hidden her face in her hands : but the grief 
 that shook her was due not to doubt but to the pain 
 of making this single sacrifice. 
 
 "Mother!" Stephen besought her again. He 
 had come quite close to her, now. He was, she 
 knew, ready to kneel by her, to put his arms round 
 her and destroy the whole of her future happiness. 
 She must make one final effort whatever it cost her. 
 
 She lifted her head and there was no sign of tears 
 on her face. 
 
 " Oh! Stephen, don't be so silly," she said. 
 
 And then, she laughed; and the laugh conquered 
 her; and the sound of it was evil. She knew it her- 
 self, and yet was unable to check it. She had re- 
 leased the demon that dwelt in her, and he had taken 
 possession of her body and was using it to express 
 his own hideous triumph. 
 
 Threlfall and her father started and instinctively 
 moved towards her as if to push Stephen away, and 
 hide this shame from him. They recognized that 
 laugh as the sign of hysteria ; and were ready to ex- 
 cuse it. She had been too hardly tried. She was 
 no longer responsible for her emotions. The strain 
 had been too great for her sensitive temperament 
 and although the sound of that laugh was horribly 
 repellent to Christopher Threlfall, it had no effect 
 upon his love for Cecilia. 
 
 But to Stephen, his mother's laugh was a complete 
 and desolating catastrophe. He turned away from 
 her in a paroxysm of disgust and terror. It seemed 
 to him that she had been suddenly and finally 
 revealed to him as a thing of evil. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 109 
 
 11 
 
 He blundered feebly and yet with a violent im- 
 patience to get out of the room. The blind and the 
 fastening of the window resisted him with a tantal- 
 izing inertia. He was afraid of being held back by 
 his grandfather or Dr. Threlfall; and he was hysteri- 
 cally eager to escape from the sight of his mother 
 and the sound of her jeering laughter. 
 
 When he had at last forced open the reluctant 
 window, he ran as if he were pursued. . . . 
 
 The reflection of his mother's hysteria disap- 
 peared long before he reached home, but the effect 
 of it remained with him. It seemed, indeed, as if 
 the experiences of those two days, working up at 
 last to this hateful climax, had completely killed his 
 love for Cecilia. He saw their whole past life to- 
 gether from a new point of view. He began to be- 
 lieve that she had always deceived him; that in her 
 tenderest and fondest moments, she must, in her 
 heart, have been jeering at him. He could not rec- 
 oncile the picture of his mother as he had known 
 her, with that of the woman he had seen in the 
 Lincoln Road. And because in that, his last sight 
 of her, he had been strung up to a pitch of abnormal 
 sensitiveness he had received an almost indelible 
 impression of having at last realized the whole 
 ghastly, revolting truth. 
 
 She had, he thought, finally revealed her true self. 
 And even when in the course of years, the horror of 
 that night had very sensibly faded, the deduction still 
 remained and was confirmed by reason. He remem- 
 bered all that was callous and selfish in her treatment 
 of himself and his father after she had fallen in love 
 with Christopher Threlfall. He came to believe 
 that she had never cared for himself. 
 
no AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 There was still one more ordeal for Stephen to 
 face before that tragic day was ended, and as he 
 rang the house-door in Long Causeway, an immense 
 feeling of desolation and exhaustion all but over- 
 powered him. When Emily opened the door, he 
 stumbled over the step and nearly fell into the hall. 
 
 " Stephen! " Emily ejaculated. " Is anything the 
 matter?" 
 
 He leant against the wall of the passage. " I'm 
 about done,*' he said, and as he made the admission, 
 his remaining strength seemed to ebb out of him. 
 His knees began to tremble. He would have 
 slipped to the floor if Emily had not caught hold of 
 him. 
 
 " Stephen! what's happened? " she besought him 
 in an awestricken voice. 
 
 " It's all up," he said. He knew that he was act- 
 ing, but he found relief in a certain insincerity of 
 manner. It was so much easier to tell Emily like 
 this; and he had to tell her. He was being theat- 
 rical and unreal. He could still have pulled himself 
 together if he had made an effort. But though he 
 had the strength to conquer his physical weakness, 
 he could not face the stress of an intellectual tussle 
 with his sisters; the task of convincing them by 
 tedious explanations. He wanted to be alone, to lie 
 down and forget. 
 
 " D'you mean she's gone? " Emily asked trag- 
 ically. 
 
 " Yes," Stephen said. 
 
 " With him?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How do you know? " 
 
 " I can't tell you, now. I'll tell you in the morn- 
 ing," he gasped. " Help me up to bed, old girl." 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER in 
 
 He was genuinely surprised to find that Hilda had 
 joined them, while he was speaking. 
 
 The eternal questioning was beginning all over 
 again and he wrenched himself away from Emily, 
 tottered to the foot of the stairs and began with an 
 exaggerated difficulty to climb them. His sisters 
 came to help him, then; and as the three of them 
 struggled together up the narrow staircase, he heard 
 the anxious whispering exchange of question and 
 answer between them. He did not care what they 
 did, if only they would not cross-examine him. 
 There were some things that he could never tell 
 them; and he was too tired just now to conceal the 
 truth. 
 
 He allowed them to help him right up to his 
 own room and on to his bed. He was afraid that if 
 he gave any sign of recovered strength or indepen- 
 dence, they would immediately take advantage of it 
 in order to slake the fierce thirst of their curiosity. 
 
 " Shall you be all right? " Hilda asked, when he 
 was at last deposited on the bed. 
 
 He nodded. He was afraid even to ask a ques- 
 tion as to his father's condition. 
 
 Emily saved him that risk. 
 
 " Father's asleep," she said. 
 
 He nodded again, 
 
 " We made him go to bed," Hilda added. 
 
 He shut his eyes and pretended not to hear. 
 
 When they had gone, he began to undress. He 
 was certainly tired, physically and mentally weary, 
 but he was not so completely done that he found any 
 difficulty in standing unsupported. 
 
 As he thankfully nestled down between the sheets, 
 he began to recall the doings of the last eighteen 
 hours, remembering with a feeling of surprise and 
 
ii2 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 pleasure that he had made 136 not out for the 
 School against the Town. 
 
 His last waking thought was of Margaret Weath- 
 erley. His mind absolutely refused to consider any 
 thought of his mother. 
 
Ill 
 
 CECILIA'S bitter description of her husband's 
 temporary madness as " a kind of pose," was 
 based on one of those half-truths that account for 
 so many misunderstandings between husband and 
 wife. She had seen him in the same condition on 
 earlier occasions, and the natural bias of her tem- 
 perament had quickened her recognition of the his- 
 trionics involved. That phase of his reaction was 
 a thing she knew and could appreciate. She could 
 test it by her own feelings and habit. The vital 
 error she made was that having correctly estimated 
 a mode of presentation, she mistook it for a cause; 
 just as the medical profession only a few years ago 
 mistook the symptoms of hysteria. For behind little 
 Kirkwood's acting lay a real and dangerous mental 
 disturbance. 
 
 The habit of concealing his weakness under a pre- 
 tense of absent-mindedness had been growing upon 
 him for twenty years. From the first moment of his 
 astounding engagement to the beautiful and accom- 
 plished Cecilia Edwardes, he had been handicapped 
 by a sense of his own unworthiness. In the early 
 days, he had openly expressed this realization by an 
 exaggerated humility. His abasement had been 
 frank and complete. And in the beginning his ador- 
 ation had flattered Cecilia's girlish vanity. He was 
 ten years older than she, and she found a new delight 
 
 113 
 
ii 4 4N IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 in this absolute exercise of her authority. With 
 her father she had been, at best, on terms of equality, 
 and as a musician she had always been his pupil 
 Now, she ruled. 
 
 Those relations, however, could not survive the 
 protracted stresses of marriage. To Cecilia, her 
 husband's prostration soon changed from a delight 
 to a bore. There were no possibilities for expe- 
 rience and diversion in the exercise of so absolute an 
 autocracy as she was called upon to wield. But 
 even if she had not shown plainly enough that hu- 
 mility became tedious when it represented the single 
 virtue of one's husband, little Kirkwood could not 
 have maintained that attitude indefinitely. A meas- 
 ure of self-esteem, in however strange a form, is 
 essential to every human being; and something 
 within us resists and cries out against the habit of 
 self-depreciation, as soon as it becomes marked 
 enough to constitute a danger. Little Kirkwood 
 had to find a disguise that would cover his inefficiency 
 from his wife, and incidentally from the remainder 
 of his limited world. He found it in an ideal of 
 scholarship combined with a conventional eccentric- 
 ity of manner. 
 
 The pose was never in the fullest sense deliberate. 
 He did not invent it, he could hardly be said to have 
 discovered it. It represented his natural escape into 
 fantasy, and presently it overpowered him. 
 
 It is true that in ordinary circumstances the harm- 
 less insanity that developed after his wife's deser- 
 tion, would not have killed him. He might have 
 lived to the age of seventy or more, regarded as a 
 harmless and slightly childish eccentric, if his depend- 
 ence upon Cecilia had been the normal dependence 
 of a husband upon an admired wife. But it seems 
 as if Cecilia had been the single vitalizing influence 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 115 
 
 of Andrew Kirkwood's existence, as if he must have 
 lived through her personality. It is certain that 
 from the time she left him, he began slowly and inevi- 
 tably to die of sheer inanition. 
 
 His children never knew whether or not he real- 
 ized the facts as they were known to themselves. 
 The girls and more particularly Emily, displayed a 
 patience in dealing with him that was nothing short 
 of heroic; for he was a constant source of irritation 
 to them. They were sane, according to the com- 
 mon standard, and by the same standard he was not. 
 And they never had the consolation of knowing for 
 certain that he was insane and of being able to treat 
 him accordingly. His single marked delusion, the 
 one piece of evidence that his children could cite as 
 a ground for certainty, was that their mother 
 might return at any moment. Sometimes he ap- 
 peared to realize her long absence and expect her 
 return as an event already too long delayed. At 
 others his manner and his occasional references to 
 her implied the belief that she had never gone 
 away. 
 
 And to Stephen's mind at least, Cecilia's bitter 
 comment had insinuated a doubt that he was never 
 able successfully to evade. Even when his father's 
 delusion grew daily more and more marked, 
 Stephen was still pricked by the uncertainty as to 
 how far it was genuine ; whether, indeed, it was not 
 from first to last, an almost infantile pretense, a 
 feeble means of escape from responsibility and 
 shame. 
 
 Cecilia only wrote once to her family after she 
 left them. The letter was addressed to Emily and 
 received by her on the following Monday. She in- 
 
n6 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 interpreted it as a gesture of defiance and contempt, 
 but it had not been so intended. Cecilia had written 
 with a single object which was to obtain possession 
 of her wardrobe, and she had not adopted the tone 
 most likely to serve her desire. She had made no 
 apology, no explanation. She had simply asked that 
 her personal belongings might be packed and sent to 
 her at the house of Rhoda Bellew, the famous con- 
 tralto. The letter began " My dear Emily," was 
 signed " your affectionate mother," and made no 
 kind of reference to Cecilia's manner of leaving 
 Medboro'. It might have been a hasty note, dashed 
 off on some commonplace occasion, asking a small 
 favor. 
 
 As she had written it, she must have known that 
 her daughters would be offended, outraged; but per- 
 haps she could not bear the thought of any further 
 contact with her family, just then. She was afraid 
 to consider her old life in any terms, save those of 
 her own past sacrifices. She was determined to be 
 happy at any cost; and she had to keep the excuse 
 for her determination constantly before her; know- 
 ing that if she once began to examine and encourage 
 her own conscience, she would be forever tormented 
 by a demon of regret. She had dared to claim hap- 
 piness and now, she meant to enjoy it. 
 
 Stephen was surprised at the effect of that letter 
 upon his sisters. It had been received by the second 
 post, and he knew nothing of it until he came in from 
 school at five o'clock. In the interval that had 
 elapsed since he had left home in the morning, he 
 had, such is the amazing resilience of youth, taken a 
 long step towards recovery. 
 
 One of his problems had been resolved for him 
 by his achievement in the town match. The petty 
 intrigue against him, due to Hall Minor's jealousy, 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 117 
 
 and only possible because it had involved a sugges- 
 tion of salacity, had been utterly defeated. The 
 two Halls and their allies might, in other circum- 
 stances, have succeeded in " ragging " Stephen quite 
 unpleasantly; but if you attempt to rag the school 
 hero, you only bring hostility and contempt upon 
 yourselves. Moreover the rumor concerning the 
 measles had been a true one. The daughter of a 
 neighboring gentleman-farmer had now developed 
 them beyond question; and as she had been in the 
 company of Miss Weatherley only two days before 
 the sickness had declared itself, all the headmaster's 
 family had been sent away at once in order to safe- 
 guard the school. Thus against the temporary 
 canonization of one protagonist and in the absence of 
 the other, Hall Minor's shameful plot had no least 
 chance of ripening. Indeed, by way of definitely 
 winding up the episode, he made a private apology 
 to Stephen, an apology that in the glory of the mo- 
 ment, Stephen magnanimously accepted. 
 
 And, so far, the town had not got wind of the 
 full flavor of the Kirkwood Scandal. Old Ed- 
 wardes had taken his daughter to the station in the 
 early hours of Sunday; and even if any one had seen 
 them, the fact that she had gone up to London by so 
 unusual a train was rather feeble material for gossip 
 in face of Dr. Threlfall's visible presence in the 
 Cathedral, the same morning. 
 
 Stephen certainly suffered one qualm of sickness 
 when at five o'clock he entered the house decorously 
 by the side-door, he had an instinctive desire to 
 avoid his father, but he was quite prepared to take 
 up his life under the new conditions and, as his 
 mother had done, to put the past behind him. 
 
 Emily, still with her hat on, met him at the top of 
 the stairs. 
 
n8 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " Come in here, Stephen," she said, indicating the 
 sitting-room door. " Father hasn't come up yet." 
 And she took him by the arm, and let him into the 
 sitting-room with an air of mysterious urgency. 
 
 Stephen submitted with a sudden thrill of fear. 
 " What is it? " he asked on a note of alarm, as soon 
 as the door had been shut with a conspiratorial se- 
 crecy behind them. Hilda was standing by the table 
 with a look of anxious expectancy on her face. 
 
 " Look at that," exclaimed Emily, producing the 
 infamous letter from her pocket. 
 
 Stephen read it without astonishment. Those 
 curt, commonplace phrases seemed to him the ap- 
 propriate expression of the new woman he had so 
 penetratingly discovered when his mother had 
 laughed at his pleading. This was the letter of a 
 hard, selfish woman, he thought; of the woman who 
 had been so unhappily revealed to him. 
 
 " Well? " he remarked. " What of it? What 
 else did you expect? " 
 
 " She needn't think we'll send them," put in 
 Hilda passionately. 
 
 M Great Scott; why ever not? " asked Stephen. 
 
 11 I won't touch her things," Emily announced with 
 a restrained and solemn violence. 
 
 "What are you going to do with them then?" 
 Stephen asked, looking from one to the other. He 
 realized that he was witnessing a declaration that 
 was nothing short of religious in its refusal to ap- 
 proach contamination. He could not begin to un- 
 derstand it. 
 
 " She'll have to have her clothes," he went on, as 
 no reply to his question was forthcoming. 
 
 Emily had found a focus for her stare and gazed 
 with an immense fixity at a stain on the tablecloth as 
 she said, " She's a bad woman, Stephen." 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 119 
 
 " Yes I know, we've had all that," he replied irri- 
 tably, remembering the awful inquisition that had 
 been held the previous afternoon, for the purpose of 
 extorting from him a full and precise report of 
 everything that had happened at the house in the 
 Lincoln Road. He had been hard put to it more 
 than once to conceal the essential detail of his 
 mother's great refusal, but he had given a fairly 
 inclusive account of the affair up to the moment of 
 Cecilia's rejection of his appeal. " But supposing 
 she is," he continued, " I'm hanged if I can see why 
 you shouldn't send her her things. If you won't I 
 suppose father or I will have to do it. . . ." 
 
 You couldn't ask father to do it," Emily inter- 
 rupted him in a shocked voice. She spoke as if her 
 brother had suggested some fearful outrage. 
 
 Stephen found himself, as he often did in these 
 disputes with his sisters, struggling against some 
 insidious feminine force that he had no power to 
 battle against. " Then do you mean I've got to 
 do it? " he asked. 
 
 " Why should she have them?" posed Hilda. 
 " She hasn't considered us, why should we bother 
 about her? " 
 
 Stephen could not understand their bitterness. 
 He was nervously hurt by his mother's desertion, 
 but he had no desire for revenge. 
 
 " They're hers," was all the answer he could find. 
 
 Hilda sniffed, as if the fact of the things belonging 
 to her mother was sufficient explanation for her own 
 refusal to touch them. 
 
 " You must see that we can't have anything to do 
 with them," Emily said. 
 
 " Don't see it at all," Stephen responded. " It 
 seems to me the most drivelling rot. Why can't 
 you?" 
 
120 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 The two girls looked at one another, exchanging 
 a confidence that deplored the more obvious limita- 
 tions of masculine intelligence. They were both 
 perfectly convinced at the moment that they could 
 not touch their mother's things; but they were quite 
 unable to explain why. 
 
 11 Well, I'm not going to, anyway," Hilda de- 
 clared. 
 
 Emily brooded in profound acquiescence. 
 
 Stephen was tempted to slam out of the room. 
 These insidious virginal resistances stultified and 
 angered him. He controlled himself, because he 
 dreaded the prospect of having to pack his mother's 
 clothes. He saw that task as one promising innum- 
 erable difficulties and embarrassments. It was dif- 
 ferent for the girls. They were used to that sort 
 of thing. It wasn't a man's work. He searched 
 his mind for arguments. 
 
 " Look here," he said; " you were jolly well hor- 
 rified when I said father might have to do it, but it 
 must be a lot worse for him to have her things all 
 over the place like they are now. Besides if you 
 feel like you say you do, I should have thought you'd 
 have been glad to have them out of the house. I 
 don't know why you talk about it as if her things 
 were sort of poisonous, but you do; so hadn't you 
 better get rid of 'em as soon as you can? I'll 
 I'll help you, if you like." 
 
 Hilda laughed. M Oh ! thank you, that would be 
 nice," she said. 
 
 " Of course, you couldn't help us, Stephen," Em- 
 ily gravely explained. 
 
 It suddenly appeared as if the thought of Stephen's 
 undertaking the task was even more dreadful than 
 the prospect of doing it themselves. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 121 
 
 Stephen shrugged his shoulders in hopeless per- 
 plexity. 
 
 " Well, will you do it? " he asked. 
 
 " We should have to wait until father was out 
 of the way," Emily said, as though no other obstacle 
 had ever occurred to her. 
 
 Stephen began to think that his brilliant argument 
 had actually won the success it deserved. " You 
 see my point about not leaving the things about? " 
 he said hopefully. 
 
 11 Oh ! it isn't that," Hilda replied contemptuously, 
 and Emily concurred with a gloomy sedateness. 
 
 Their father came up to tea before anything fur- 
 ther could be added, and the subject was not re- 
 opened until the next evening, when Stephen remem- 
 bered it with a shock of dismay, in the middle of 
 his " preparation." He felt curiously responsible 
 about this affair. It seemed to him a matter of im- 
 mense importance to get rid of those intimate wit- 
 nesses of his mother's personality. 
 
 He went downstairs at once and found his sisters 
 alone together in the kitchen. 
 
 " I say, what are you going to do about those 
 things?" he whispered. 
 
 " They've gone," Emily said, in the tone of one 
 who pronounced judgment. 
 
 Stephen hesitated a moment, debating whether it 
 were worth while to ask for an explanation of their 
 inscrutable attitude towards the whole affair. He 
 decided that it was not. 
 
 " Oh! good," he said, and returned to his inter- 
 rupted work. 
 
 He was aware of a feeling of great relief. It 
 seemed to him as if some unpleasant, disturbing 
 temptation had been suddenly removed. 
 
122 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 The manner of Cecilia's flight entirely spoilt the 
 dramatic values of the scandal. The deduction that 
 she had run away with the Cathedral organist could 
 only be arrived at by tedious degrees. Even Aunt 
 Eleanor was partly deceived, and being willing on 
 this occasion to minimize the gossip, did her best to 
 maintain the theory that her sister-in-law was spend- 
 ing her summer holiday in London with the famous 
 contralto Rhoda Bellew. 
 
 That theory was a sudden inspiration of Hilda's 
 delivered with a bright effect of the commonplace 
 when Mrs. Bell came up alone on the Wednesday 
 afternoon after the disaster, to make enquiries on 
 her own account. 
 
 Emily let her aunt in, and Mrs. Bell came up to 
 the sitting-room with an air of making the most 
 friendly of calls. Not until she had been talking to 
 her two nieces for quite five minutes, did she ask 
 with a marked change of manner where their mother 
 was. 
 
 " Oh! didn't you know? " replied Hilda, surpris- 
 ingly equal to the occasion. " She's staying in Lon- 
 don with Miss Bellew." 
 
 11 But your father's still at home," Mrs. Bell re- 
 turned suspiciously. 
 
 " Yes; he's not going. He hates London," Hilda 
 said. 
 
 " When did she go? " enquired her aunt. 
 
 " Saturday evening," Hilda replied. 
 
 " And how long is she going to be away? " 
 
 " We don't know," Hilda said, with a little ges- 
 ture of despair. " A month or two, anyway." 
 
 Mrs. Bell looked as if she thought the whole af- 
 fair was very "unfortunate," her favorite word 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 123 
 
 and then asked with an effect of making a great 
 confidence if they had heard that Dr. Threlfall was 
 leaving. 
 
 " No ! Is he ? I saw him in the town, this morn- 
 ing," replied Hilda. 
 
 "I heard that he was," Mrs. Bell said; "but 
 there mayn't be anything in it, of course. I'm 
 sure I hope he isn't. It would be so unfortunate 
 if there was any kind of scandal just now. You 
 know people will say things, and your mother is so 
 imprudent." 
 
 She pressed her enquiry no further on that occa- 
 sion, and although she took the most despondent 
 view of the situation when she reported the visit to 
 her husband, she turned a cheerful face to the town's 
 questions. 
 
 Another circumstance that favored Hilda's 
 bright idea was the fact that Dr. Threlfall did not 
 actually leave Medboro' for nearly six weeks after 
 Cecilia had gone. There had been a difficulty in 
 replacing him, and he had consented to stay on until 
 his successor could be appointed. Walker, the as- 
 sistant, was too young to be left in sole charge. But 
 although the town knew that their organist was often 
 away for two or three nights in the middle of the 
 week, and did not fail to put the worst possible in- 
 terpretation on the discovery that he spent that time 
 in London, the affair, generally, lacked that point 
 and definition necessary to a really satisfactory scan- 
 dal. The thing was stale, talked out and all the 
 piquancy of it exhausted, before the suspicion of 
 Cecilia's infamy was finally confirmed more than five 
 months after she had run away. She was seen in 
 town just after Christmas at a theater, in company 
 with Threlfall, by Adam Neale, Folliett's managing 
 clerk, and the fact gradually became known without 
 
i2 4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 causing any important revival of interest. In these 
 five months, Cecilia had ceased to intrigue the atten- 
 tion of Medboro', and now, the gossips found that 
 they had always expected her to do something of 
 the sort. If this confirmation of their most hopeful 
 prophecies had any effect at all, it was in the direc- 
 tion of stimulating their expressions of sympathy for 
 Cecilia's husband. He had so splendidly justified 
 the principles of the moralists by " going off his 
 head." He was still carrying on his business, but 
 every one had noticed how " queer " he was getting. 
 
 Also there were many other affairs to distract the 
 attention about the time of Cecilia's elopement. 
 Old Mr. Lynneker, the Rector of Halton an im- 
 portant village some four miles out of the town 
 died in August; and very soon afterwards the en- 
 gagement of his youngest son to the niece of the 
 Bishop's wife had been announced quite a sur- 
 prising affair for those who remembered young Mr. 
 Lynneker as a clerk in the City and County Bank. 
 His fiancee, Miss Sybil Groome, was a young lady 
 of good family. Lady Constance Olivier was a 
 sister of Lord Wansford's. 
 
 Then, too, there was a great deal of talk about 
 the sudden access to fortune of Dr. Weatherley, the 
 head-master of the King's School, whose uncle had 
 died and left him, quite unexpectedly so it was said, 
 a sum of money variously estimated at from fifty 
 thousand pounds to half a million. Dr. Weatherley 
 stayed on at the School until the end of the Christ- 
 mas term, but his wife and family did not return to 
 Medboro' after the summer holidays. 
 
 It was in this August, too, that Mrs. Dickinson, 
 the wife of the builder, made the famous scene in 
 the market-place. Every one knew that she drank, 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 125 
 
 but she had until this occasion concealed her weakness 
 in the privacy of her own home. In public, she al- 
 ways wore a thick veil to conceal the disastrous ef- 
 fects that over indulgence was having upon her com- 
 plexion. But on that Wednesday afternoon it 
 was cattle-market day, and even at half-past three 
 the Square was full of people she appeared not 
 only without a veil but, also, without a hat. Mr. 
 Hewitt, the grocer, was the first person to recognize 
 her, and he ran out of his shop and tried to persuade 
 her to u come in and rest for a bit out of the heat "; 
 whereupon to his immense distress, she turned upon 
 him, accused him of being in league with her hus- 
 band, and began to scream for help. There was a 
 crowd round them at once, a crowd that contained a 
 large number of cattle-drovers, some of them mar- 
 ket-merry and all of them quite ready for a little in- 
 nocent amusement. Mr. Hewitt was heroic, and 
 stood his ground, still attempting to persuade the 
 shrieking Mrs. Dickinson into the asylum of his 
 shop, in face of the ribald comments of the drovers 
 who strongly supported the presumed grievances of 
 the lady. Even if it had ended there, the scandal 
 would have been a remarkable one, but worse was to 
 follow. For when assistance arrived, Mr. Bell 
 from the Bank and Atcherley the saddler from the 
 top of Narrow Street were Mr. Hewitt's first allies 
 Mrs. Dickinson threw herself on the ground, de- 
 nounced them all for plotting to get her " put away," 
 and dared them to do their worst. They had to 
 take her to the police-station in the end. A dreadful 
 business altogether. 
 
 Certainly Medboro' had enough distractions that 
 August to turn its attention from the reputed wick- 
 edness of Mrs. Kirkwood and the Cathedral or- 
 ganist. 
 
126 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen did not return to the King's School after 
 the summer holidays. He would have shrunk from 
 the idea of going back in any case. He knew that 
 the truth about his mother must be known sooner or 
 later; and foresaw that in those circumstances fel- 
 lows like the Halls could not be expected to show 
 any delicacy of feeling. They would make unpleas- 
 ant allusions, and then pretend to apologize. But 
 that difficulty was solved for him by the prompt ac- 
 tion of Mr. Dickinson. 
 
 He called at the shop one morning, about a week 
 after his wife's disgraceful exhibition in the market- 
 place, and made enquiry from Mr. Kirkwood for 
 " that lad of yours." 
 
 Little Kirkwood, who then and for more than 
 twelve months afterwards was perfectly sane and 
 practical as long as the subject before him did not 
 involve his great delusion, replied that Stephen was 
 upstairs. 
 
 " I want him to come into my office," Mr. Dick- 
 inson bluntly announced. 
 
 " He has mentioned it to me," little Kirkwood 
 said rubbing his hands and brooding wistfully. 
 
 " Does he want to come? " Dickinson asked. 
 
 " I believe he does," the bookseller replied. 
 
 " Have you any objection? " 
 
 Mr. Kirkwood continued to rub his hands with an 
 air of deep contemplation. 
 
 He was flattered by the builder's attention. De- 
 spite the unfortunate marriage which had interfered 
 with his social relations, James Dickinson was well 
 respected in the town. He, like old Spentwater the 
 timber-merchant, represented an industry that added 
 to the collective wealth of the place. They made 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 127 
 
 money outside Medboro' and brought it in to the 
 town mainly through the employment of local 
 labor. For, although Medboro' was the site of 
 Dickinson's workshops and offices, he was only inci- 
 dentally a local contractor. All his big jobs had 
 been outside. He had done important work in Lon- 
 don, Leicester, and Bedford, for example, to say 
 nothing of the new school buildings at Oakstone upon 
 which over 80,000 had been spent in the past ten 
 years. 
 
 " I had wanted Stephen to go in for literature," 
 little Kirkwood said apologetically, " but Mr. Ser- 
 combe seems to think he has no particular talent that 
 way. I'm not sure whether his mother. . . ." He 
 paused with a sudden air of changing the subject, and 
 then went on, " She's away, just now, staying with 
 her friend Miss Bellew, the singer, in London." 
 
 Dickinson's eyes narrowed. He knew more than 
 the town did about that affair, and he had a fellow 
 feeling for the bookseller; but he also -had a shrewd 
 suspicion that this was not an appropriate occasion 
 for any expression of sympathy. 
 
 " Well, if you've no objection I'll go up and see 
 the lad, myself," he broke in, ignoring the diversion. 
 
 " Very pleased, I'm sure," Mr. Kirkwood mum- 
 bled, and led the way upstairs. 
 
 They found Stephen in the sitting-room, reading a 
 second-hand copy of Gwilt's Encyclopaedia of Archi- 
 tecture, borrowed from the shop. He jumped up 
 when his father and Dickinson came in. 
 
 11 Here's Mr. Dickinson come to see you, 
 Stephen," little Kirkwood announced, " about your 
 going in to his office." 
 
 Stephen blushed and could find no suitable answer. 
 He was a trifle overwhelmed at the honor that was 
 being done to him. 
 
128 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 11 I happened to be passing," Dickinson said, " and 
 thought I'd just look in and see if you and your 
 father had made up your minds yet." 
 
 11 I should like to come, sir," Stephen said. " And 
 I don't think father has any objection, now." 
 
 " Been reading Gwilt, eh? " Dickinson commented, 
 with a glance at the squat, thick volume on the 
 table. "Ah! well, he's a bit out of date. What 
 you've got to learn about now, in the building trade 
 is the use of steel. Are you good at figures? " 
 
 " Pretty fair, I think, sir," Stephen said. " At 
 school, I was always better at maths, than classics." 
 
 " Rotten school ours," remarked the builder with 
 emphasis. " Oakstone's the place to educate boys 
 for the Engineering Trades. I've got tips for my 
 own business from the shops I built at Oakstone." 
 
 He was not, physically a very big man, but he 
 seemed to fill the Kirkwoods' little sitting-room, as 
 he stood there by the table talking of building and 
 education. He had such an air of resolution and 
 forthrightness, of knowing how things ought to be 
 done, and getting them done without delay. 
 
 A thought of Dr. Threlfall flitted across 
 Stephen's mind, and by comparison the organist 
 seemed a delicate and rather finicking creature. 
 
 "Well, when will you begin?" Dickinson con- 
 tinued. u I should put you in the office to start with 
 at sixteen shillings a week. But if you show any 
 aptitude you'll soon get a rise." He hesitated, 
 frowned and made a half-apologetic gesture with one 
 of his square, capable hands. " To be quite frank 
 with you," he went on, " I've got a notion of taking 
 some youngster like yourself and bringing him up to 
 the business. My own son as you know was . . . 
 My own boy died two years ago last January; and 
 I'm not likely to have another. I shall be fifty-one 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 129 
 
 next month, and as perhaps you've heard my wife's 
 gone to an asylum and likely to stay there." 
 
 He gave them no time to mumble their condol- 
 ences, but went on almost without a break, " So you 
 see, my lad, I'm giving you a rare chance. It'll de- 
 pend on yourself what use you make of it. If you 
 show aptitude and work hard, you'll likely be a rich 
 man one of these days." 
 
 He looked straight at Stephen as he concluded this 
 speech, and Stephen blushed and stammered. " I'd 
 like to try, sir," he said. 
 
 " Well, you be up at my office at nine sharp on 
 Monday morning, and we'll soon see what you're 
 made of," Mr. Dickinson answered, with a touch of 
 asperity. " Good-day to you." 
 
 He was downstairs and out into the street before 
 little Kirkwood, hurrying after him, could get in a 
 single word of thanks. 
 
 Stephen was greatly flattered, but afraid that he 
 had hardly done himself justice. He had been em- 
 barrassed by such an extraordinary mark of favor 
 from so great a man. He could think of no reason 
 why he had been thus singled out. It was so odd, 
 too, that Mr. Dickinson should have taken the 
 trouble to come and see him, and have been so out- 
 spoken about his private affairs and intentions. 
 
 Emily and Hilda, also, dwelt rather unnecessarily 
 on this aspect of the offer, when the great announce- 
 ment was made to them. Hilda even went so far 
 as to wonder whether Mr. Dickinson's domestic 
 troubles had been too much for him she was, nat- 
 urally, somewhat biassed about this time by their 
 own experiences. But indeed none of them was the 
 least likely to guess the truth, since they were all 
 ignorant both of a certain fact in James Dickinson's 
 life, and also of a certain trait in his character. 
 
i 3 o AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 The fact in question was that his son, a boy of 
 thirteen had, in effect, been killed by his mother's 
 neglect. He had scarlet fever, was slightly delir- 
 ious, and she was supposed to be nursing him. She 
 had been steadily sober, then, for nearly two months; 
 and her husband had trusted her. She was not less 
 devoted to the boy than he was himself and it 
 seemed to the last degree improbable that she would 
 break out again just at this crisis. Yet that was 
 what she did; and she was sound asleep and helpless 
 in her chair when young Dickinson got out of bed 
 in the middle of the January night and leaned out of 
 the window to cool himself. His father found him 
 there, and only his two parents knew the real cause 
 of the boy's death. That Mrs. Dickinson was 
 hardly ever sober after this tragedy is not, perhaps, a 
 cause for astonishment. 
 
 The trait in James Dickinson's character was sim- 
 ply a longing for some expression of his defeated 
 fatherhood. He chose to experiment with Stephen, 
 firstly because he liked the look of him, and secondly 
 because, as in the case of his own son, Stephen had, 
 in Dickinson's opinion, been unfortunate in his 
 mother. 
 
 5 
 
 So it came about that in the course of the next 
 seven years, Stephen was given opportunity to study 
 the mysteries of the building trade in all its branches. 
 He began in what was known as the Works' Office; 
 two miles out of the town ; the works being conven- 
 iently situated to straddle a siding of the Great 
 Northern Railway, and within a quarter of a mile 
 of " the New Stretton Brickfields " of which Com- 
 pany James Dickinson was a director and the prin- 
 cipal shareholder. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 131 
 
 Here Stephen began his business career as a junior 
 estimating clerk, the reason given him for this 
 method of inauguration being, in the words of his 
 employer, that " Building begins with prices and 
 ends with 'em. You start a job with the estimate for 
 your tender and finish it with the bill of extras and 
 omissions. So you can't do better than get a ground- 
 ing in prices on paper, to start with. And don't for- 
 get that it's only a grounding. You'll have to go on 
 keeping in touch with prices for the rest of your 
 natural life. I'm learning something new in that 
 way, every day." 
 
 Nevertheless, Stephen never became an expert in 
 this essential branch of knowledge. He had a re- 
 liable memory, and a good head for figures, but the 
 subject of prices never really interested him; whereas 
 the problems of construction fascinated him from the 
 outset. Also he became in time a competent judge 
 of materials. His real appreciation of the trade he 
 had adopted began when after two years of con- 
 scientious struggling with the strange intricacies of 
 estimating, Mr. Dickinson decided to give him fur- 
 ther practical experience by " putting him through 
 the shops." 
 
 Stephen was looking a trifle peeked just then. 
 Two years of indoor, clerical work had begun to tell 
 on him. Also his father had died some three weeks 
 before, and he had been involved in a host of minor 
 worries and perplexities. His three years in the 
 shops made a new man of him, broadened his shoul- 
 ders, cured a slight tendency to anaemia that had 
 shown itself as a result of his indoor life, and gen- 
 erally quickened his vitality. 
 
 Incidentally, the move from office to shops marked 
 a change in Stephen's relations to his employer. Up 
 to that time he had received no special mark of 
 
132 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 favor. He had had his wages raised from sixteen 
 to twenty-two shillings a week, but judging by the 
 standard of his colleague's earnings, the latter figure, 
 was not excessive for the work he was doing. More- 
 over both inside the office and out, Mr. Dickinson 
 treated Stephen precisely as he treated his other em- 
 ployees of the same grade; and he had made no 
 further reference to the large promises he had orig- 
 inally indicated. Indeed, when Stephen received a 
 message from one of the senior clerks that he was 
 wanted by the boss up at the town office, he had a 
 horrible suspicion that he might be going to get the 
 sack! 
 
 The opening of the conversation between him and 
 his master did not immediately relieve this anxiety. 
 
 Mr. Dickinson began by asking Stephen if he were 
 satisfied with the manner in which he was doing his 
 work. 
 
 " I do my best, sir," Stephen said. u I can't say 
 that I find the work very interesting." 
 
 " Think you'd like to give it up? " Mr. Dickinson 
 enquired, looking down at the papers on the desk in 
 front of him. 
 
 " Oh ! no, sir," Stephen ejaculated. 
 
 11 I meant the office-work, for the time being. Go 
 into the shops," his employer explained. 
 
 " Yes, sir. I should like that." Stephen agreed 
 readily. 
 
 " Well, I'm putting you on to that, next week," 
 Mr. Dickinson said. He pushed the papers away 
 from him, and looked up as he continued. " You'll 
 not be earning your wages, there, you know. You 
 wouldn't be worth fivepence an hour in the carpen- 
 ters' yard." He was watching Stephen's expression 
 with a keen, steady stare; and waited now for him to 
 comment on this last indisputable statement. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 133 
 
 " Then I think I'd better stick to the estimating, 
 sir/' Stephen said. " My father didn't leave much, 
 and my sister, the youngest one that is, is only get- 
 ting twelve shillings a week. It's a bit tight, all 
 round." 
 
 His employer made no comment on this announce- 
 ment. " I've been keeping an eye on you, my lad," 
 he went on, " although you mayn't have been aware 
 of it, and I think you'll shape, when you've had a 
 bit more experience. Well, I made you some kind of 
 a promise two years back, but I've just been waiting 
 to see what you're made of. Now what it comes 
 to is this that I'm going to apprentice you to the 
 trade, and take the risk of whether you'll be any 
 good to me in say, five years time. In the mean- 
 while, I shall allow you three pounds a week; and 
 you must understand that you'll get no advance on 
 that until your live years is up, unless you can 
 prove to me that you're worth more." 
 
 Stephen began to stammer his thanks, but Mr. 
 Dickinson interrupted him. 
 
 " How d'you get on with the other chaps in the 
 office? " he asked. 
 
 " Fairly well, sir," Stephen replied. 
 
 II Find 'em a bit rough sometimes? " 
 " A bit, sir." 
 
 " You'll find 'em rougher in the shops." 
 
 II I can put up with that, sir." 
 
 11 Aye, no doubt you can," returned Mr. Dickin- 
 son; " but there's maybe more in it than you think 
 all the same. With these other chaps in the office, 
 you've been working on a level; and I've taken good 
 care as they shouldn't have any reason to be jealous 
 of you. Now you've got a big lift, my lad, and 
 they'll all know about it; and you mustn't expect to 
 find yourself exactly popular. You'll not be joining 
 
i 3 4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 any of the unions for instance. You'll be the young 
 gent come to learn the trade, and they'll be suspicious 
 of you; accuse you of spyin' on 'em as likely as not, 
 and a lot of other damn foolishness." His regard 
 of Stephen had a hint of tenderness as he added, 
 " Can you stick it, my lad? " 
 
 " What else can I do, sir? " Stephen replied. 
 
 " Ah! but do you want to stick it? " Mr. Dickin- 
 son asked. " Are you keen enough on the job to 
 put up with a lot of unpleasantness so as you may 
 learn it? I don't mean because you want to get on, 
 and make money, but because you're interested in 
 building." 
 
 " Yes, sir. I am very interested in building on 
 the constructional side," Stephen said. 
 
 Mr. Dickinson smiled. You don't mean me to 
 forget that," he said. " Well, so long as I'm here 
 to look after the other side, it'll suit me well enough 
 to train you in construction. But just bear in mind 
 what I told you here two years ago, that it's prices 
 as is the backbone of the trade." 
 
 As Stephen was going, Mr. Dickinson got up and 
 laid a friendly hand on his shoulder You'll do 
 me credit, yet," he said with a kind smile. 
 
 Stephen had not known such a feeling of elation 
 since his great score in the Town match; and this 
 time there was no horrible interference with his 
 triumph. His sisters each in her own manner 
 glowed over him when he told them his great news; 
 Hilda making romantic plans for his future; and 
 Emily regarding him with an intent stare of brooding 
 admiration. Their only regret was that " poor 
 father couldn't know." 
 
 Little Kirkwood, the martyr, had already been 
 canonized by his children. 
 
 Nevertheless some effect of association brought 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 135 
 
 memories of his mother rather than of his father, to 
 Stephen that night. Intellectually his judgment of 
 her had not changed in those two years. He still 
 believed that she had deceived and hoaxed them all; 
 that she had never loved them and had lived always 
 and only for her own pleasure and satisfaction. But 
 he was beginning to frame the ghost of an excuse 
 for her ; and in doing it he found himself wondering 
 with a little pang of longing whether she ever 
 thought of him. He knew that Dr. Threlfall had 
 been successful with his light music and, also, that 
 his mother had made more than one appearance on 
 the London stage as a raconteuse. Stephen sup- 
 posed that they would get married, now, that his 
 father was dead if they ever heard of his 
 death. . . . 
 
 And just as he was going to sleep he had a sudden 
 vision of little Margaret Weatherley. Her face ap- 
 peared quite clearly before him, wearing the same 
 bewildering smile with which she had beckoned him 
 the last time he had seen her. 
 
 It seemed as if there was some subtle, unanalyzable 
 relation in Stephen's mind between his mother and 
 Margaret Weatherley. He was inclined to think 
 of them as representing his evil and his good angels. 
 He had dreamed of them, perhaps, half a dozen 
 times in the past two years; and once Margaret had 
 come to him with welcoming arms and as he had 
 rapturously gone to meet her he had realized with 
 a faint disappointment that he was embracing his 
 mother. 
 
 6 
 
 Mr. Dickinson's forecast of the general attitude 
 that Stephen might expect from the workmen in the 
 shops, proved to be fairly accurate. The favored 
 
136 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 apprentice, neither gentleman nor workman, was 
 looked upon with suspicion and dislike. He repre- 
 sented the potential employer, while in each depart- 
 ment of the crafts through which he traveled he be- 
 gan as the inferior in knowledge of the least skilled 
 workman. Also, he had an unfair advantage over 
 them. He came to learn, but not to acquire that 
 skill in the craft which can only be gained by long 
 years of experience. When he came out of the car- 
 penter's yard, for instance, he had a practical under- 
 standing of the detail and methods of joinery, but 
 he could not with his own hands have performed the 
 simplest operations to the satisfaction of the fore- 
 man. And naturally his fellow workers made the 
 most of their obvious superiority. Some of them 
 were more kindly than others in their treatment of 
 him, but on the whole, Stephen was very effectively 
 bullied at the works. In time, he learnt to stand 
 up for himself. Before his three years were up, he 
 had had more than one fight with youngsters some- 
 where about his own age. But there were moments 
 in the first twelve months of his apprenticeship, when 
 he wondered whether, in Dickinson's phrase, he 
 would be able to stick it. 
 
 And it was still a relief to him when nearly at 
 the end of his time, he was sent up to Middlesbrough 
 for three months experience of the steel trade on its 
 application to building. He was frankly a visitor 
 there, permitted the free run of the offices and works 
 by the courtesy of the firm, extended to their old 
 friend and good customer, James Dickinson. 
 
 When Stephen returned from the North, he had 
 no idea what was to be the next phase of his ap- 
 prenticeship which had still two years to run. He 
 was only twenty-two, then, but in many ways he was 
 old for his age. He had gained immensely in knowl- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 137 
 
 edge, in self-confidence and in physical development 
 since he had left school. He had had to face the 
 coarseness of life, and it had long since ceased to 
 shock him, although it had failed to blunt the fine 
 edge of his personal fastidiousness in matters apper- 
 taining to sex. In that relation he made what was 
 fundamentally a false distinction by ranging women 
 into classes. In one class, still supreme, and un- 
 substantial as a fairy princess, was his ideal of Mar- 
 garet Weatherley. In another, all the respectable 
 women of his acquaintance from Lady Constance 
 Olivier down to his own sisters. All the women in 
 this group were, from Stephen's view-point, prac- 
 tically sexless. In the lowest group were the girls, 
 work-girls for the most part, who permitted " liber- 
 ties." They were " fair game," according to the 
 ethic he had learnt from his fellow-workmen; al- 
 though Stephen, himself, had not as yet figured in the 
 role of the hunter. His personal fastidiousness had 
 saved him from that, so far. . . . 
 
 Any doubt as to the next course in his training was 
 resolved by Mr. Dickinson on the first evening of 
 Stephen's return from Middlesbrough. His em- 
 ployer met him at the Great Northern Station and 
 took him up to supper at the house in Lincoln Road, 
 still kept on, although there was no kin of James 
 Dickinson's to share his splendor. 
 
 Stephen was to go as clerk of the works to a new 
 job at Leicester, already begun to the extent that the 
 house-breakers had started to clear the site. He 
 was to spend a fortnight at Medborough studying 
 the bill of quantities, the plans and specifications, the 
 framings and other preparations that were already 
 in hand at the works, all under the directing advice 
 and personal supervision of his chief. 
 
 11 It'll be a good job for you to start on," was Mr, 
 
138 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Dickinson's summary. "Technical schools; the 
 contract's for 28,000, and the architect is Owen 
 Bradley, whose name'll be familiar to you. He's a 
 hard man to deal with, but he knows his work, and 
 there'll be no misunderstandings. I remember his 
 winning the Birchester Offices competition. Wil- 
 coxes were the contractors, and though that was Mr. 
 Bradley's first job in private practice, George Wil- 
 cox told me that they made precious little profit out 
 of it. Bradley was a hard man of business, he said. 
 That was in '88, twenty years ago. I've never done 
 a job for him before, but I want to keep in with him. 
 He's a warm man is Mr. Bradley." 
 
 Stephen was elated but a little nervous. He did 
 not under-estimate the responsibilities of a builder's 
 clerk of works. 
 
 He was to have another pound a week to cover the 
 expenses of living away from home, and it seemed 
 to him quite a magnificent salary, as he had, now, 
 nio outside drain on his resources. Emily was keep- 
 ing herself; earning 120 a year as third mistress at 
 the Council School; and Hilda had married a widow- 
 er of forty, George Cummin the chemist in Priest- 
 gate. He had once been in financial difficulties, but 
 had pulled his business round and was now one of 
 the town's respected citizens! A stupid, reliable 
 sort of man, in Stephen's opinion. He could not 
 imagine what Hilda had seen in Mr. Cummin to 
 tempt her to marry him. 
 
 It was in Leicester that Stephen first approached 
 and then somewhat abruptly retreated from the snare 
 of sex. 
 
 She was a fair, rather too plump woman of 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 139 
 
 twenty-eight passing as a widow with one little girl 
 nine years old, and she was the attendant of one 
 of the principal lending libraries in the town. 
 
 Stephen had been brought up in an atmosphere of 
 books and he continued to read anything that came 
 in his way, almost by habit. When he found him- 
 self set down in Leicester for at least twelve months, 
 without the possibility of access to the store which 
 his father's successor, Henry Walker, had always 
 allowed him to draw upon, Stephen decided at once 
 that his income permitted him to take out a subscrip- 
 tion to a lending library. And he happened to 
 choose the one in which Bessie Ward served as an 
 assistant. 
 
 She " fancied " Stephen from the first moment she 
 set eyes on him. She liked men to be dark and 
 rather tall, with a brusque, slightly arrogant manner 
 that was probably assumed to hide the grave tender- 
 ness expressed by dark blue eyes. Also, she found 
 Stephen's youth and his air of inexperience in speak- 
 ing to women, particularly attractive. 
 
 Stephen, on his side, was tempted by her relative 
 maturity, by the way the pretty fair hair grew on 
 her forehead, by the lines of her mouth, and most 
 definitely by her obvious approval of him. 
 
 She talked to him with ease and fluency when he 
 came to open his subscription, and choose his first 
 book. She had an almost scholarly knowledge of 
 the works of the modern novelists, although she 
 was clever enough to reserve her judgment upon 
 them until she had gathered the trend of the young 
 man's own tastes. She had sized him up from the 
 outset as being " clever." His hands still bore the 
 disfigurements of his work in the shops, but she was 
 sure that he " wasn't a bit common." She guessed 
 that he might be an engineer. 
 
i 4 o AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 The second time he went to the library the place 
 was full of other subscribers, but just as he was 
 leaving she managed to give him a broad hint of her 
 preference for his society. 
 
 u I'm sorry I'm so busy this evening, Mr. Kirk- 
 wood," she said in an undertone, as she entered the 
 title of his book; " the morning before twelve's my 
 free-est time. But perhaps, you can't get away 
 then?" 
 
 " Oh ! thanks. I'll remember that," was all 
 Stephen could find to say, but he reflected on the 
 implications of her speech when he was back at his 
 lodgings; and found them pleasantly exciting. She 
 had remembered his name, and had told him in so 
 many words that she wanted to have the oppor- 
 tunity of talking with him alone. The site of the 
 New Technical Schools was only a quarter of a mile 
 from the library and he decided that he would find 
 time to run up one morning about eleven. 
 
 When he went at last, after putting off the ad- 
 venture for the best part of a week from sheer nerv- 
 ousness, he went in a spirit of bravado, trying very 
 hard to be a man of the world and quaking inwardly. 
 This woman would not fit into any of his categories. 
 She could not be classed as a " girl " in the sense 
 he used the word; nor on the other hand could he 
 fit her imaginatively into that immense group that 
 held the Bishop's wife and his own sisters. She ap- 
 peared in fact to need a special class all to herself; 
 and gained prestige in his estimation, accordingly. 
 She had come out of the vague background of his 
 generalizations, and was posed clearly, even danger- 
 ously, before him, as an individual and rather at- 
 tractive woman. 
 
 He found her alone at the library, but he did not 
 stay long and their conversation was exclusively 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 141 
 
 about his choice of another book; and free from 
 innuendo, although the subject bristled with oppor- 
 tunities. She refrained because she was afraid of 
 scaring him. 
 
 Nevertheless Stephen knew perfectly well that 
 this new acquaintanceship might, if he wished it, 
 ripen into an adventure; and the thought, curiously, 
 made him tremble. He would approach the idea of 
 possible eventualities in imagination, and then hastily 
 put them out of his mind with something like terror. 
 And a few hours later, he would be laughing at him- 
 self, and girding himself on to greater liberties of 
 speculation. 
 
 It was during one of these reactions that he went 
 to the library for the fourth time, again in the morn- 
 ing. And it was on this occasion that while she was 
 stretching out her left hand to take a book down 
 from him, he noticed for the first time that she wore 
 a wedding ring. The sight of it gave him courage. 
 For a moment, Bessie Ward was merged again into 
 the annihilating class of married women. 
 
 " Are you married? " he asked simply. 
 
 She looked down at her ring and nodded. 
 " Worse luck," she murmured. 
 
 "Why? Isn't he Don't you get on?" 
 Stephen asked. 
 
 " Haven't seen him for nearly four years," she 
 said, still modestly downcast. " He was in America 
 last time I heard of him about ten months ago." 
 She lowered her voice still further as she added, " I 
 pretend I'm a widow, here." 
 
 Stephen did not know what to say. The frank- 
 ness of her admission had a significance that he had 
 instantly realized. She had, he felt, practically con- 
 fessed that she belonged to that group the members 
 of which were " fair game." He looked down at 
 
H2 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 her fair hair and the rather too bountiful curves of 
 her figure and wondered if he wanted to embrace her. 
 He rather thought not; but he wasn't at all sure. 
 
 " Do you ever go to the cinemas? " he asked sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " Sometimes; when I can get any one to take me," 
 she replied, clinching his advance. 
 
 Stephen found that his knees were trembling. It 
 was in a spasm of disgust with his own weakness that 
 he continued. " Have you got anything to do to- 
 night? Would you care to come with me? " 
 
 They made an appointment at the " Royal Cinema 
 Theater " for half-past eight, and Stephen stalked 
 out of the shop fully determined to be a man. From 
 first to last, Bessie had behaved with a modesty thut 
 was far more suggestive than any boldness. She 
 had implied so unmistakably that Stephen was mak- 
 ing love to her, and that she was his timorous but 
 willing victim. 
 
 As he sat over his supper, Stephen was engaged 
 in a tremendous battle with his nervousness. Once 
 or twice he was on the verge of deciding to break 
 the engagement. He kept it in the end, not out of 
 any consideration for Bessie Ward, but because he 
 was ashamed of his own hesitations. He tried to 
 stimulate his virility by recalling various conversa- 
 tions he had heard in the u shops." 
 
 And during the performance at the Cinema The- 
 ater, he was still occupied with his own immense 
 internal conflict rather than with the attractions of 
 his companion. When she pressed her plump shoul- 
 der against him in the darkness of the auditorium, 
 he responded with an answering pressure, solely to 
 convince himself how bold he could be. 
 
 In 1908, the exhibitions at the " picture palaces " 
 did not consist as they do now of one long " drama " 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 143 
 
 that constitutes the whole performance, but of a 
 series of short films lasting from ten minutes to half- 
 an-hour, each of which presented a story; the comic 
 and romantic usually alternating. The audience 
 came and went as it suited them; and Stephen and 
 Bessie Ward had not been in the place an hour when 
 she suggested that they had had enough for one 
 evening. 
 
 11 Just as you like," Stephen agreed. " Do you 
 want to go home, now?" He was surprised that 
 she should want to go so soon. 
 
 " It isn't far," she said. " We can get there on 
 the tram in ten minutes." The lights were up be- 
 tween two items of the program, and she looked 
 up at him with the same air of modest compliance 
 with his wishes that she had worn in the library. 
 
 Stephen had not imagined that they would go so 
 far, that evening, but he tried to hide the spasm of 
 disconcertion that attacked him. 
 
 " All right," he said brusquely. " Come along 
 before the lights go down." 
 
 It was in the tram that he definitely made up his 
 mind to " go through with it." 
 
 He affected a gallant air of willingness when she 
 asked him at the door of her little house whether 
 he wouldn't come in and have a cup of cocoa ; but he 
 felt cold and sick and horribly nervous. 
 
 And the consciousness that the whole affair was in 
 some unrealizable way completely wrong and im- 
 possible grew steadily as she prepared the cocoa she 
 had promised him. The more closely he looked at 
 her, the less did he feel stimulated to make love to 
 her. He was no longer flattered by her preference 
 for him but rather repelled. Deep down in his being 
 some part of him was striving desperately not to 
 recognize a likeness between Bessie Ward's choice 
 
144 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 of himself and his mother's submission to Chris- 
 topher Threlfall. 
 
 Nevertheless he was still goading himself on to 
 go through with it. He had a feeling that to shirk 
 was in some way a denial of his manhood. . . . 
 
 Bessie, meanwhile, was striving to overcome what 
 she believed to be nothing more than the natural 
 shyness of youth. She made him sit beside her on 
 the uncomfortable sofa while he sipped his cocoa, 
 and tried to draw him out about his own affairs; 
 what he was doing, where he came from, how long he 
 was going to stay in Leicester. 
 
 He grasped at that opportunity to postpone mak- 
 ing love to her. As a companion she appealed to 
 him, and if she had taken less for granted and been 
 content to wait until their friendship slowly ripened, 
 the outcome might have been other than it actually 
 was. But Bessie Ward's experience of men, though 
 fairly extensive, had been limited in kind. After a 
 few minutes devoted to this kind of conversation, she 
 began to practice her little arts of allurement. 
 
 I fancied you the first time I saw you," she said, 
 presently, and snuggled a little nearer to him. 
 
 Stephen could see but three replies to this advance: 
 to put his arm round her, to hold her hand, or to sit 
 with his arm wedged to his side, feeling, and no doubt 
 looking, a fool. He chose the first. How extraor- 
 dinarily solid she was ! She was wearing a brown 
 dress of some rough material, and it came into his 
 mind that embracing her was like hugging a well- 
 filled sack. So far as the effect upon his feelings 
 was concerned, the sack would have done equally 
 well. 
 
 She looked up at him archly. 
 
 There was no retreat now for a man of honor. 
 He kissed her respectfully. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 145 
 
 She laughed at his deliberation. " You are a 
 funny boy," she chided him. " One might think I 
 was your mother. I'm not quite old enough for 
 that, you know. I'm only just twenty-eight." 
 
 That reference used as a simile finished Stephen. 
 The obscure resistance that he had been fighting to 
 overcome was no longer a physical inertia; it had 
 become a positive impulse. 
 
 He shuddered, withdrew his arm, and stood up. 
 
 11 I'm sorry. I I'm ... a bit off color to- 
 night," he stammered. " Do you mind if I go, 
 now?" 
 
 No liberty he might have attempted would have 
 produced such a blush on Bessie Ward's face as did 
 this abrupt rejection of her advances. She was 
 suddenly hurt and embarrassed. " I'm sure I don't 
 want you to stop, if you don't if you're not well," 
 she replied, saving her retort from bitterness at the 
 last moment. 
 
 " I expect I've been smoking too much or some- 
 thing," he apologized. He didn't want to offend 
 her. He did not despise her for having made ad- 
 vances to him. But he felt an overpowering desire 
 to get away from her. 
 
 His excuse was not ill-chosen. By the white light 
 of the incandescent gas-mantle, Bessie could see that 
 his face was bloodless under his sunburn. 
 
 " Don't feel faint, do you? " she asked anxiously. 
 
 "A bit," Stephen replied. " I'll be all right 
 when I get outside. Don't you come to the door." 
 His way of escape lay immediately open before him, 
 now; and he snatched up his hat and rushed out of 
 the house with the intent haste of a man who expects 
 to be immediately sick. 
 
 Bessie, no doubt, composed a variety of amusing 
 comments on his behavior, after he had gone; but 
 
i 4 6 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 she never had a chance to deliver them. Stephen 
 could not face her again. After that incident, he 
 sent a messenger from the works to change his book 
 for him; and when his three months subscription was 
 up, he changed his library. 
 
 He saw her once in the street, some five months 
 later. She was leaning affectionately on the arm of 
 a tall dark man who was obviously not averse to her 
 society. Stephen had quite recovered from his re- 
 vulsion of feeling by then, and cursed himself for 
 having been such a fool. He wondered why he had 
 not taken advantage of such an attractive opportun- 
 ity when it had been offered to him. 
 
 8 
 
 He stayed in Leicester for nearly ten months, and 
 was then transferred to take charge of a new job 
 just beginning in -Northampton. His move was by 
 way of being a mark of Mr. Dickinson's approval. 
 His praise of Stephen was something indirect, but 
 he implied that any one could now look after the 
 technical schools, supervised as they were by so re- 
 liable and painstaking an architect as Owen Bradley; 
 whereas the design for the Northampton job, a 
 boot-factory, was by a comparatively young and 
 inexperienced man, and might lead to all sorts of 
 disasters, if it were not carefully watched. 
 
 Stephen was glad of the change, although the 
 towns of Leicester and Northampton are rather sim- 
 ilar in type, as though the spirit of boot-making had 
 managed to express itself in the material body of the 
 buildings. He was not however destined to stay 
 long in Northampton for in the following November 
 he was recalled to Medborough to work on a tender 
 that was to be sent in for a 150,000 job in London, 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 147 
 
 a building for which Bradley was again the architect. 
 
 14 I think we're going to get it," Mr. Dickinson 
 explained. " Mr. Bradley was pleased with our 
 work in Leicester, and mentioned you to me as a 
 promising youngster said you were more intelli- 
 gent than the ordinary builder's clerk of works. 
 And if we get this contract, I shall send you up to 
 London to see the job right through it'll take 
 two years. Anyway it'll be as well for you to get 
 the work well into your head from the very start. 
 You'd better go up to town and take a day at the 
 drawings in Mr. Bradley's office, as soon as you've 
 studied the bill of quantities." He paused and 
 looked at Stephen with a friendly smile as he con- 
 tinued. " Feel as if you're getting on, eh? " 
 
 " Are you satisfied with me, sir? " Stephen asked. 
 " Do you think you can trust me to look after a big 
 job like this? " 
 
 " Well, you haven't done so badly for a beginner," 
 Mr. Dickinson said, stroking his neat little pointed 
 gray beard. " Let's see; your seven years won't be 
 up till next September." 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " But you'll need more than four pounds a week, 
 if we get this job o' Bradley's. Anyway you can 
 draw on me for three hundred a year, as from the 
 beginning of next January. And when you've car- 
 ried this job through, if we get it, we can talk of a 
 new arrangement. I think I can find a use for you." 
 
 11 I don't know how to thank you, sir," Stephen 
 said, his face bright with emotion. It was not 
 every young man of twenty-three, he would not 
 be twenty-four until the following February who 
 was earning 300 a year, with the prospect of some 
 highly attractive " new arrangement " at the end of 
 another two years. He could only infer from his 
 
148 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 chief's slightly quizzical manner that the new ar- 
 rangement would mean a considerable rise. 
 
 Thank yourself," Mr. Dickinson said. 
 " You've got three qualities to be proud of. You're 
 intelligent, you're trustworthy, and you're reasonably 
 diligent. They're the qualities I was looking for, 
 and I'm inclined to congratulate myself on having 
 picked you out at the first shot. I wasn't looking for 
 geniuses; though one or two of your suggestions 
 about that factory at Northampton were pretty- 
 smart for a youngster." 
 
 After that conversation, Stephen began to take 
 himself more seriously. He felt that he was, in a 
 sense, a made man already, and that the future might 
 hold many dignities for him. He might one day, for 
 example, be Mayor of Medborough! 
 
 Eighteen months experience as a clerk of the 
 works had stiffened his manner and given him con- 
 fidence. In the Stretton office, one or two of the 
 estimating clerks who had given him his orders when 
 he first came there, told each other that young Kirk- 
 wood was " getting too cocky." But no hint of this 
 opinion reached Stephen, himself. It was common 
 talk among the employees of the firm, now, that he 
 might be a partner in the near future. 
 
 And when James Dickinson's tender was accepted 
 for the big London job, there was a paragraph in the 
 Medboro' Advertiser, which after paying the con- 
 ventional compliments to Mr. Dickinson's success, 
 went on to mention the fact that Mr. Stephen Kirk- 
 wood was to have the supervision of the work, and 
 to congratulate him on the appointment. 
 
 " You are getting on," Hilda said, when she next 
 met her brother after this paragraph appeared. 
 " Quite a public man you'll be soon." 
 
 "Not so bad," agreed Stephen with a grin. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 149 
 
 " You'll be too proud to know us when you come 
 back from London," Hilda continued. 
 
 11 Got nothing to be proud about," Stephen said. 
 " It's just luck and Mr. Dickinson's kindness." 
 
 He wondered sometimes whether he should meet 
 Hall secundus in London. He had been on the staff 
 of some paper in Fleet Street, for the past thfee or 
 four years; and of all the boys Stephen had known 
 at the King's School, Hall was the only one to whom 
 he would have liked to boast of his success. Young 
 Hall had always been inclined to put on airs of 
 superiority. Moreover Stephen still nourished a 
 grudge against him for his disloyalty in the matter 
 of Margaret Weatherley's smile. 
 
 Perhaps she was living in London, too, but he 
 never dreamed of her, now; very rarely thought of 
 her. And since he had come back from Northamp- 
 ton, he had been engaged in a tentative flirtation with 
 his cousin, Phyllis Bell. She was a tall, rather fair 
 girl of twenty-one, with good features that, in re- 
 pose, were almost beautiful. Unfortunately she 
 spoilt her effect when she talked or laughed. Her 
 mouth had a tendency to writhe when she became the 
 least animated, producing in some indefinable way an 
 impression of vulgarity. 
 
 It was this defect that saved Stephen from pro- 
 posing to her the evening before he went to town 
 to take over his new work. Mrs. Bell had never 
 favored any sort of intimacy between her two girls 
 and their three cousins in Long Causeway. ^ She had 
 often secretly deplored the relationship as imposing 
 an additional and annoying obstacle between her and 
 the attainment of her important social ambitions. 
 But now that her brother was dead, and Stephen 
 likely to become an important person in the life of 
 the town, she had not opposed his flirtation with 
 
i 5 o AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Phyllis. She had heard good reports of him from 
 the influential and trusted Adam Neale, who had two 
 years before been taken into partnership by Mr. 
 Folliett. Neale had spoken of Stephen as a " like- 
 ly " young man, and hinted that as James Dickinson's 
 protege, he would eventually occupy an important 
 position in the town. He further ventured the opin- 
 ion that Stephen had his he*ad screwed on the right 
 way. After that judgment, Mrs. Bell had finally 
 overcome her natural reluctance to encourage the 
 son of Andrew and Cecilia Kirkwood, and had per- 
 suaded herself that, after all, " Phyllis might do 
 worse." She even went the length of leaving her 
 elder daughter and Stephen alone together in the 
 drawing-room, when he came to say good-by to 
 them, on the night before he went to town. 
 
 Unhappily for the success of her scheme, Phyllis 
 who was quite unaware of her defect, happened to 
 be in an unusually lively mood that night; and 
 Stephen who had had a vague idea that he might 
 propose to her that evening, found his cousin's writh- 
 ing mouth a justifiable excuse for postponing his 
 declaration. When she was quiet and apparently 
 thoughtful, he admired her immensely. But as he 
 watched her on this occasion, he realized quite defi- 
 nitely that he had no desire to be mated with her for 
 the rest of his life. He would have liked to kiss 
 her, sacramentally, if she would keep still; but he 
 would not like to be always confronted by that ex- 
 pression which so strangely dropped her into the 
 category of the girls who were fair game." He 
 remembered seeing factory girls in Leicester and 
 Northampton who had had just that same uncon- 
 trollable twist of the mouth when they laughed. 
 
IV 
 
 STEPHEN took a room in Camberwell on the 
 recommendation of the Works Foreman, who 
 "knew" London, having been employed there on 
 two previous jobs. Stephen, himself, could only 
 boast the slightest acquaintance with London. He 
 had visited it five times altogether, in the course of 
 his life; but as each visit had only presented the ex- 
 perience of a day's excursion, his knowledge was 
 confined to such places of interest as the Tower, 
 Madame Tussaud's, Earl's Court, The White City, 
 St. Paul's, The British Museum, the Albert and 
 Queen's Halls, The Monument, the Coliseum and 
 other centers of amusement. To all of these he 
 had gone at some time or another between the ages 
 of nine and seventeen in company with his mother. 
 The memory of her was his one pervading associa- 
 tion with these experiences. But about this focus 
 were arranged an endless series of bright little pic- 
 tures: of Emily staring enormously at the British 
 Museum; of Hilda yawning and looking about her 
 at a Queen's Hall concert; of his father very intent 
 on a bill of fare ordering supper at a big restaurant 
 just opposite King's Cross Station. Of Camberwell 
 he knew nothing except that the name was in some 
 way a joke connected with a comic song he had heard 
 Albert Chevalier sing on the one occasion on which 
 
 151 
 
152 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 he had visited Medboro'. It had been an old song, 
 then, but had been given " by request." 
 
 Stephen's attitude towards London as a whole, 
 was at the outset, typically provincial. He was both 
 awed and critical. The size of the place, the mass 
 of the buildings, the traffic and the vast indifference 
 of the enormous population made him feel small, 
 strange and insignificant; and as a relief from the 
 oppression begotten by his sense of inferiority he 
 sought to criticize London in those immediate details 
 which were most closely presented to him. He 
 could begin with the eggs served for his breakfast, 
 and mark a distinct point in favor of Medboro' ; 
 ending perhaps with generalizations about Camber- 
 well and the district between it and his work on the 
 Embankment, that revealed London, south of the 
 Thames, as lacking a dozen graces and virtues pos- 
 sessed by his native city. 
 
 But within a month he had settled down to the 
 common differentiation between just that district 
 which became almost tediously familiar to him in 
 his daily routine, and the entire remainder of the 
 immensity. The first became to him a kind of home, 
 his own fjy reason of his intimate knowledge of it. 
 From that center he set out to explore, at first timidly 
 and with a sense of daring, the great, intimidating 
 remainder that seemed to have no limit to its per- 
 plexing extensions. 
 
 In these Saturday afternoon, and Sunday explora- 
 tions, he began by taking as his object some one or 
 more of those dimly remembered places associated 
 with his excursions from Medboro' ; and having re- 
 discovered such goals as the Tower, the Albert Hall 
 or the British Museum, he mentally related them to 
 the now familiar country of his daily experience. 
 Afterwards he saw in his mind's eye a map of the 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 153 
 
 main arteries, and so adding a little piece here and 
 there to his general conception of the place as a col- 
 lection of districts about a center, he arrived within 
 three months or so at just such a general idea of the 
 whole as is common to the average Londoner the 
 difference between each picture depending only upon 
 the point of view, namely the residential district of 
 the observer. 
 
 In the course of this process, London exhibited a 
 marked tendency to shrink, although an occasional 
 new discovery such as Hampstead Heath or the 
 Mile End Road would for a time mysteriously dis- 
 tend it again. 
 
 It was not until Stephen had thus taken the more 
 obvious opportunities for discovery afforded by Lon- 
 don, that he began to feel lonely. 
 
 At first, his loneliness only obtruded itself on 
 Sunday. On week-days, he was too fully occupied. 
 He reached the Embankment every morning at eight 
 o'clock and often stayed there until eight o'clock in 
 the evening. And throughout those twelve hours, 
 his attention was almost completely absorbed by his 
 work. By the time he got home and had had 
 supper he was ready to go to bed. But presently, 
 he began to be aware of his loneliness at odd mo- 
 ments even in the busy hours. 
 
 There was, for example, a morning in mid-April 
 when he had been in town just over ten weeks. He 
 had gone up to the man in charge of the derrick 
 engine, and from the staging of the gaunt straddling 
 tripod, Stephen looked down over the Thames and 
 the valley of South London, to the swell of the Sur- 
 rey hills. The morning was clear and windy, blow- 
 ing up for rain, and through the tattered banner of 
 driven smoke, he could see a bright plan in relief of 
 endlessly repeated roofs, rank after rank and tier 
 
154 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 after tier dwindling into the vague blue masses of 
 the distance. He could pick out some of the dis- 
 tricts with which he was more familiar : Camberwell 
 and Kennington were pegged out for him by their 
 church spires; Denmark Hill in the distance was 
 recognizably green; and here and there a factory, a 
 council-school, a gas-works or a relatively open space 
 marked the map with its distinctive signature. 
 
 Stephen's first re-action to that prospect was a 
 feeling of thankfulness that they had got in the 
 great concrete raft which was the foundation of the 
 whole building, during the relatively dry weather in 
 March. His second, a sense of wonder at the amaz- 
 ing proliferation of houses stretched out below him. 
 What were all those people down there living for? 
 The overwhelming majority of them probably ended 
 as their parents had ended before them. They 
 struggled and prospered, or failed, for fifty, sixty or 
 seventy years, and then departed leaving no mark on 
 their generation; at best bequeathing their habits and 
 opinions to children who would carry on the eternal 
 succession. 
 
 And from that, he came to a consideration of his 
 own ambitions; and could find no pleasure in the 
 thought of them. There was no one to care whether 
 he failed or succeeded; and he passionately wanted 
 some one to care. Emily and Hilda would no doubt 
 care in a way, but the thought of their admiration 
 brought him little comfort. He wanted some one all 
 his own, to whom he would be the essential person in 
 life; some one for whom he in his turn could work; 
 whom he could make happy. Then later there 
 would be his children to live and work for. He 
 would like to have children of his own, several chil- 
 dren: and they should have opportunities that had 
 been denied to him. He could find satisfaction in 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 155 
 
 making money, if he could spend it on making his 
 wife and children happy. 
 
 He turned to find the engineer beside him on the 
 staging. 
 
 u Blowing up for wet," the engineer remarked 
 and spat heedlessly from the vast height of the der- 
 rick down into the remote cavern of the excavation 
 out of which the swarms of workmen were labori- 
 ously raising the great erection of the new building. 
 His spittle drifted down into invisibility long before 
 it had reached its casual goal. 
 
 " Are you married? " asked Stephen suddenly. 
 
 " Ah ! married this twenty year," the engineer re- 
 plied. 
 
 u And children?" 
 
 11 A round half dozen," the engineer said. " Me 
 eldest boy's down there working on the sump ; goin' 
 to be a bigger man than his father, so 'e says; but I 
 tell 'im 'e's at the very bottom o' this job and I'm 
 at the top, an' it'll take 'im a long time afore he gets 
 as 'igh as I am." The engineer laughed with gusto 
 at his own joke, and sent another missile down to 
 fall, for all he cared, on the head of his own son. . . . 
 
 As April brightened into May, the idea of mar- 
 riage both as a remedy for loneliness and a means to 
 justify his existence, presented itself to Stephen with 
 increasing attractiveness. He had once heard some 
 one say to his father that the man who married 
 young had three lives : the early years of growth and 
 independence; the middle years of responsibility: 
 and then a renewal of independence in old age when 
 his children were grown up. " But if you don't 
 marry till you're forty or more," this man had said, 
 " your children are hanging round your neck till you 
 die." Stephen remembered that saying, now, and 
 it added another to his growing list of reasons for 
 
156 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 an early marriage. He had more than a hundred 
 pounds put by already, and he was saving another 
 three pounds or more every week in London. The 
 way was clear before him. All that was still neces- 
 sary was to find a wife. 
 
 One Saturday evening in the middle of May, he 
 went out to look for one. 
 
 The pavements about Camberwell Green and the 
 bottom of the Peckham Road were gay with young 
 women, and Stephen decided that he need not go 
 further than that in the prosecution of his search. 
 He walked up and down and round about and stared 
 with a look of attention at every young woman who 
 might be even remotely possible. He received 
 more than one response to his stare; but directly a 
 girl smiled at him, he was overcome with shyness 
 and at the same moment seized with an unshakeable 
 conviction that this particular young woman would 
 not make at all the kind of wife he desired. He had 
 no ideal clearly before him but he knew or thought 
 he knew what he didn't like. 
 
 Then, quite suddenly, his attention was caught 
 by the figure of a woman of twenty-five or so with 
 widely set, steady, blue eyes and fair hair. As they 
 met she looked up at him with a calm, appraising 
 stare but made no response to the rather sheepish 
 smile with which he attempted to greet her. When 
 she had passed, he looked back at her, hesitated, and 
 then went home. Something in her expression had 
 sickened him of his method of search. " No decent 
 girl,'] he reflected, "would pick up a fellow, just 
 meeting him like that in the street." 
 
 When he went out the next morning, he had de- 
 cided that he must somehow or other make the ac- 
 quaintance of this particular young woman. She 
 had become by her refusal of his tentative advance, a 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 157 
 
 difficult and desirable creature to be sought after and 
 wooed; and the more he thought of her the more 
 convinced he became that she was the ideal wife he 
 sought. He did not see her that Sunday, and after 
 that he began to haunt the Green every evening. 
 
 He saw her for the second time on the following 
 Wednesday, about seven o'clock, as he was coming 
 home from work. She was looking into the window 
 of a draper's shop, and he stopped a couple of yards 
 away and watched her. He was determined that 
 this time he would not be guilty of that foolish 
 smile. When she turned and saw him watching, he 
 would lift his hat and speak to her. But either she 
 did not see him or, as he guessed to be more prob- 
 able, preferred to give him no chance of accosting 
 her; for while he waited she turned her back on him 
 and walked away. He did not like to follow her 
 to do that would, he felt, give his overtures an air 
 of persecution. 
 
 The opportunity to speak to her, when it came at 
 last had the effect of happy coincidence that the Fates 
 apparently delight in providing when they are not 
 thereby serving our desired ends. For more than a 
 week, he had with no result spent every evening in 
 looking for her where she was, presumably, most 
 likely to be found; and, then, one Monday afternoon 
 he came upon her by the merest accident in a tea- 
 shop in Holborn. 
 
 He had been at Owen Bradley's office in Gray's 
 Inn discussing a proposed substitution in the scant- 
 lings of certain rolled steel joists on the fourth floor; 
 and on his way back to the works, he felt that he 
 wanted a cup of tea. He turned in to the nearest 
 Lyons and there sitting alone at a table near the door 
 was his lady of the wide blue eyes. 
 
 She looked at him without alarm or embarrass- 
 
158 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 ment, but gave him no kind of invitation to join 
 her. 
 
 Stephen raised his hat, blushed, and then sum- 
 moning all his courage sat down at her table. But 
 having done that, he dared not look at her, although 
 he felt that she was observing him with the same 
 calm air of self-possession with which she had re- 
 plied to his first advances. He bent slightly forward 
 over the table, and addressed his opening remarks to 
 the untidy vestiges of some one else's tea. 
 
 11 Of course you'll think this is just beastly cheek," 
 he mumbled. " But it isn't really. I mean you 
 needn't think I'm just the usual kind of rotter who 
 does this sort of thing." 
 
 Stephen had two manners of speech. The first of 
 them, the one he naturally adopted, now, was the 
 result of the King's School influence, very ably reen- 
 forced by that of his mother. She had taken great 
 pains with him in this particular, and he had been a 
 fairly apt pupil. His second manner was a degen- 
 erate habit learnt in the shops and in the works; and 
 marked an effort of condescension. He was afraid 
 that the men would think he was putting on side if he 
 talked to them in his other voice. 
 
 " What do you want ? Why do you want to know 
 me? " she asked calmly. 
 
 He dared to look at her then, and found that she 
 was watching him with an expression that was slightly 
 puzzled but by no means resentful. 
 
 14 1 I wanted to get to know some nice girl, 
 and talk to her," he said. 
 
 "Why?" she asked. 
 
 11 Well, I'm rather lonely for one thing," he ex- 
 plained. 
 
 "And for another?" 
 
 "I I want to get married," Stephen blurted out. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 159 
 
 She laughed at that, a pleasant, honest laugh of 
 genuine amusement. " This afternoon?" she sug- 
 gested. " Or could you manage to wait till the end 
 of the week? " 
 
 Stephen smiled. " It's so hard to get to know 
 really decent girls/' he said. 
 
 " And you thought I looked really decent?" she 
 enquired. 
 
 Stephen nodded. " It's frightful cheek, I know," 
 he admitted. 
 
 11 And you thought you'd like to marry me? " she 
 persisted. 
 
 Stephen blushed. " I thought I'd like to know 
 you," he said. 
 
 She dropped her tone of persiflage as she replied. 
 " I'm sorry for you, I mean, if that doesn't sound 
 too conceited but I'm engaged already. Have 
 been for the last five years. He's been in Canada 
 for nearly four and I'm going out to him, to be mar- 
 ried, this autumn." 
 
 Stephen realized instantly both the truth of her 
 statement and the unassailability of her decision. 
 She was the kind of dependable steadfast woman 
 who would be everlastingly faithful to one lover. 
 Also, she was even prettier than he had thought. 
 He was quite convinced now, that his choice from 
 every point of view but one, had been singularly 
 happy; that if she had not been so unfortunately en- 
 gaged, she would so admirably " have done." 
 
 His reflections found expression in a simple and 
 sincere aspiration. 
 
 " I hope he's a nice man," he said. 
 
 She took him completely into her confidence as she 
 replied, and with an equally simple sincerity, " He 
 
 is." 
 
 * Oh ! well, let's have some tea," Stephen said as 
 
160 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 the waitress, at last, came to clear the table and 
 take their orders. 
 
 After that they talked about Stephen's affairs. 
 She questioned him about his occupation and ambi- 
 tions; and he confided to her not only the detail of 
 his financial position and prospects, but also the 
 speculations and decisions that had come to him as 
 he viewed South London from the heights of the 
 derrick. They exchanged names and addresses be- 
 fore they parted, and she promised to " look out for 
 some one for him, although just then he was con- 
 vinced, and shyly hinted his conviction, that no one 
 else would do. But it so happened that they never 
 met again. 
 
 The queerest thing about that odd encounter is 
 that if she had not been already pledged, she and 
 Stephen would probably have made a perfectly happy 
 marriage. And they both knew it. 
 
 The incident, however, barren as it was from one 
 point of view, was not without its influence on 
 Stephen's future, for in a mood of despondency and 
 of reaction against the whole female population of 
 Camberwell, he did not return to his lodgings when 
 he knocked off work that evening; but wandered 
 vaguely down to the " West End," with the idea of 
 going to a theater. And in his mood of loneliness 
 and desolation, he was precisely in the right frame of 
 mind to respond to the call of a name that he saw 
 displayed on the boards of a theater in Shaftesbury 
 Avenue. 
 
 If the " Cecilia Edwardes m who was so prom- 
 inently advertised had indeed forfeited her right to 
 be worshiped, she was, nevertheless, still his mother. 
 
 He went into the theater less from curiosity than 
 from his imperative need for female companionship. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 161 
 
 Her performance was a strange and thrilling ex- 
 perience for him. From his seat in the pit, he saw 
 her again as a woman of thirty-five, the charming, 
 adorable, perplexing mistress of his early boyhood. 
 The gay tones of her voice, the pretty gestures, the 
 fascinating confiding smile were all as he so poign- 
 antly remembered them before the awful time when 
 the interloper had come to seduce her from her 
 rightful allegiance. Just in that manner, and with 
 just such a whole-hearted endeavor to please, had 
 she told him stories in the old days. It seemed to 
 him that even now she was telling her stories to him 
 alone; as if she were aware of him only in all that 
 audience, and was trying to win him back to her. 
 
 So lost was he in the rapture of this illusion that 
 he was shocked, when as she paused to take her laugh 
 at the end of the story, a man just behind him said 
 in an audible tone. " She's clever, ain't she? I've 
 'eard 'er before." 
 
 " Awfully clever. She talks right at you, like, 
 doesn't she?" his companion replied. She could 
 be generous without qualification in her praise of so 
 mature a woman. 
 
 Stephen, waking from his fond illusion, found 
 cause for another if weaker thrill of satisfaction. 
 She was a success, he reflected. She would be happy 
 to-night. She was always so full of life and happi- 
 ness when she had had a success. He was glad for 
 her, and proud to remember that she was his mother. 
 He wondered whether, if he let his next door neigh- 
 bor into this immense confidence, that rather sour- 
 looking individual would be envious or merely skep- 
 tical? 
 
 He found it immensely exciting to witness this sue- 
 
162 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 cess of his mother's, in the great critical tribunal of 
 a London theater. At home they were always pre- 
 pared for her triumphs; and the audience was made 
 up of those familiar, well-disposed people who could 
 only be expected to applaud. She, herself, had al- 
 ways professed to despise those provincial successes. 
 They excited and pleased her, but she never forgot 
 that they were, as she used to say, " just local ap- 
 preciations." 
 
 Did she, now, find some cause for depreciating her 
 London successes, he wondered? 
 
 He found that he wanted to know the answer to 
 that question, and he felt that he, before any one else 
 in the world, had a right to know. 
 
 Would she speak to him, if he went out, now, and 
 waited for her at the stage door? 
 
 Their relations had undergone such a great up- 
 heaval in the past ten minutes. For seven years he 
 had been the injured, in a sense, the superior party. 
 Now, he would be afraid to speak to her. She was 
 a star of the London theaters, and he was a builder's 
 clerk. Would she be ashamed of him? 
 
 Her performance ended with enthusiastic ap- 
 plause. Three times she returned and bowed her 
 acknowledgments, but she would not give the encore 
 that was so vehemently demanded. She shook her 
 head, smiled and made towards the audience a ges- 
 ture that mingled entreaty and denial. In imagina- 
 tion, Stephen could hear her voice saying, " My dear 
 little boy, it's time you went to bed and gave mother 
 a little peace." He had often been puzzled by that 
 request. He could never understand why she should 
 want him to go away when she so evidently enjoyed 
 entertaining him. And he felt, now, that all the 
 people in the theater must be wondering how she 
 could wish to break the liaison that she had so clev- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 163 
 
 erly and delightfully created between her and them- 
 selves. They must all be so sorry that she had to 
 leave them ; and surely she must be sorry, too. Why 
 should she make that gesture of entreaty, as if she 
 desired release? 
 
 Stephen got up and pushed his way out, when the 
 audience had at last accepted his mother's refusal to 
 tell them even one more story. He had not been 
 able to decide whether he dare wait for her at the 
 stage-door, but he knew that he could not remain any 
 longer in the theater. He fled from the unendur- 
 able prospect of watching the successful comedy that 
 was the principal item of the night's entertainment. 
 If he could not see his mother, he wanted to be alone 
 to think about the strange revulsion of feeling in- 
 duced by this unexpected sight of her. In twenty 
 minutes he had recovered all the emotions that he 
 believed to have been finally destroyed when she had 
 laughed at him in Dr. Threlfall's lodgings. He had 
 become a boy again; had once more revived with no 
 consciousness of any difference, the thoughts and 
 emotions, he had so easily persuaded himself to be 
 forever dead and buried. It was as if for seven 
 years some part of him had been numbed and inert, 
 making no response when it was called upon. He 
 was aware of a sense of a new sufficiency and com- 
 pleteness, now that he was whole again. 
 
 Nevertheless he was afraid to meet her. He 
 might have recovered what he believed at the mo- 
 ment to be his old feeling for her, but he had no 
 certainty that she on her part had retained her feel- 
 ing for him. She had always been sensitive to the 
 least hint of criticism, and he had utterly condemned 
 her by his long years of silence. In his thought of 
 speaking to her, he saw himself as humbled and 
 supplicant. He had committed an unforgivable of- 
 
164 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 fense according to the standards of the old life. 
 And in his present mood these were the only stand- 
 ards he could recognize. 
 
 He had come to no decision when he found that 
 he had paused at the stage-door, with no distinct 
 remembrance of how he had come there. By the 
 pavement, a neat electric brougham was waiting. It 
 might have just set down the young actress who had 
 recently achieved celebrity in the comedy Stephen had 
 refused to watch. But he instantly assumed that the 
 brougham was waiting for his mother; and the in- 
 ference still further intimidated him. He remem- 
 bered that he had come on from the works in the 
 rather shabby tweed suit he always wore there, that 
 he had not put on a clean collar that morning, that 
 his hands were rather dirty. He was on the point 
 of turning away, resolved both to think everything 
 over because he dared this experiment, and also, if 
 he came again to appear more suitably dressed for 
 the occasion, when two young girls passed him com- 
 ing up the side street from Shaftesbury Avenue. 
 One of them went straight into the theater by the 
 stage-door, but the other faced round on the thresh- 
 old and looked earnestly at Stephen. For one 
 instant a nervous, uncertain smile flickered across 
 her face, and then with an exquisitely familiar little 
 twirl of her skirts, she followed her companion. 
 
 Stephen stared after her with a sense of infinite 
 bewilderment. It seemed to him as if by some as- 
 tounding miracle his life had, indeed, been set back 
 for seven years; and that having begun in new sur- 
 roundings, he was being confronted with another 
 grouping of the two essential influences which had 
 determined his fate and then deserted him. 
 
 He had forgotten his immediate errand, he was 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 165 
 
 still vaguely attempting to understand the sense of 
 an enthralling unreality that was intoxicating him, 
 when Cecilia came out of the theater. 
 
 She looked up at him with a quick glance of sus- 
 picion, and then all the expression died out of her 
 face. 
 
 14 Stephen? " she said in the still, reserved voice of 
 one who is uncertain how her overtures may be re- 
 ceived. 
 
 But he could not at once throw off that strange and 
 delightful sense of moving in a dream world. He 
 felt as if he must await the issue of events, that if he 
 attempted to influence them he must inevitably awake 
 to the gray, unexciting routine of his common life. 
 For a moment at least he had stepped out of the 
 hard world of reality into a wonderland of romance, 
 and although he knew that the magic bubble already 
 shivered on the verge of dissipation, he wanted to 
 hold the illusion instant by instant as it slipped away 
 from him. 
 
 " Were you waiting for me? " she asked, still in 
 the hard formal voice which shrouded her emotion ! 
 For all she knew, he might have come, at last, to 
 reproach her sin. 
 
 " Yes I was waiting for you," Stephen said. 
 " I I have just come out of the theater. I've 
 been in there." His enveloping bubble of ro- 
 mance had burst and left him open to contempt. He 
 was no longer hidden by a magical whirl of irides- 
 cence, but exposed, suddenly gauche and shabby, to 
 the criticism of one who appeared to him in her 
 present attitude, as a hard and worldly woman, a 
 woman who would be ashamed of his appearance and 
 manners. 
 
 Cecilia made a little gesture of impatience. 
 
166 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 "Why?" she asked, much as she might have re- 
 proved him in his boyhood for bothering her when 
 she was practicing. 
 
 " I'm sorry, mother," Stephen said, re-acting sim- 
 ply to the old stimulus. " I didn't know whether 
 you'd mind if if I just spoke to you." 
 
 She looked about as if searching for some place 
 in which he might speak to her ; her glance alternately 
 dwelling upon and rejecting the brougham as though 
 the use of it as a meeting place offered some compli- 
 cated and puzzling disadvantage. 
 
 " I wish you'd shave," she remarked unexpectedly. 
 
 His hand went to his chin. In his reflections upon 
 his own appearance, he had omitted that consider- 
 ation. He only shaved three or four times a week, 
 and the day before had been a Sunday. 
 
 "Whatever made you grow that mustache?" 
 she went on petulantly. " You used to have such a 
 nice mouth." 
 
 11 I don't know," he said weakly. " It came." 
 
 11 Well, I suppose we'd better go in the 
 brougham," she decided; "but I simply can't ask 
 you in when we get home. We've a heap of people 
 coming at ten o'clock, and you're hardly dressed for 
 a reception, are you? " 
 
 " Perhaps, I'd better come another time," he sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " Yes, of course," she said. " But I wanted to 
 hear. . . ." She stopped and regarded the figure 
 of the chauffeur who for the last five minutes had 
 been standing patiently by the door of the motor. 
 " Let's get in," she said, and crossed the pavement 
 to the invitation of the responsively opening door. 
 
 " Come in and sit down," she said to Stephen 
 when she had seated herself, and added to the 
 chauffeur, " Find some quiet place, Adcock, Groe- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 167 
 
 venor Square or something, and then drive slowly 
 round. I want to talk." 
 
 Adcock touched his cap. 
 
 u Wait until we get out of the noise," she said, as 
 soon as they had started. " I want to think." 
 
 What her thoughts must have been might safely 
 have been inferred from her speech when the sug- 
 gestible Adcock having brought them to the silences 
 of Grosvenor Square, proceeded to tour it with the 
 solemn regularity of a circus elephant. But, at the 
 time, Stephen's own deductions were something wide 
 of the truth. He had, for that evening, returned 
 into the past, and he could not make sufficient al- 
 lowance for the fact that his mother had had seven 
 years of independence and new experience. 
 
 11 1 know what you're doing, of course," she be- 
 gan. " You're with James Dickinson it was 
 always your ambition, wasn't it? and you're clerk 
 of the works or something on a new building on the 
 Embankment." 
 
 u How did you know? " Stephen asked. He was 
 hurt by what he judged to be the sneer in her 
 reference to his " ambition " ! Only an hour before, 
 he had been proud of his success. 
 
 " I see the Medboro' paper, sometimes," she ex- 
 plained, and added quickly, prompted perhaps by 
 some association of ideas, " You know Christopher 
 and I are married, of course? We've been married 
 for nearly five years, now." 
 
 " No, I didn't know," Stephen said. 
 
 " You didn't take even enough interest in me for 
 that," she commented. " Well, I didn't expect it. 
 Why should you? What I want to know is why 
 you came to the theater this evening? " 
 
 Stephen sighed as he contemplated the impossi- 
 bility of making an explanation that involved his 
 
168 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 thoughts on the derrick, and his tantalizing, abortive 
 designs on the person of the young woman with 
 whom he had had tea that afternoon. He blushed, 
 now, to remember that almost his first words to her 
 had been, in effect, a proposal of marriage. He 
 dared not, he thought, ever confess that amazing 
 and imprudent indiscretion to his mother. 
 
 " I saw your name on the boards outside," he 
 said. 
 
 u And came in out of curiosity?" Cecilia con- 
 cluded. 
 
 14 It wasn't curiosity," he affirmed steadily. 
 
 "What then?" she asked. "I want to know 
 why you came," she went on before he could answer. 
 " It's important to me; and why having seen my 
 performance, to an empty house, you came 
 round to the stage-door. Do try to be as clear as 
 you can. It it involves so many things." 
 
 " I was lonely," Stephen said, plunging after es- 
 sentials. " I went in because it seemed as if in a 
 sort of way, you belonged to me ; and then seeing you 
 reminded me so frightfully of of old times 
 before you went away. I thought perhaps you 
 wouldn't want to see me. I'd come straight up 
 from the works and, as a matter of fact, I'd just 
 decided to go away again, when you came out." 
 
 She turned towards him in the gloom of the motor, 
 and laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Lonely? " she repeated as if he had made no 
 other statement. " Why should you be lonely?" 
 
 " I am," he said simply. u There's no one in 
 London who who belongs to me." 
 
 She did not appear to resent the suggestion of 
 11 belonging " that had twice surged up to express 
 the hidden depths of his desire. 
 
 "Aren't you engaged or anything?" she asked 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 169 
 
 and continued at once with the first sign she had 
 given of her old habit of teasing him. " Such a 
 handsome, successful young man as you are, must 
 surely be besieged by women." 
 
 " Not by the kind I want," he replied. 
 
 " Do you mean that there's never been even 
 one? " she pressed him. 
 
 His thought flitted for an instant over the images 
 of Bessie Ward, his cousin Phyllis Bell, and the 
 steady, blue eyes of the young woman in the tea- 
 shop, before he replied with conviction, u Not a 
 single one." He could not have borne to include, 
 even in thought, the figure of the girl who had so 
 nearly smiled at him as he waited by the stage-door. 
 He was prepared to be violently angry with himself, 
 for daring to think of her in connection with any 
 other woman he had known. Also, he had an 
 instinctive fear of making any reference to Margaret 
 Weatherley in his mother's hearing. 
 
 Cecilia did not reply at once, but she kept her 
 hand on his arm. 
 
 " And so you were prepared to overlook the 
 past for the sake of what was it my compan- 
 ionship?" she asked, after that brief interval of 
 silence. 
 
 " I don't know," Stephen said. " I just felt that 
 
 I wanted to see you again. When you told your 
 stories in the theater, it made me think of of you 
 and me at home." 
 
 She caught her breath with a little gasp, but her 
 voice was perfectly even and steady as she replied, 
 
 II Where are you living? " 
 
 " Camberwell," he told her. 
 
 " In rooms, lodgings? " 
 
 " One room. I'm not there much." 
 
 11 What salary are you getting? " 
 
170 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 u Three hundred a year," he said with the faint 
 ring of a boast in his voice. 
 
 I suppose that's pretty good, considering? " she 
 remarked. 
 
 II Yes, I think it is," Stephen said and added, 
 M Mr. Dickinson has been awfully kind. There's 
 to be some sort of new arrangement when this job's 
 done." 
 
 " We used all of us to live on less than three 
 hundred a year in Long Causeway," she commented 
 thoughtfully. " But that's a million years ago. 
 I've forgotten so many things. What are Emily 
 and Hilda doing? " 
 
 " Hilda has married Cummin, the chemist in 
 Prestgate," he said. " Emily is still at the Council 
 School doing fairly well. She's rather taken up 
 with this Votes for Women affair, lately, though." 
 
 Cecilia sighed as if the thought of her daughters 
 brought her little happiness. 
 
 "They were bitter against me, of course?" she 
 said. 
 
 " They were, rather," Stephen admitted. 
 
 "And weren't you?" she asked. 
 
 " Not in the same way," he said. 
 
 14 But in your own way, you were? " 
 
 II I dunno' about bitter," he remonstrated. 
 
 " Stephen, you don't speak as nicely as you used 
 to," she said sharply. H Is it the works? Or 
 haven't you been taking trouble lately? " 
 
 " A bit of both, I expect," he said. 
 
 " You'll have to give up those Camberwell lodg- 
 ings and come and live near us in Bloomsbury," she 
 said, as if it had already been arranged that he was 
 to be taken back into favor. u We've got a house 
 in Bedford Square, and I think I could find you 
 rooms in Gower Street. What do you mean by 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 171 
 
 saying that you're not at home much? What do 
 you do? " 
 
 " Well, week days I'm at the works all the time," 
 he explained. " I get there at eight in the morning 
 and I'm often there till eight at night." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear," she exclaimed. " Why it's 
 worse than the shop. We must talk about all that, 
 but not now; I ought to have been home before this. 
 When will you come? To-morrow evening? I 
 shall be in by nine." 
 
 " I'd have time to get back to Camberwell and 
 change by then," he commented. 
 
 "And what are you going to do, now?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh! I'll get out here and go home," he 
 said. 
 
 Cecilia accepted that proposal without demur. 
 She gave her instruction to Adcock through the 
 speaking tube and the hushed thudding of the 
 solemn tour about Grosvenor Square abruptly 
 ceased. 
 
 Stephen got out and stood by the door. " What's 
 your number in Bedford Square? " he asked. 
 
 " Sixty-four," his mother said. " Tell him 
 'home,' will you? And, Stephen, you're sure 
 you want to come? " She laughed with a touch of 
 bitterness as she added, " You'll condescend to know 
 us again? " 
 
 " It isn't that," he mumbled. " Of course, I want 
 to come." 
 
 She had her hands on the door and, leaned a little 
 forward through the open window of the brougham, 
 as she said, " I should ask you to kiss me, if you 
 weren't so dirty. Do shave off that ugly mus- 
 tache before I see you again." 
 
172 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen walked home to Camberwell by way of 
 Westminster Bridge. After the stimulating excite- 
 ments of that emotional day, his thoughts ran hard 
 and bright, with an effect of illuminating certainty. 
 He saw himself clearly in relation to a world that 
 had, almost alarmingly, enlarged its boundaries. 
 Until this evening, he had been content to relate his 
 life and ambitions to the contacts of his immediate 
 circumstances. He had seen himself prospering on 
 precisely the same lines that James Dickinson had 
 prospered. He had taken Medborough as his 
 standard and judged his own success accordingly. 
 And by that criterion he had quite wonderfully suc- 
 ceeded. Now, he was confronted with the humili- 
 ating inference that he was not fit to meet his 
 mother's friends. She had made him realize that he 
 was common and provincial even his boyish judg- 
 ment of her had been provincial. He was careless 
 in his speech, ill-dressed and dirty. Presently she 
 would add to her indictment that he was ignorant 
 and mannerless. He knew nothing of music and 
 the stage and very little about books. He would 
 be woefully out of his element at a dinner-party. 
 (He stopped under an arch-lamp in Whitehall at the 
 point of his reflection to look at his hands. They 
 were well-shaped, his nails although not over-clean 
 were otherwise presentable; but his skin was rough- 
 ened and reddened by his work. He plunged them 
 back into his pockets, with a wry face at the picture 
 of those hands at his mother's dinner-table.) No; 
 he could not escape the conclusion that his mother's 
 criticism of him was more than justified. 
 
 Yet, he did not resent it. He felt no inclination 
 to justify himself. His justification was too obvious. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 173 
 
 He had worked his way up to a certain point. 
 What he had to consider was not whether he had 
 done well enough, so far, but whether he was pre- 
 pared to do much better. 
 
 He could not change his work; he had no wish to 
 do that. He had confidence in his own ability to 
 succeed in the career he had chosen, and his way 
 was quite clear in front of him. He had already 
 won the good opinion of Mr. Bradley, the architect, 
 who was a hard man and difficult to please, but who 
 gave credit when it was due. Also, Stephen had 
 lately thought out a very useful improvement in the 
 section of cast-iron casements, an improvement that 
 would, he believed, solve the perpetual difficulty of 
 keeping out the wet; and might be adapted to 
 wooden sashes and casements and to skylights. He 
 had made his search in the patent office and meant to 
 send in his drawings and specification to obtain pro- 
 visional protection in the course of a week or two. 
 There would not probably be much money in it, but 
 he would gain a certain amount of prestige from his 
 invention. 
 
 But, having decided that he had no intention of 
 changing his profession, he must consider what he 
 must do in order to fit himself for the society of his 
 mother and her friends. So far as he could foresee, 
 all that was necessary was to take pains with his 
 speech, his manners and his dress. No doubt, he 
 would be out of it at first in conversation, but he 
 would soon learn. In seven years he had learnt his 
 own difficult and complicated trade well enough to 
 receive the approval of two such experts as Mr. 
 Bradley and Mr. Dickinson. In six months, he 
 would know enough of this new enterprise, to pass 
 without comment in society. He was not shy with 
 men, and he did not believe that he would be shy 
 
i 7 4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 with women. Had he not proposed to one before 
 he had known her two minutes? 
 
 That thought, however, gave a sudden twist to 
 his reflections. He was ashamed, now, of that epi- 
 sode of the afternoon. His mother, of course, 
 would have disapproved, but that did not count. 
 It was only one more piece of evidence to back the 
 indictment that he was perfectly willing to admit. 
 Until this evening, he had never professed to be 
 anything more than an ordinary builder's clerk, in 
 his way of life. Now, he was ashamed of his pre- 
 cocious approach to a strange woman, for another 
 and far more serious reason. He had been untrue 
 to his own ideals of love. He had, indeed, forgot- 
 ten that he had ever had an ideal. The seed of it 
 had been sown in his boyhood and lain neglected and 
 unrecognized. Now, at one glimpse of a remem- 
 bered face and gesture, the seed had miraculously 
 flowered. 
 
 The approach to that thought set him trembling. 
 He knew and yet dared not admit to himself that she 
 no less than his mother was the influence who had 
 turned his ambition towards the goal of " becoming 
 a gentleman " he neither knew nor sought for, 
 any other phrase for it. So far as he could under- 
 stand his own aspirations, he wanted to approach 
 her through his mother. If " approach " was not 
 an altogether too vainglorious word in this connec- 
 tion. Strangely enough, he could not think of her, 
 without becoming angry with himself. He was 
 furiously annoyed when he remembered that on this 
 second occasion, as on the first, he had stood gauche, 
 awkward and solemn when she had hailed him. He 
 was not less annoyed with himself for daring to 
 think that he might have done anything else. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 175 
 
 He dug his hands a trifle deeper into his pockets 
 and quickened his pace. 
 
 At the corner of the Grove he collided with a 
 workman coming from the opposite direction. 
 
 " Nah then, clumsy/' the workman said, address- 
 ing Stephen as an equal. 
 
 Stephen drew himself up and checked his impulse 
 to reply in the vernacular. M I'm sorry," he said. 
 " I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going." 
 
 " No 'arm done, sir," the workman replied in a 
 conciliated and respectful tone, as he passed on into 
 the night. 
 
 Stephen continued his walk with the feeling that 
 he had made a further step towards raising himself. 
 He realized without vanity that he had the essence 
 of the thing in him. He had let that side of his 
 life slide during the past few years, but only be- 
 cause he had been so intent on his work. He would 
 have no difficulty in recovering his accent. He could 
 do it at any time by an effort of attention, but he 
 had to cultivate that way of speaking until it became 
 second nature, until he could speak like Christopher 
 Threlfall or the Bishop's wife. And he must get 
 his hands into condition again, and learn how he 
 ought to dress and behave. His mother would teach 
 him. She had probably learnt many things herself 
 in the course of the last seven years. 
 
 And the object of all these determinations, so 
 he explicitly told himself, was that he should never 
 again give his mother cause to be ashamed of him. 
 He was proud to have recovered her. He believed 
 that presently he and she would resume their old 
 relations. He knew how that end was to be accom- 
 plished, and he was quite prepared to be her dili- 
 gent and acquiescent pupil. 
 
176 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 He made a good beginning early next morning, by 
 shaving off his mustache. Contemplating the ef- 
 fect, he decided that his mother had been right. He 
 looked, perhaps, rather younger without it; but he 
 had, as she had said, quite a nice mouth and his 
 mustache had given just a touch of " commonness " 
 to his appearance. 
 
 His next act of discipline involved a greater effort. 
 He noted the foreman's look of surprise when he 
 was addressed in Stephen's " society " voice. They 
 would all say, of course, that he was " putting on 
 airs, getting a bit above himself." Well, that 
 couldn't be helped. His mistake had lain in not 
 having adopted that voice from the first. However, 
 they would soon get used to it, and cease to wink 
 at each other behind his back. He hoped that his 
 new accent would not spoil his friendly relations 
 with the foreman. It was essential that they should 
 all work together. 
 
 He was not guilty of more than half-a-dozen 
 lapses in the course of the day, but the last of them 
 was serious. He swore with a " b " instead of a 
 11 d," and he noted the faint smile of relief on the 
 face of Bennett the works foreman as he did it. 
 They were in the office just cleaning up for the day 
 and Stephen decided to attempt some kind of expla- 
 nation. It would never do for him to lose the re- 
 spect of Bennett. 
 
 11 Think I've been putting on airs, to-day, Ben- 
 nett? " he asked. 
 
 Bennett took off his cap and scratched his head. 
 " Well, a bit on the 'igh 'orse, so to speak, Mr. 
 Kirkwood," he said. I was afraid Vmorning 
 somethin' 'ad upset you." 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 177 
 
 Stephen found that his explanation was going to 
 be uncommonly difficult. " You see I've got to edu- 
 cate myself," he tried. 
 
 "Ah!" commented Bennett with an air of un- 
 derstanding and then as Stephen remained silent, he 
 continued, u We know, o' course, as you'll be the boss 
 one o' these days, Mr. Kirkwood, but it don't do 
 any 'arm to keep on good terms with your men. 
 You can talk 'ow you like so far's I'm concerned, but 
 I wouldn't give the men the chance to say as you're 
 getting too big for your boots. You're well-liked in 
 a manner of speakin', but they won't stand no 'igh- 
 falutin. They don't get it from Mr. Dickinson and 
 they won't expect it from you." 
 
 Stephen pondered that statement as he hurried 
 back to Camberwell to change his clothes. Bennett 
 was unquestionably right, and Stephen had to face 
 the problem of whether he would be able to swear 
 with a " b " and use the vernacular in working hours, 
 and yet be able to assume his cultured accent at all 
 other times without producing any effect of effort. 
 Nothing but practical experience could settle that 
 question, he thought. 
 
 He was not unduly nervous as he rang the bell of 
 the big house in Bedford Square. Although his 
 temperament was shot with a vivid thread of artistic 
 sensibility inherited from Cecilia, its influence upon 
 his general character was manifested in a quickening 
 of his perceptions, rather than in a nervous excita- 
 bility. Moreover, as he waited for an answer to his 
 ring he was thinking more of his mother than of 
 himself. He had not as yet had a clear sight of her, 
 but his impression had been that she had grown 
 younger with the years. 
 
 Some intimation of the difficulties of the new way 
 of life, dawned upon him when the door was opened 
 
178 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 by a gentlemanly looking individual in a dark morn- 
 ing coat and a black tie. Stephen's first idea was 
 that the man was a clergyman, his second that he 
 was a visitor in the house who happened to be in the 
 hall when the bell rang. 
 
 "Oh! I say," Stephen said apologetically, " do 
 you happen to know if my if Mrs. Threlfall 
 is in?" 
 
 " Mrs. Threlfall is at home, sir," the man re- 
 plied, and stood aside for Stephen to enter. 
 
 u My name's Kirkwood," Stephen explained, as 
 the door was delicately closed behind him. He was 
 still puzzled. 
 
 " Mrs. Threlfall is expectin' you, sir. This way, 
 please," the man said, and after tactfully relieving 
 Stephen of his deer-stalker, he gravely preceded him 
 upstairs. 
 
 Stephen followed, slightly abashed. He realized 
 his mistake, now, and hoped that his mother would 
 not hear about it. His embarrassment was not re- 
 lieved when the door of the first floor drawing-room 
 was thrown open and his name impressively and 
 clearly announced. He had a momentary fear that 
 he was being shown into a room full of people. 
 
 ^ And the room itself intimidated him. It had an 
 air of spaciousness, of refinement, of delicacy that 
 was entirely new in his experience. The best in this 
 kind that was as yet known to him was Mr. Dick- 
 inson's house in the Lincoln Road and that, by com- 
 parison, had a solid, almost coarse masculinity. It 
 had appealed to Stephen as luxurious, but he had not 
 been afraid of it as he was of this feminine, artistic 
 place. The cream walls, the bright chintzes, the 
 pale rose carpet made him feel suddenly gross and 
 awkward; as if by his mere presence he must fatally 
 soil so elegant a place. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 179 
 
 Cecilia was alone, reading by the light of a rose- 
 shaded lamp. She jumped up as he came in, and 
 after a just perceptible hesitation, said, " You can 
 put on the light, Butler." 
 
 There was a sound of brisk clicking by the door 
 and the room instantly leapt into full being, chang- 
 ing its air of mysterious and sensitive delicacy 
 for a bright and challenging design of outline and 
 colour. 
 
 " Well, so youVe found your way, Stephen," 
 Cecilia said nervously as the door was closed with 
 a soft determination, behind the retreating form of 
 Butler. She was in evening dress and her beautiful 
 shoulders and arms seemed to take up and enhance 
 the brilliance of her surroundings. She was inevi- 
 tably posed as the essential jewel for which all else 
 was only an effective setting. 
 
 14 Oh ! yes; no difficulty about finding it," Stephen 
 replied, coming forward to greet her with a kind of 
 anxious discretion. All the courage had ebbed out 
 of him. He knew for the first time what his 
 mother had meant when in the old days she had 
 talked of stage fright. He had a sense of being so 
 completely displayed. He was conscious that his 
 every movement, his every tone, every detail of his 
 appearance were quite unfairly conspicuous. 
 
 She held out her little white plump hand to him 
 and then lifted her face to be kissed. Stephen per- 
 formed his part of the ceremony as if she were a 
 creature of infinite fragility. 
 
 " Well ! " she said, and laughed nervously. 
 11 Your greeting is hardly cordial, little son," she 
 went on quickly. " Or do you find me rather terri- 
 fying? Sit down for goodness' sake and smoke, 
 if you do smoke? and then tell me all about your- 
 self. Am I much altered, do you think, or would 
 
180 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 you have recognized me ? I'm forty-eight, Stephen. 
 It's no good trying to hide the truth from you, is 
 it? Quite an old woman." 
 
 She had sat down again while she was speaking, 
 and as Stephen rather gingerly bent himself into a 
 low chintz-covered arm-chair near her, she pushed 
 a silver cigarette box towards him. 
 
 " Smoke while you're thinking what to say," she 
 said. " It saves time." 
 
 The quotation quickened Stephen to a realization 
 that he was failing most signally in his first attempt 
 to play the game of going into society. He accepted 
 the cigarette that was offered to him, though it 
 seemed little short of sacrilege to smoke in that 
 room, and attempted a rally by saying, 
 
 " You might have told me always to say c your 
 Majesty,' too, mother." And he pointed his re- 
 mark by a glance round the room. 
 
 She nodded approvingly. " I'm glad you haven't 
 forgotten," she said. Does it all strike you as 
 opulent, Stephen? " 
 
 " It terrifies me," he replied, feeling his way 
 towards a sense of being at ease in those sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 " It mustn't," she said. " It won't in a day or 
 two, when you're dressed to fit it. Are those your 
 1 best things ' ? Medboro', aren't they? You must 
 go to Christopher's tajlor. I'll treat you to a com- 
 plete outfit." 
 
 14 Oh! I'm not so very hard up," he protested. 
 
 She waved that aside with the old familiar ges- 
 ture, " ' This is my son who was dead and is alive 
 again,' " she said, " and if he wants to please me, 
 he must do what I tell him. We've lots of money, 
 Stephen; and we're not a bit extravagant, consider- 
 ing. You must humor me by letting me spend 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 181 
 
 something on you. And you haven't told me yet 
 whether you think I've altered." 
 
 " Yes, you have," he said seriously. " You look 
 so much younger." 
 
 " Even in this light? " she asked. " I had it put 
 on, on purpose." 
 
 She leaned forward, presenting herself for in- 
 spection and Stephen realized for the first time that 
 her face was very perfectly " made up." She in- 
 stantly noted the slight change in his expression 
 consequent on that discovery, and threw herself back 
 in her chair. 
 
 " Well, of course, my dear little boy! " she said; 
 "And I meant you to know it; because I have a 
 plan to show you one day just what your mother 
 really looks like, now - creased and lined and 
 withered and old, so dreadfully old. That shall 
 be our secret, but I mean to keep a brave face to 
 the world for years yet. Also Stephen, there's an- 
 other secret we shall have to keep before the world 
 outside the family, and that is our relation to one 
 another. I'm afraid it wouldn't do for me to have 
 such a very grown-up son falling out of the sky. 
 Would you mind much being a nephew? Do you 
 think you could manage to think of me as an aunt 
 when there are people about? " 
 
 Stephen was a trifle shocked. The provincial in 
 him not less than the sturdy workman shrank from 
 this world of chicanery and intrigue, in which women 
 of nearly fifty achieved an effect of thirty-five, and 
 disguised their relation to their own children. At 
 the same time, he was slightly excited by the novelty 
 of the excursion, and if only it had not been his 
 mother who figured as the representative of the the- 
 atrical method, he would probably have entered into 
 this new life with the usual gusto of the neophyte. 
 
182 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " Of course; if you like," he said. " I'll try to 
 remember when there's anybody else about. I 
 I rather wish it wasn't necessary." 
 
 "You see, Stephen," she explained; " I'm trying 
 to get on the stage properly. I don't call that 
 performance of mine you saw last night, going on 
 the stage. Telling stories to the pit and gallery, 
 with people dropping into the stalls and the dress- 
 circle as if you weren't there, is perfectly horrid. 
 I loathe it, and Christopher did all he could to dis- 
 suade me from starting it again. I dropped it more 
 than five years ago, after Christopher began to make 
 such a lot of money with his music, and I shouldn't 
 have taken it up again if I hadn't wanted to get a 
 part in comedy. It does give managers some kind 
 of chance to see you. . . ." 
 
 She was going on with the account of her ambi- 
 tions and prospects, but Stephen could not wait any 
 longer to put the question that was troubling him. 
 
 But why do you want to go on the stage? " he 
 asked bluntly. "If you've got all the money you 
 want, I mean, and so on? " 
 
 " Oh ! my dear little boy," Cecilia threw at him, 
 contemptuously; " are you still living in the 19th 
 century? Why does Emily want to vote? Why 
 does any woman want to have some other occupa- 
 tion than looking after her house and family? " 
 
 M And, of course, you haven't even got a family, 
 now? " Stephen put in on a note of conciliation. 
 
 11 Only a very small one," she returned with a 
 slight embarrassment. 
 
 He did not follow that. " No children, at least 
 only grown up ones, I meant," he said. 
 
 Oh ! didn't you know that you had a little half- 
 brother? " Cecilia asked, striving for a lightness of 
 touch that she failed to achieve. She wanted to 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 183 
 
 win Stephen back to her now, and she knew intui- 
 tively that this confession held an element of dan- 
 ger. She felt, absurdly, as if she were admitting 
 some infidelity. 
 
 And Stephen, on his part, was certainly experienc- 
 ing a sensation that can only be likened to a twinge 
 of jealousy. He had been jealous of Christopher 
 Threlfall, seven years before, but this seemed a 
 nearer, more personal thing. In the surprise of the 
 moment, indeed, he could not conceal his repugnance 
 to the news she had sprung upon him. He had a 
 queer sense that she had somehow taken an unfair 
 advantage of his separation from her. 
 
 " No, I didn't know," he said moodily. " When? 
 I mean how old is he? " 
 
 Cecilia was watching him anxiously. She was 
 glad that he should be annoyed; but she knew 
 that the situation was critical, that if she were not 
 careful she might lose him. Her temperament 
 prompted her to risk everything on a single throw. 
 
 She leaned forward and looked at Stephen as she 
 might once have looked at Christopher Threlfall. 
 
 u He's just six; but he won't make any difference 
 to us, Stephen," she said. " No one else could 
 ever take your place with me. My dear, you don't 
 know how I've missed you; and how I've searched 
 that wretched Medboro' paper, every week, looking 
 for your name if it were only in the score of a cricket 
 match." 
 
 Stephen was confused. He blushed and looked 
 down, as if he could not bear to meet her eyes. But 
 in his heart, he was immensely flattered, he was 
 thrilled and rejoicing. 
 
 "Did you really?" he replied clumsily. " I 
 thought you'd probably forgotten all about me." 
 
 She got up and came over to him, stooped grace- 
 
184 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 fully and kissed his hair. " Some day, dear some 
 day soon, now, I hope I'll tell you all about it," 
 she said, resting her hand on his shoulder. " I've 
 suffered more than you could ever guess, and I do 
 want my little boy, Stephen, back again." 
 
 " Well, you've got me back," he mumbled, still too 
 confused to look up at her. " It's all right, now." 
 
 She laughed with an assumption of lightness and 
 went back to her own chair, without pressing him 
 further. She knew that her game was won for the 
 time being; and having got him back she had perfect 
 confidence in her power to hold him. " It's the priv- 
 ilege of an old woman to be a little sentimental with 
 her children," she said gayly. " And, now, Stephen 
 dear, I'm going to ring for Christopher and your 
 grandfather. I told them not to come up until I 
 had had my talk with you. But they both want to 
 see you again. You don't mind, do you? Your 
 grandfather has always had a soft place in his heart 
 for you." 
 
 " No, I don't mind; rather not," Stephen said. 
 The flush had not yet died out of his cheeks and he 
 had to make an effort to appear at ease. But as 
 she put out her hand to the bell, he realized the 
 feebleness of his own part in the little drama they 
 had been playing, and tried to show her that gauche 
 as his manner had been, it had hidden a very real 
 emotion. 
 
 " I I needn't call you ' aunt ' before them, 
 need I? " he asked. " It's it's rather jolly to say 
 1 mother ' again." 
 
 " Dear little boy," Cecilia returned with a fond 
 smile that sealed their pledge of renewed affection; 
 and added, " You look so much nicer without that 
 horrid mustache." 
 
 Stephen glowed again. In those few minutes, he 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 185 
 
 had forgiven her everything; her old desertion of 
 him, the chicanery of her present way of life; even 
 that tragic infidelity which had permitted her to 
 supersede him, to rob him of the proud distinction 
 of being her only son. She was such an amazing, 
 splendid and charming mother for a man, fresh from 
 the dullness of Medboro', the sordid realities of 
 Leicester, and the depressions of a bed-sitting room 
 in Camberwell. Some day, he would tell her how 
 the thought of her had blessedly saved him from the 
 advances of Bessie Ward. 
 
 Stephen found in Christopher Threlfall, greater 
 and more reasonable changes than those exhibited 
 by Cecilia. Threlfall was unquestionably older and 
 fatter; and something of the intellectuality seemed 
 to have gone from his face. He had begun to look 
 a little coarse and self-satisfied. Neither his man- 
 ner nor his voice had changed, however; and Stephen 
 was flattered by the warmth of his greeting. 
 
 Old Edwardes on the other hand seemed rather 
 to have taken Cecilia as his pattern. He certainly 
 looked no older than he had when Stephen had last 
 seen him on the night of the great crisis; and, now, 
 he had so evidently found a milieu that suited him. 
 In his evening dress with the concession made either 
 to his age or his artistry, by a black velvet dinner 
 jacket, he might have sat for the type of an old aris- 
 tocrat. And he bore his seventy-seven years with 
 the pride of one aware of his undimmed faculties. 
 He had neither the air nor the mannerisms of sen- 
 ility. He hailed Stephen with a warm handshake 
 and a slap on the shoulder. 
 
i86 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 11 Heavens, how the boy's filled out," he said. 
 " Eh, Threlfall'? Just feel that deltoid." 
 
 "Ever play cricket, now, Stephen?" Threlfall 
 asked. " I suppose that innings of yours against 
 the town has taken its place among the historical 
 records of the King's School." 
 
 u Oh! I don't know," Stephen mumbled. He 
 was proud to be accepted as an intimate relation into 
 this household of splendor, and luxury, but the en- 
 trance of his grandfather and Threlfall had revived 
 the consciousness of his own coarseness. Never 
 would he be able to make his hands look like those 
 of Threlfall or old Edwardes. Nor did he think 
 it possible that he could ever wear evening dress 
 with that air of having been born to it. Yet his 
 grandfather had been a despised piano-tuner living in 
 one wretched room in New England. And if breed 
 were the explanation of his ready assumption of the 
 ways and appearance of aristocracy, surely Stephen 
 himself had the same advantage? How often his 
 motherhad persuaded him that he was a true Ed- 
 wardes.^ She had even instanced his hands. He 
 buried them hastily in his jacket-pockets. 
 
 11 Still as modest as ever," Threlfall commented 
 with an approving smile. He had taken up his 
 stand on the hearthrug and was clipping the end of 
 a cigar. " What are you smoking? " he asked. 
 
 " I won't smoke now, thanks," Stephen said. 
 Smoking necessitated the use of his hands. He 
 wished that they would talk among themselves and 
 let him listen. 
 
 That, however, was evidently not their present in- 
 tention. He was the visitor of the evening, and 
 although Stephen, himself, was supremely ignorant 
 of the fact, each of them had a personal reason for 
 welcoming him. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 187 
 
 They questioned him about his work, a subject 
 upon which he could at least give intelligent if occa- 
 sionally unintelligible replies. 
 
 " Technical beggar, he is," Threlfall remarked 
 after one of these recondities had slipped off 
 Stephen's tongue. " What in the name of Dickin- 
 son is a ' sump,' old chap? " 
 
 " It's a sort of well," Stephen explained, " to take 
 the surface and waste water. We've got a very 
 deep foundation you see, and we're below the level 
 of the main drain and have to pump up to it." 
 
 11 Newspaper offices you're building, aren't they? " 
 Threlfall asked. 
 
 Stephen nodded. " The engine house is in the 
 sub-basement," he added. " On the raft, you 
 know." 
 
 " We'll all come and see it, and you must take 
 us round," Cecilia put in. 
 
 " Yes, rather, when there's a bit more to see," 
 Stephen agreed. " We're not up to the ground 
 floor yet, with anything except the steel-work. Take 
 you up to the top of the Scotchman, of course, if you 
 like. You get a splendid view from there ; but you'd 
 have to go up in the bucket, I expect; it's an awful 
 climb." 
 
 Threlfall grinned. " Translate," he said. 
 
 "Which?" Stephen asked. 
 
 " Well, Scotchman." < 
 
 " Oh! that's the derrick, the big crane," Stephen 
 said. " They call them Scotchmen in the trade be- 
 cause they save such a lot of money." 
 
 He had had no idea of making a joke, but they all 
 laughed, and he laughed with them. 
 
 " Well, well, I'll wait till you get the lift in, 
 Stephen," chuckled old Edwardes. " I don't quite 
 see myself dangling and spinning in mid air on one 
 
188 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 of those contrivances. I was watching one in Ox- 
 ford Street, the other day." 
 
 " I suppose you think nothing of it? " Threlfall 
 enquired. 
 
 I don't have to go up, often," Stephen said. 
 " But when I do, I go up in the bucket. It saves 
 time. It's perfectly safe, of course." 
 
 He found that Cecilia was regarding him with a 
 look of proud approval. 
 
 Everything was going very well, Stephen thought. 
 He was beginning to realize the advantage of being 
 an expert in one subject. 
 
 At half-past ten, Butler brought up an imposing 
 selection of decanters, aerated water bottles and 
 glasses on one tray, and a complete apparatus for 
 making tea on another. Cecilia looked at Stephen 
 as she set about her preparations. 
 
 " A new habit of mine, little boy," she said. 
 14 Will you have tea, too, or do you drink whiskey 
 and soda, now? " 
 
 u Oh! tea, I think, thank you, mother," he said. 
 He felt that she had strangely singled him out by 
 that little speech. She had made an implicit refer- 
 ence to their old life together in Long Causeway; 
 and in doing it had told him that he, alone, was 
 able fully to understand her old life. 
 
 As he took his cup from her, he bent down and 
 said in a low voice, You must have so many new 
 habits, now." 
 
 " But I have kept a few old ones," she replied 
 with the same effect of making a suggestion that 
 only he could understand. 
 
 After his tea, Stephen began to smoke. He had 
 forgotten his hands. The other three still kept 
 him in the focus of interest, but now they had 
 exhausted their enquiries about his profession and 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 189 
 
 were busy discussing his future. Cecilia began to 
 make plans for finding him rooms in Gower Street 
 or Bloomsbury Street, the very next morning. 
 
 " You ought to have a sitting-room," she said. 
 " Of course you can come in here whenever you like, 
 but you want a place that you can invite your own 
 friends to." 
 
 Stephen shook his head. " Haven't got any 
 friends of that sort," he said. " Besides, I can't 
 afford two rooms." 
 
 Cecilia conceded that, and went on to make an 
 appointment for him the next day at the shop of 
 her husband's tailor in Conduit Street. " I'll meet 
 you there at twelve o'clock," she said. 
 
 Stephen hesitated. 
 
 " Yes, you must, Stephen, I insist," she urged him. 
 " You promised me just now that you'd let me 
 give you a complete outfit. Medboro' clothes are 
 all right for Medboro' ; but they won't do for town. 
 Twelve o'clock in Conduit Street, to-morrow, 
 Stephen." 
 
 " Perhaps he'd sooner meet me, there," Threlfall 
 put in pleasantly. " A man doesn't usually take his 
 mother to his tailor's." 
 
 On the whole Stephen thought that he would 
 sooner go with Threlfall. 
 
 " Very well," Cecilia agreed good humoredly. 
 " Only, Christopher, you must tell them to get him 
 something ready by next Sunday." 
 
 " Rather short notice," Threlfall said. 
 
 " Never mind, they'll do it if you make a point 
 of it," Cecilia replied. 
 
 " What happens on Sunday?" Stephen asked, 
 rather absent-mindedly. He was thinking that he 
 would have to go down to the Embankment in his 
 best clothes the next day. He could not face a 
 
190 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Conduit Street tailor in the suit he always wore at 
 the works. Would Bennett mark that as further 
 evidence that young Kirkwood was getting too big 
 for his boots? 
 
 " Oh! we always get people in on Sunday after- 
 noon," Cecilia said and then went on with an odd 
 change of manner. " And by the way there'll be 
 some one you'll remember next Sunday, Margaret 
 Weatherley, Dr. Weatherley's eldest girl. She's 
 walking on, just for fun, at the Auditorium. Some 
 people think her quite beautiful. But, of course, she 
 was only a child when they left Medboro'. You'd 
 hardly remember." 
 
 Her voice had suddenly become hard and bitter, 
 and Stephen looked up with an acute sense of wrong- 
 doing. For an instant, he believed that his mother 
 must have known in some wonderful, intuitive way 
 that she had named the one being who could ever 
 come between them; the one being for whose sake 
 he might desert her with no more compunction than 
 she had once deserted him. But Cecilia was not 
 looking at him but at her husband. 
 
 11 Christopher thinks Margaret quite beautiful," 
 she continued; "don't you, Christopher?" 
 
 Threlfall laughed a trifle self-consciously. 
 " Oh ! I don't know about beautiful," he said. 
 " She's unquestionably pretty." He turned to 
 Stephen as he went on, speaking rather rapidly. 
 11 Her father, you know, is by way of being quite 
 a famous publicist tremendously keen on Tariff Re- 
 form, still, although it seems a bit out of date, now. 
 All the same, Weatherley's a man to be taken seri- 
 ously. But, I don't know, if you take the least 
 interest in politics, Stephen? " 
 
 " No. I don't think I do," Stephen said. " Nat- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 191 
 
 urally I'm up against the Unions, all the time. 
 Every builder must be." 
 
 They talked for a few minutes of the Trades 
 Union movement, but all the life had gone out of 
 the evening. For the first time it was evident that 
 they were making polite conversation. The touch 
 of a living interest had gone. They were separated, 
 each of them preoccupied with some personal 
 thought or anxiety that they wanted greater leisure 
 to consider. 
 
 11 1 say, I ought to be going," Stephen said. " It's 
 a good step from here to Camberwell." 
 
 Not going to walk, are you? " Threlfall asked 
 on a note of amused suprrise. 
 
 11 I daresay I shall pick up a tram at the bridge," 
 Stephen said. 
 
 They made no effort to detain him ; but his mother 
 went down with him to the front door. She kissed 
 him in the Hall, as she said u good-night," and im- 
 pressed upon him the importance of remembering 
 his engagement with Christopher for twelve the next 
 day. But something of the spirit had gone out of 
 her vivacity. She looked tired, and now Stephen 
 could see that the past seven years had, indeed, left 
 their mark on her. 
 
STEPHEN went to Bedford Square the follow- 
 ing Sunday, with the fixed purpose of not 
 allowing himself to fall in love with Margaret 
 Weatherley. His reasons for this determination 
 were many and irreproachable. The chief of them 
 was that he must ever be hopelessly her inferior. 
 He might worship her from a respectful distance, 
 but he meant if possible to avoid speaking to her. 
 
 His other reasons, if equally impeccable, were 
 less idealistic. He realized, for example, that fall- 
 ing in love with Miss Weatherley would be a waste 
 of life. He could never hope to marry her. Her 
 father was a rich and distinguished man. Stephen 
 was a builder's clerk of works, the son of a small 
 bookseller and of a woman who, however wonderful 
 and brilliant she might be, was probably not re- 
 garded with approval by Dr. Weatherley. Even if 
 Stephen were admitted to some sort of junior part- 
 nership in the firm two years hence, he would not 
 in all probability, be considered eligible. And by 
 way of a dominating and determining motive giving 
 force to all his other reasons, was the consciousness 
 that his newly recovered relations with his mother, 
 would not admit of a divided allegiance. 
 
 He had seen Cecilia twice since his first evening 
 in Bedford Square, and although she had given him 
 no more confidences with regard to her inner life, she 
 
 192 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 193 
 
 had displayed a new attitude towards him. She had 
 in a great measure relinquished her authority. She 
 seemed to lean on him, to look to him for strength 
 and sympathy. That charming mood of tenderness 
 which in the old days had been reserved for those 
 times when she particularly wished to reward or en- 
 courage him, had been uppermost on both these occa- 
 sions. She had been gentle and gracious to him, 
 implying both by her words and her manner that his 
 presence would, in future, be absolutely essential to 
 her happiness. He had wondered, but had not yet 
 dared to ask, whether her second marriage had not 
 been a disappointment. He remembered the chill 
 that had descended upon them all, when she had 
 made that reference to Miss Weatherley on the night 
 of his first visit to their house. Was it possible that 
 Threlfall had shown a tendency to flirt with other 
 women? Stephen was sure that his mother would 
 never stand that, not even from himself. She 
 must be first; a fact that brought him back again to 
 the necessity for an answering fidelity. 
 
 Finally, he quite clearly, even passionately, 
 wanted to be faithful to her. Something of pity 
 had begun to tinge his thought of her. He had 
 not seen his half-brother, yet, but it was evident that 
 the little Christopher was not greatly loved by his 
 mother. Stephen had gathered that the boy had 
 been very delicate, had been spoiled, and had devel- 
 oped an unruly and intensely egotistical temper. 
 " Chris is a very difficult child," Cecelia had said, 
 and her tone had implied that she thought a stricter 
 discipline would be good for him. . . . 
 
 Stephen had a fairly good conceit of himself, this 
 afternoon. He felt protected by these fine resolu- 
 tions to devote himself to his mother; as if the knowl- 
 edge that he could and would please her made him 
 
i 9 4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 independent of other opinion. Also, he was aware 
 of being well dressed. Mr. Bland of Conduit Street 
 had protested that the request to supply a suit in 
 four days was ridiculous ; that the thing could not be 
 done, and even if it could, there was no precedent 
 for such an undertaking in the annuals of a firm 
 which had been established in the days of William 
 IV. And Threlfall had smiled and agreed, and 
 when the suggestion had been finally argued out of 
 existence, had said, " Well, Bland, I'm sure you'll 
 find a way of doing it for once, as a favor." And 
 the miracle had been performed. The remainder of 
 the large order was not to be delivered for a fort- 
 night, after endless further ordeals of " trying on." 
 Stephen had not, it must be confessed, any real feel- 
 ing for clothes. He liked to feel inconspicuous, and 
 he knew that the -only way to achieve a relative invis- 
 ibility in his mother's drawing-room was to go to a 
 West-end tailor. But he loathed the business of 
 ordering and trying-on, and the result only pleased 
 him inasmuch as it would serve as a kind of protec- 
 tive coloration in the society he was going to meet. 
 
 He went early to Bedford Square at his mother's 
 suggestion, and found her alone when he arrived. 
 She was in great spirits that afternoon, and after 
 looking him up and down and making an unnecessary 
 readjustment of his tie, she congratulated him 
 warmly on his appearance. 
 
 " You do set your things off well, Stephen," she 
 said. " I suppose it's your build and the way you 
 carry yourself. You'll certainly look better dressed 
 than any who who's coming this afternoon. They're 
 all either theatrical or musical, and the theatrical 
 lot will be overdressed and the others untidy. Prob- 
 ably you and Christopher will be the only two men 
 in the room who'll look like gentlemen. As for the 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 195 
 
 women, but never mind that. When are you go- 
 ing to move your things to the place in Bloomsbury 
 Street? I do want to have you a little nearer. 
 Camberwell is so dreadfully out of the way." 
 
 Stephen said he proposed to move on the follow- 
 ing Saturday, and after she had protested that he 
 might just as well have gone in at once, and paid 
 his Camberwell landlady a week's rent in lieu of 
 notice, she began to plan all the things they would 
 do together when she had him living so conveniently 
 near. 
 
 She was still planning when Threlfall joined them 
 and she expounded the essentials of her program to 
 him as a scheme finally settled. Stephen had a pass- 
 ing doubt as to whether Threlfall might not resent 
 what apparently promised to be the permanent intru- 
 sion of a new member into the Bedford Square 
 household, but he seemed on the contrary to be gen- 
 uinely pleased by the proposal. 
 
 " That will be jolly," he approved in a voice that 
 carried some suggestion of relief; and Stephen felt 
 comforted and a little stirred. 
 
 The " At Home " so far as Stephen was con- 
 cerned was divided into two distinct and unrelated 
 periods. 
 
 Daring the first he conscientiously did his best, 
 and in his own opinion, at least, succeeded. People, 
 quite a lot of people, drifted in and out. A few of 
 them stayed; but the majority put in an appearance 
 for half-an-hour or so, and then left. Among this 
 crowd, Butler and two female acolytes dexterously 
 threaded their way with salvers bearing chiefly tea 
 and cakes, although there were whiskey and liqueurs 
 
196 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 and other excitements on a side table that had got 
 into one corner of the room and was trying not to 
 look like a buffet. 
 
 All you had to do, Stephen found, was to get 
 reasonably out of the way and watch and listen, 
 so far as you could listen to anything particular, 
 through that bright high clatter of women's voices 
 and laughter. They were, he privately decided, a 
 very noisy lot. Now and again his mother would 
 snatch him out of his retreat and introduce him to 
 some star of the theatrical or musical world as " My 
 nephew, Stephen Kirkwood," bringing out his name 
 with an aplomb that seemed to give it a great air of 
 distinction. But none of these introductions in- 
 volved him in the difficulties of polite conversation. 
 His new acquaintance either bowed, made the usual 
 acknowledgment of the pleasure derived from this 
 brief encounter, and turned to some other distrac- 
 tion; or after a few seconds of rapid and irrelevant 
 gabble was diverted by the appearance of some more 
 familiar friend. 
 
 Stephen's first approach to any intelligible talk 
 was in progress when the first period of the after- 
 noon suddenly ended and the second began. 
 
 It was nearly six o'clock by that time, and the 
 room was less crowded. Cecilia had an air that said 
 the worst was now over, and was smoking a cigar- 
 ette, another of her new habits. She caught sight 
 of Stephen across the room, hailed him with a smile 
 and then brought across to him a plain but intellec- 
 tual-looking woman of forty or so, whom she intro- 
 duced as Mona Crantock with the aside " You know, 
 dear. She wrote that extraordinary play, ' The 
 Fire of God ' that every one has been talking about." 
 
 Miss Crantook looked at Stephen with interest. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 197 
 
 " Ought I to know you? " she asked. " Have you 
 got anything to do with the stage ? " 
 
 " Nothing whatever," Stephen said. 
 
 " Nor with literature? M she went on. 
 
 " Nor with literature," he repeated. 
 
 "Politics, perhaps?" she tried. 
 
 Stephen laughed. He was attracted by her air 
 of candor and perfect self-possession. " I don't do 
 anything important," he said. " I'm just anybody." 
 
 " One of Cecilia's ornaments?" suggested Miss 
 Crantock. 
 
 11 If that," he hazarded. 
 
 " You looked so distinguished," she went on. " I 
 thought at first you must be either a successful young 
 actor or one of these modern poets that cut their 
 hair and dress like undergraduates. But afterwards 
 I decided that it must be politics. Don't you do 
 anything? " 
 
 I'm a a builder," he said. He was not sure 
 that his mother would like him to describe himself 
 as a clerk of the works. 
 
 Miss Crantock looked at him doubtfully. 
 " What do you build? " she asked. " Empires, for 
 example? " 
 
 M Just buildings," he explained. " I'm looking 
 after those big newspaper offices that are going up 
 on the Embankment, not far from de Keyser's 
 Hotel. I don't know if you know the place? " 
 
 " How wonderful!" Miss Crantock exclaimed 
 fervidly. " Yes, I know the place, with that enor- 
 mous crane that pushes its great beak about as if 
 it were trying to see over the tops of all the houses. 
 And do you really know how and where everything 
 has got to go. It has always been incredible to me 
 that any one could plan, ahead, all the details of a 
 
198 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 place like that. Tell me, don't you leave a lot to 
 chance and work it in as you go along? " 
 
 " Well, hardly," Stephen said, smiling. " For in- 
 stance," he continued, seeking still further to arouse 
 her naive astonishment; "we know almost to a 
 pound of nails how much material we are going to 
 use in the job, before it's begun." 
 
 " It's incredible," gasped Miss Crantock, and in 
 her rapt contemplation of this marvel, she missed 
 the change in her companion's manner when Butler 
 announced: " Miss Margaret Weatherley; Miss 
 Grace Weatherley." 
 
 Stephen had ceased to expect her, and had been 
 relieved by her absence. If his determinations were 
 to be maintained, it was just as well to avoid temp- 
 tation. He had meant to refrain from looking at 
 her or speaking to her, if it were possible, and he 
 had known that the first of those two acts of self- 
 denial might prove exceedingly difficult. For he had 
 no doubt that, in some mysterious way, Margaret 
 Weatherley was to have an extraordinary influence 
 upon him. 
 
 She had appeared, leaping suddenly out of the 
 even background of life, at two critical moments of 
 spiritual disturbance arising from his relations with 
 his mother. And although he did not consciously 
 recognize any meaning or intention in this coinci- 
 dence, he was fully aware that the personality of 
 Margaret Weatherley had an incomprehensible sig- 
 nificance for him. Why the thought of her should 
 be mingled with fear, he did not, and never at- 
 tempted to, understand. The reasonable explana- 
 tion of his impulse to avoid her was contained in his 
 realization of his own social inferiority and of the 
 fact that Margaret was in some sense, a rival to his 
 mother. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 199 
 
 And, now, when Margaret came at the last mo- 
 ment and unexpectedly into his mother's drawing- 
 room, Stephen's impulse to fly from her rose for an 
 instant, almost to panic. For seeing her, here, 
 clearly for the first time, he saw that she was more 
 unattainable and dangerous than he had ever 
 dreamed. She was, indeed, one of those rarely 
 beautiful women who intoxicate men's minds with the 
 fumes of romance. Her features and complexion 
 would have passed triumphantly the common tests 
 of beauty, but it was rather the proportions and as 
 it were, the delicate finish of her that created that 
 striking impression of unusual perfection. No man 
 looking at her would have paused in the first in- 
 stance to enquire what kind of spirit or intelligence 
 animated that ideal loveliness. Ninety-nine men 
 out of a hundred would, if they had had the chance, 
 have married her without enquiring. Her beauty 
 was, for the male mind, sufficient; and she was by 
 virtue of it exempt from criticism. Nevertheless 
 the effect of her upon the hopelessly ineligible was 
 often one of disguised resentment. Young clerks 
 would stare after her in the street, nudge each other 
 in their first bewilderment, and find expression for 
 their feelings in a rakish " By Gad ! " Afterwards 
 they would seek a cause to depreciate her attractions. 
 "Shouldn't care to marry a girMike that, all the 
 same," they would protest, seeking to reestablish 
 their own pride. 
 
 Little wonder that Stephen was a trifle panic- 
 stricken. 
 
 Miss Crantock, posing an important question with 
 regard to the general methods of building, was sur- 
 prised to receive no answer, and withdrew her gaze 
 from the thought-projected screen, upon which she 
 was trying to visualize her idea of construction in 
 
200 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 order to look at her companion. When she saw 
 that he was watching Margaret, Miss Crantock 
 laughed gayly. 
 
 u Yes! isn't she?" she asked. 
 
 Stephen desperately disengaged himself from the 
 hypnotic influence. 
 
 I beg your pardon," he said. 
 
 11 You needn't," Miss Crantock replied. " I'm 
 not jealous; it always happens. When you're in 
 the middle of a fascinating conversation with a man 
 and he suddenly says 4 By Jove, who's that girl? ' 
 you reply ' Oh ! Margaret Weatherley,' without 
 troubling to look up." 
 
 "You know her, then?" was all Stephen could 
 find to say. 
 
 " Yes, I thought of writing a play for her, but she 
 can't act and knows it. This walking-in business at 
 the Auditorium is just frivolity. She's the sort of 
 young woman who could make the fortunes of a 
 musical comedy by just being Margaret Weatherley, 
 but I fancy she has got too much sense for that." 
 
 " Has she? " commented Stephen. He was quite 
 content to listen, if Miss Crantock would go on dis- 
 cussing this subject, and she on her part had realized 
 that she would get no more information about the 
 mysteries of building, just then. 
 
 " Yes, really she isn't a bad sort of girl," she 
 said, speaking with the privileged detachment of a 
 sister-woman. " Spoilt, of course; but that was in- 
 evitable. All the same she seems quite a sensible, 
 good-natured little thing if you get her alone with 
 no men in the room. It doesn't give her a chance 
 to be herself when every man she meets insists upon 
 adoring her, as if she'd just come straight down from 
 God. Perhaps, some day she'll fall in love with 
 some good practical creature who'll consent to over- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 201 
 
 look her beauty for the sake of her other virtues. 
 Her only other chance, so far as I can see, would be 
 to marry a blind man." 
 
 " Yes," said Stephen. 
 
 " Instead of which," concluded Miss Crantock, 
 " she'll probably marry some blase aristocrat, with 
 six houses, a steam yacht and a ruined constitution. 
 She'd be worth that in the open market." 
 
 Stephen shivered. Although he was eager to in- 
 sist upon the complete hopelessness of his own 
 chances, he hoped that Margaret might meet with 
 a happier fate than that prophesied by Miss Cran- 
 tock. 
 
 " You've never seen her before, I suppose? " she 
 continued. 
 
 M Practically not at least not for seven years," 
 Stephen said. 
 
 Miss Crantock's woolly black eyebrows went up 
 with an expression of interested surprise. 
 
 " Dr. Weatherley, her father, was the headmaster 
 of the school I went to in Medboro', before he came 
 into his money," Stephen explained. 
 
 " He has got the manners of a schoolmaster still," 
 commented Miss Crantock. " And I suppose, even 
 at how old, thirteen, fourteen? her ladyship 
 was, well, adored, by the boys at the school? " 
 
 " In a way," Stephen said. 
 
 "Including Mr. Kirkwood, no doubt?" Miss 
 Crantock persisted with a grim smile. 
 
 Stephen blushed furiously. The blood so burnt 
 his face that he had to stoop to cover his shame. 
 "Me? Oh, no," he mumbled. "I I've never 
 spoken to her." 
 
 " Oh! spoken to her! What's that? " persisted 
 Miss Crantock ruthlessly. " Didn't she ever make 
 eyes at you? " 
 
202 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Until then, Stephen had taken a certain pleasure 
 in his companion's conversation, but that last ques- 
 tion made him suddenly furious. " No, she did 
 not," he said savagely. 
 
 Miss Crantock nodded her head with an air of 
 having got all she wanted. " I daresay she never 
 got the chance? " she remarked. 
 
 u No," Stephen replied curtly. His face still 
 burnt as if he had been all day in the hot sun. He 
 wished that he could get rid of this ugly, inquisitive 
 woman who was so callously searching out the hidden 
 secrets of his soul. He looked round for a means of 
 release and could see none. Margaret, with her 
 back to him, his mother and Threlfall were talk- 
 ing in a compact little group by the fireplace. The 
 other people in the room, six or seven in all, now, 
 were involved in two other groups, each of them 
 apparently engrossed in discussion. The idea of 
 quietly escaping, without a word to any one, pre- 
 sented itself to him as full of saving possibilities. . 
 
 11 I ought to be going," he said, nerving himself 
 to face Miss Crantock's exploring stare. 
 
 " Not without speaking to Miss Weatherley, 
 surely?" she commented with an ironical smile. 
 " After seven years, you know. Such a delightfully 
 Biblical period! Don't you feel at all like Jacob, 
 waiting for his reward? Only, of course, Laban 
 put him off with the wrong one." 
 
 Stephen was not listening. He had been staring 
 intently at his mother, hoping to catch her eye 
 and signal to her that he was going quietly. But 
 Cecilia seemed to be quite unaware of his call for 
 help, and then without the least warning, Mar- 
 garet turned right round and looked straight at 
 him. 
 
 Stephen's heart began to beat painfully. The 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 203 
 
 concussion of it seemed to shake his whole body. 
 For a moment he wondered if he were going to faint. 
 He felt that if she came over to him, he could not 
 endure it; that he would have to rush disgracefully 
 out of the room. 
 
 He was spared that humiliation, for Margaret 
 after a moment of suspense turned back to her con- 
 versation with Threlfall and Cecilia. But she had 
 recognized him and once again she had smiled; not, 
 as when she had first chosen him, with a gay coquet- 
 tishness, but reflectively, reminiscently, with a serious 
 consideration. 
 
 Stephen recovered his normal consciousness to the 
 sound of Miss Crantock's voice, saying, in a teasing 
 whisper, " She hasn't forgotten you, you see, after 
 all these long years. Surely you won't go, now, 
 without speaking to her? " 
 
 Stephen felt strongly urged to reply, " What on 
 earth has that to do with you? " Miss Crantock's 
 presence annoyed him. He wanted a minute's lei- 
 sure to debate the tremendous alternatives of go- 
 ing at once or risking an introduction to Margaret. 
 Now that that trembling fit had passed, he felt rather 
 more sure of himself. He had found the common 
 excuse for not wanting her too passionately. She 
 was just too beautiful to love. She was a picture, a 
 work of art, a creature of genius to be contemplated 
 with profound respect and admiration from a re- 
 straining distance. To fall in love with her would, 
 he knew_ instinctively, involve the risk of complete 
 destruction. Once a man allowed a desire for the 
 perfect to overcome him, he was lost. The passion 
 would grow until it dominated him ; until his sanity, 
 his regard for all the reasonable joys of life, was 
 drowned in one overwhelming lust for posses- 
 sion. . . . 
 
20 4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " I daresay I shall stay a little longer," he told 
 Miss Crantock. 
 
 It may be that something in his tone had its effect 
 upon her, or possibly she decided that her passion for 
 dissection would find greater satisfaction in witness- 
 ing the encounter of Stephen and Margaret than in 
 any further probing of him alone, for she dropped 
 her air of banter as she said, 
 
 11 You know a woman finds it very difficult to un- 
 derstand just this belle-a-faire-peur business; but 
 really men do seem to be quite literally afraid of a 
 beautiful woman sometimes as if she were some- 
 how a dangerous creature." 
 
 Stephen was relieved to hear his own vague 
 thought expressed, but he was unable to make an 
 articulate response. 
 
 " Do they?" he said. 
 
 u Well, if I may be permitted the personal in- 
 stance," Miss Crantock replied; " you rather gave 
 me the impression of funk." 
 
 " Did I? " Stephen answered carelessly He was 
 vaguely aware that it was necessary for him to hide 
 his true feelings, at any cost even from himself. 
 He had to deceive his own eyes; to seek in Margaret, 
 flaws that did not exist, and to find them. 
 
 u 0h! well," sighed Miss Crantock. " If you 
 won't, you won't, and there's an end of it. I sup- 
 pose I couldn't persuade you to give me a little more 
 information about building, could I? " 
 
 Stephen might have agreed to that, if it were only 
 to stop his companion's dissection, but before he 
 could reply the little group by the fireplace broke up 
 and he realized that the moment of his trial was at 
 hand. Cecilia and Margaret were coming towards 
 him, and he braced himself to the act of defensive 
 criticism. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 205 
 
 " You remember Miss Weatherley, Stephen? " 
 Cecilia was saying. " She says she remembers you, 
 so you ought to feel nattered. Though how she can 
 pretend to have picked you out among all that crowd 
 of dirty little boys, I don't know." Then turning to 
 Miss Crantock, she went on " Are you coming to tell 
 me about that play, Nora? You'll stay to supper, 
 won't you ? There'll only be ourselves and Stephen 
 and Margaret and her sister." 
 
 That announcement and the thought of the coming 
 ordeal that it foreshadowed, was completely occupy- 
 ing Stephen's attention. He had not heard Mar- 
 garet's opening, and he missed her repetition of it, as 
 he watched the departure of his mother and Miss 
 Crantock. He would have liked to say at once that 
 he had no intention of staying to supper, but that 
 undertaking would have necessitated a considerable 
 expenditure of nervous energy and he had none to 
 spare. 
 
 "Are you living in London, now?" Margaret 
 asked for the third time. " Shall we sit down? " 
 
 " Yes, I am," he said, addressing the open spaces 
 of the room, and then finding that Margaret had 
 seated herself on the Chesterfield from which Miss 
 Crantock had just risen, he made an effort and sat 
 down, too. 
 
 " Yes, I've been living in London since last Febru- 
 ary," he repeated. 
 
 " I thought I saw you waiting by the stage-door 
 of the Auditorium about a week ago? " Margaret 
 continued lightly. 
 
 " Yes, I was waiting for my . . . for Mrs. Threl- 
 fall," he said. 
 
 Margaret dropped her voice discreetly. " Oh ! it 
 isn't a secret from me," she said. " Of course I 
 know that Cecilia is your mother. I remember her 
 
206 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 frightfully well, when she used to sing and tell stories 
 at Medboro'. And although she mayn't believe it, 
 I do remember you, too, at the King's School/' 
 
 He looked at her, then, in sheer amazement. He 
 could not understand how she could possibly refer in 
 this tone of calm detachment to that meeting of their 
 spirits in the dining-room of the King's School. Yet 
 neither on her face nor in her voice could he find the 
 least hint of any consciousness that she had once 
 beckoned him with an intimate smile, and that they 
 were inevitably linked together by sharing this 
 strange and perilous secret. 
 
 She misread or chose to misread his look of blank 
 enquiry. u But I see that you've completely forgot- 
 ten," she said with an air of being prepared to for- 
 give him. 
 
 11 Forgotten? Me? " he asked in shocked aston- 
 ishment. " No I think it must be you who's for- 
 gotten? " He was drowning and he knew it, and he 
 was too bewildered to care. A man could only die 
 once. 
 
 She raised her pretty eyebrows, looking straight 
 into his eyes. " But I've just told you that I re- 
 membered," she said. 
 
 " Yes, but what?" he returned. " Just having 
 seen me? " 
 
 " What else was there to remember? " she asked. 
 " I'm sure I never spoke to you." 
 
 An echo of Miss Crantock's comment came back 
 to him. " Oh ! spoke to me, no," he said. 
 
 She pretended complete innocence. " Do tell me 
 what I've forgotten," she begged him. 
 
 He shook his head. " Perhaps, I made a mis- 
 take," he said. 
 
 11 Whatever it was, it seems to have been some- 
 thing very serious," she remarked. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 207 
 
 And quite suddenly it occurred to Stephen to won- 
 der just how serious the effects of that smile had pos- 
 sibly been. Had not his grandfather asked on the 
 fatal night of the elopement whether Stephen had 
 fallen in love and if his mother knew it ? And had he 
 not in fact taken up a different attitude to his mother, 
 as a consequence of that one slight intimation of 
 Margaret's recognition? Cecilia might not have 
 guessed that he was in love, but she had been aware 
 of a change in him; and that intuition of hers might 
 have been the deciding factor that finally tipped the 
 delicate balance of her motives. Had she not said 
 on the evening of that Saturday: " Oh you don't 
 want me any more? " 
 
 " I wonder just how serious it was? " he said very 
 gravely. 
 
 " But, really . . ." Margaret began in a more 
 earnest tone, affected by his strange solemnity. " I 
 mean if I . . ." She sighed, and gave it up. 
 "Oh! what do you mean?" she concluded pet- 
 ulantly. 
 
 Never had she found a man so apparently disin- 
 clined to flirt with her; and she had wanted to flirt 
 with him. There was something about him that at- 
 tracted her, now, just as it had attracted her seven 
 years ago. 
 
 Stephen realized that every postponement of his 
 answer was increasing the significance of the impend- 
 ing disclosure. By the time it came, it would have 
 the effect of an avowal. Was it possible that for 
 the second time within seven days he was going to 
 propose to a woman at his first meeting with her? 
 He made a strong effort to combat that absurd feel- 
 ing he had of the transcending importance of this 
 conversation. Nevertheless, he could not look at 
 her as he spoke. He leaned a little forward with 
 
208 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 his hands between his knees and stared down. at the 
 rose-pink carpet. 
 
 " Oh! it was nothing, really, nothing at all," he 
 said. M But it did happen one day, the day before 
 you went away from Medboro' on account of that 
 scare of the measles, you remember . . ." 
 
 " I do. ^ I had 'em," she put in. " Well? " 
 
 14 It it happened as you were going out of the 
 dining-room; you turned round and and smiled. 
 I don't suppose you were smiling at me, but at the 
 time, I thought you were, and and that's all, I 
 think." 
 
 44 But why be so serious over it? " she asked. 
 
 44 1 thought you meant it the smile for me," 
 he said. 
 
 44 1 did," she replied calmly. 
 
 44 Why? "he asked. 
 
 44 I had a romantic mind at fourteen," she told 
 him, " and I thought it would be rather a delightful 
 and desperate thing to smile at one of the boys. I 
 chose you, because I liked the look of you more 
 than any of the others. But I still don't see why 
 you need make such a mystery of it all. Hasn't any- 
 body smiled at you since? " 
 
 44 I don't remember," he replied with a quiet sin- 
 cerity that nearly scared her. If he were making 
 love to her, it was a new method in her experience^ 
 and she was not sure that it might not be dangerous. 
 If he were dreadfully in earnest and his conversa- 
 tion rather implied that he was he might upset 
 the happy inconsequence of her life. At the same 
 time, nothing was so fascinating as real danger, and 
 she did not want to escape from it too soon. 
 
 44 Funny sort of memory you must have," she 
 commented. " Can you only remember things that 
 happened seven years ago? " 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 209 
 
 Stephen was about to reply when their conversa- 
 tion was interrupted by the appearance of his little 
 half-brother, Chris. He had not been allowed to 
 come down while the room was full of people. 
 Cecilia complained that he was a nuisance, and that 
 his father spoilt him in a way that was absolutely 
 ridiculous. But he had come, now, to say good- 
 night to his father and mother before he went to bed. 
 
 He was, at the age of six and a quarter, an in- 
 teresting looking child. He had a rather long, thin 
 face with speculative, intent eyes under a mop of fair 
 hair. All of his dress that was visible was a holland 
 tunic and a pair of sandals. His thin legs were bare. 
 
 He entered the room with a quiet air of self- 
 confidence, looked round, and then seeing Margaret 
 made straight for her and climbed into her lap, ig- 
 noring completely the advances of his father. 
 
 " I've been expecting you for ages," Margaret 
 said. " It's seven o'clock. Oughtn't you to be in 
 bed by now? " 
 
 " Nurse wouldn't let me come till the people were 
 gone," he replied; " an' I wouldn't go to bed without 
 coming down. I knew you was here." He was 
 looking at Stephen with a slightly puzzled expres- 
 sion, as if trying to decide whether he was going to 
 like him. Stephen's answering stare was almost ab- 
 surdly similar in kind. 
 
 " Haven't you ever seen your brother be- 
 fore?" Margaret asked. 
 
 "Oh!" ejaculated Chris with a slight start of 
 surprise. " Are you Stephen? " 
 
 Stephen nodded, with the beginning of a smile. 
 
 Chris held out his hand. " I wondered when I 
 was going to see you," he said. " Daddy says you're 
 a builder and you'll show me how to build properly, 
 better than he does. He doesn't build very well, 
 
210 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 you know. Would you like to come up and see my 
 bricks, now? " 
 
 " Yes, rather," Stephen agreed, with instant en- 
 thusiasm. He leapt at this chance to escape ! He 
 flattered himself that he had kept his head remark- 
 ably well throughout his conversation with Mar- 
 garet, but he felt the need for relaxation. Also, he 
 was pleased by Chris's instant approval. 
 
 " You faithless little beggar," Margaret put in. 
 " Why, you haven't spoken to me, yet." 
 
 11 Oh! you come, too," Chris said. " I'll go and 
 ask Daddy if I mayn't sit up for another half an 
 hour. Mother's sure to say * no,' becos of nurse. 
 Come on." 
 
 Chris's prophecy was promptly fulfilled. Cecilia 
 indeed, seemed to be in a doubtful temper, and at 
 once put her veto on a request which she seemed to 
 have anticipated before it was made. " It's Sun- 
 day, Christopher," she said, sharply, " and nurse is 
 sure to want to get off early." 
 
 11 Oh! we'll bath him and put him to bed," Threl- 
 fall replied. " And nurse shall get an extra half- 
 an-hour by going, now. We don't get a real live 
 builder in the house, every day, do we, Chris? " 
 
 Chris's face, however, did not respond to his 
 father's delightful proposal. He was looking anx- 
 iously, timidly at his mother, awaiting her decision. 
 
 11 Do let him, mother," Stephen whispered. 
 
 Cecilia looked up at him with an immediate change 
 of expression. " We'll all come," she said with a 
 laugh. " Shall we all come and put you to bed, 
 Chris? " she asked, turning to the child. 
 
 His face had suddenly cleared at her change of 
 tone, and he made a quick little run over to her and 
 clasped her skirts. " You come, too, mummy," he 
 said. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 211 
 
 Cecilia bent down, lifted him in her arms and car- 
 ried him out of the room. " Come along, all of 
 you," she said gayly as she went. She carried him 
 all the way up to the second floor. 
 
 Chris lay quite still in her arms, wearing an ex- 
 pression of perfect satisfaction. 
 
 In Chris's wide, airy, linoleum-floored nursery, 
 the action resolved itself into an exhibition of build- 
 ing conducted by Stephen, with his little half-brother 
 in ecstatic attendance. The others sat round and 
 criticized according to their several abilities. 
 
 Chris's bricks were many and varied, ranging from 
 a sackful of strong square wooden blocks to small 
 and fanciful designs in German gothic made of 
 colored composition. 
 
 " He's mad on building, at present," Cecilia ex- 
 plained. " He wants to stop every time we pass a 
 place where there's building going on, and watch." 
 
 u You shall come and see my building. It's ever 
 such a big one," Stephen whispered to his vivacious 
 assistant. 
 
 " Oo! " murmured Chris, a little overcome by the 
 abundance of delight that was being showered upon 
 him. 
 
 The building which bore a remote resemblance to 
 the technical schools at Leicester, progressed rap- 
 idly, but it was just upon eight o'clock before the last 
 available piece of material had been used in the con- 
 struction of a superfluous and dangerously unstable 
 campanile. Chris walked round and round this ro- 
 coco erection with round eyes of wonder. 
 
 " Now knock it all down," Stephen suggested. 
 
2i2 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 He was self-conscious about his handiwork and not 
 at all proud of it. 
 
 Chris stared at him in amazement. " Oh! no! " 
 he said. " I'm going to leave it here all night, so 
 as I can see it again first thing when I get up to- 
 morrow morning. Will you tell nurse, daddy that 
 she mustn't knock it down. She will, if you don't 
 tell her." 
 
 Threlfall promisee}.. 
 
 11 You won't forget," Chris insisted. " You know 
 you do forget things sometimes." 
 
 11 I'm afraid I do," his father admitted, " but I 
 won't forget this." 
 
 " And, now, Chris," Cecilia put in, " you must 
 really go to bed at once. Who do you want to bath 
 you? We can't all do it, you know." 
 
 Until then, it had been almost inconceivable to 
 Stephen that the child could ever be naughty. He 
 had appeared to be everything that was docile and 
 charming; and Stephen had found himself wondering 
 what his mother could possibly have meant by her 
 hints of Chris's ill-temper and unruliness. But at 
 this question as to whom he should choose to bath 
 him, the child showed a new side to himself. His 
 expression became sly and cunning, he looked out of 
 the corners of his eyes, and began to strut jauntily 
 round the circle of candidates, as if rejoicing in the 
 exercise of his power. He was playing a game, but 
 he seemed to be playing it with deliberate cruelty. 
 
 His father was the first to offer himself, " Come 
 along, old boy. I promise to do it," he said, holding 
 out his hands. 
 
 Chris rejected that offer with an insulting non- 
 chalance. u I can have you any night," he said. 
 
 Threlfall shrugged his shoulders and laughed, but 
 he did not completely disguise his chagrin. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 213 
 
 " Let me bath you, then, darling," Margaret put 
 in quickly. 
 
 Chris halted before her for a moment, with his 
 hands on his hips, then passed her by with a roguish 
 chuckle. 
 
 " Come, dear, if you don't make up your mind 
 soon, I shall have to send Anna up to put you to 
 bed," Cecilia said. 
 
 Chris looked at her slyly. " I won't have Anna," 
 he said. 
 
 "Well, then will you have me?" his mother 
 asked. 
 
 Chris eyed her thoughtfully, with an effect of 
 subtle calculation. 
 
 " I'll have . . ." he said. " I'll have . . . I'll 
 have Stephen." But he kept his gaze fixed on his 
 mother, as he spoke. 
 
 " Nonsense, dear, Stephen can't bath you," Ce- 
 cilia returned. " He has never bathed any one in his 
 life." 
 
 " I don't mind trying," Stephen murmured, but 
 his voice was drowned in Chris's sudden protest. 
 
 " I will have Stephen," he shouted defiantly, " I 
 will. I will" 
 
 Cecilia shrugged her shoulders and looked across 
 at Threlfall. Her expression said plainly enough: 
 " Well, is he to have his own way or not? " 
 
 "Oh! Lord, you must settle it," Threlfall said 
 and got up and left the room. 
 
 " Poor Christopher ! He can't stand a row," Ce- 
 cilia apologized. 
 
 " Why not let me try? " Stephen volunteered. 
 " You could superintend, you know." 
 
 " No. No. I want you all by yourself," Chris 
 proclaimed. 
 
 That last piece of self-assertion decided Cecilia. 
 
2i 4 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 She had evidently been willing to make some con- 
 cession, if only, it may be, in recognition of Chris's 
 appeal to her in the drawing-room and their moment 
 of love and sympathy on the stairs. But, now, he 
 was defying her, vaunting his independence, telling 
 her in so many words that she did not hold the first 
 place in his affections. 
 
 She got up with a quick determined movement, 
 and Chris, anticipating her intention, dodged in- 
 stantly behind Stephen's building. Cecilia, follow- 
 ing him up, flicked the unstable campanile with her 
 skirts and brought it down with a rattling crash. 
 
 Chris turned for an instant to this awful disaster, 
 with the tremulous mouth of a child on the verge of 
 tears; then he faced his mother, in a white heat of 
 anger. 
 
 1 You did it on purpose," he challenged her. 
 
 Cecilia had paused instinctively when the tower 
 fell, but she had not relinquished her original pur- 
 pose. " No, dear, I didn't. It was quite an acci- 
 dent," she said coldly. " Now come along at once, 
 without any more fuss." 
 
 And to Stephen's surprise, Chris quietly submitted. 
 He allowed Cecilia to take his hand and lead him 
 away without another word. Yet as the two left the 
 nursery they seemed to express by their very move- 
 ments, a cold and bitter hatred of each other. 
 
 H It'll be all right, Chris,'; Stephen called after him. 
 ' I'll have it all built up again before you come back." 
 
 Chris did not respond to this promise, but Stephen 
 set to work at once to reconstruct his tower on a 
 firmer foundation. He worked for the first two or 
 three minutes to the accompaniment of Miss Cran- 
 tock's analysis of the situation. 
 
 She seemed to be primarily addressing Grace 
 Weatherley, a fair, tall girl with an intellectual face 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 215 
 
 She was two years younger than Margaret and sup- 
 posed to be unusually clever. 
 
 " Dear Cecilia can't stand opposition," Miss Cran- 
 tock was saying, " and she and Chris are altogether 
 too much alike to get on together. They clash, 
 they're bound to clash. They love each other to 
 distraction one minute and hate each other the next." 
 
 u He's always so good with me," Margaret's voice 
 gently protested. 
 
 ^ " Of course, he'll be good with any one who'll give 
 him their whole attention and admiration," Miss 
 Crantock's firm voice continued. " And when it's 
 just a question of entertaining him, it's all easy 
 enough. But there must inevitably be occasions, like 
 this one, when you can't be content to consult a 
 child's inclination. . . ." 
 
 Stephen, patiently re-building his tower, thought 
 that Miss Crantock was very much inclined to put 
 everything in the plainest possible terms. She 
 wanted to get all the material of life sharp and 
 clear, ready for immediate translation to the stage. 
 But he knew Cecilia better than Miss Crantock ever 
 could, and he knew that the scene he had just wit- 
 nessed had its origin in experiences and emotions of 
 which Miss Crantock was completely ignorant. He 
 was so deep in his thought of the past, and of the 
 differences between himself as a boy and this deli- 
 cately poised, too closely bred child of his mother's 
 middle age, that he was startled when he heard a 
 soft voice at his elbow, saying, " I suppose you 
 wouldn't let me help you?" 
 
 " Oh ! It's getting on all right, thanks," he replied 
 gruffly. 
 
 He was pleased to find that he had been able, if 
 only for three or four minutes, to forget Margaret 
 while she was actually in the same room with him. 
 
216 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 His pride in that achievement, however, was short 
 lived. Margaret, no doubt, had been aware of his 
 distraction, and having tasted the delights of danger 
 downstairs, was not ready to relinquish them too soon. 
 
 She sat down beside him on the floor and watched 
 his deft, steady movements. She felt quite safe un- 
 der the keen, analytical eye of Miss Crantock. 
 
 " You really do do it awfully well," she com- 
 mented. u I suppose a knowledge of real building 
 does help? " 
 
 11 1 suppose it does in a way," Stephen admitted. 
 
 " I should like to see your real building," Marg- 
 aret continued adventurously. " Where is it? " 
 
 " On the Embankment," Stephen said, without 
 looking up from his work. " There isn't much of it, 
 yet. Just a big hole in the ground and a very tall 
 crane." 
 
 " One of those things on three gigantic legs, like 
 Mr. Wells's Martians?" Margaret asked. "I 
 should love to go to the top of one of those things. 
 Could I?" 
 
 " You'd have to be hauled up in the bucket," 
 Stephen said. u It's no joke the first time." 
 
 " Oh! but I should love it," JVlargaret protested. 
 " Would you really take me one day? " 
 
 Stephen saw a vivid picture of himself and Mar- 
 garetin that bucket, momentarily alone together in 
 mid-air. He paused in the act of adjusting the finial 
 to his reerected tower. His hand was trembling 
 and he was afraid to expose his weakness. 
 
 " Let me do it," Margaret said. " Isn't it quite 
 in the middle ? " 
 
 "Oh! it'll do all right, thanks." Stephen stood 
 up as he spoke. " He ought to be back in a minute, 
 oughtn't he? " he added. 
 
 u Chris? Yes, I should think so," Margaret re- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 217 
 
 plied, still kneeling before the tower. " But you 
 haven't said yet whether you'll take me up to the top 
 of your crane." 
 
 " If you'd really like to go, I will," Stephen 
 mumbled. 
 
 " When is the best time to come? " she asked. 
 
 "Oh! any time. Not between twelve and one. 
 And I'm sometimes out in the afternoon," he said. 
 
 She was trying to make him look at her, but he 
 kept his gaze steadily on the finial of his own tower. 
 What he saw was the great bucket of the derrick 
 hovering between earth and sky. Could he ask Ben- 
 nett to take her up? 
 
 " Any particular day? " she persisted. 
 
 " I'm there every day," he said. " We knock off 
 at twelve o'clock on Saturdays." 
 
 " You're quite sure it won't be a bother? " 
 
 11 Quite sure." 
 
 Margaret was probably not at the end of her ques- 
 tions even then, but Chris's return in his dressing- 
 gown relieved Stephen from further agony. He 
 wanted passionately to look at her and dared not. 
 He believed that if he looked, he must inevitably be- 
 tray himself. He was so poignantly aware of her 
 that he felt as if his glance would convey the inti- 
 macy of an actual contact. He turned with a feeling 
 of positive relief to greet his little brother. 
 I've built it stronger this time," he said. 
 
 Chris, however, gave no manifestation of de- 
 light at the appearance of the reerected campa- 
 nile. " Thank you," he said demurely. " It looks 
 stronger. Will you tell father not to forget about 
 telling nurse. I'm going to bed, now." 
 
 He said good-night, still with the same demure 
 pre-occupied manner to the three women, and not 
 even the attempted blandishment of Margaret could 
 
218 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 arouse him to any response. But when that duty 
 was done, he returned to Stephen and said with a 
 faint flicker of excitement, Would you like to 
 come and put me to bed and tell me a story? 
 Mother said I might ask you." 
 
 Stephen agreed willingly. He had a queer feeling 
 of pity for Chris, the kind of feeling he might have 
 had for some one who had been hopelessly disap- 
 pointed in love. And he wanted to comfort him. 
 
 " I'm jealous, Chris," Margaret said. 
 
 Chris smiled tepidly as if she had made a rather 
 poor joke. 
 
 As Stephen was led out of the nursery he heard 
 Miss Crantock saying, u You see, he meant to get his 
 own way, somehow, and he got it." 
 
 Chris heard, too, and looked up with suddenly 
 bright eyes at Stephen. M I did, didn't I? " he said 
 triumphantly. 
 
 Stephen found something a little uncanny in the 
 deliberate plotting by a child of six. 
 
 The story-telling, however, proved a great suc- 
 cess, and Stephen was late for supper. 
 
 Old Edwardes appeared at supper. He had ex- 
 cused himself from the " At Home " on the ground 
 that he was getting too old for a crowd. And after 
 they went up into the drawing-room, he and Stephen 
 drifted into a corner together and remained there for 
 the greater part of the evening. They had a com- 
 mon impulse to isolate themselves; the old man be- 
 cause he found that society tired him, the young one 
 because he only dared to look at Margaret from a 
 safe distance. 
 
 Cecilia made no attempt to entice them out of 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 219 
 
 their seclusion but now and again she glanced in their 
 direction and favored them with a tplerant smile. 
 Stephen was glad that she should not interfere with 
 him, equally glad that she did not resent his with- 
 drawal. Nevertheless he wondered if she had any 
 particular motive in permitting it. He was, he 
 found, unusually alert in his observation of her 
 moods. He had a sense of having behaved badly to 
 her ; and he was sure that she would not approve of 
 that appointment with Margaret at the works. 
 
 Presently Threlfall went to the piano and began 
 to play some new music he had just discovered, and 
 afterwards Margaret sang. She had a pleasant 
 voice, with a limited compass and not much power, 
 but very true and sweet. 
 
 And while she was singing Stephen completely sur- 
 rendered himself, although the very completeness of 
 his surrender put her further away from him than 
 ever. He yielded himself with sorrow and a sense 
 of final abandonment; approaching the idea of love 
 with the certainty that for him it must mean immola- 
 tion. Yet there were moments in which the thought 
 of absolute sacrifice presented itself as a solution of 
 all difficulties. He pictured for himself a lifetime of 
 devotion seeking for no return. He saw her married 
 to some unrealized husband, the mother of children, 
 and himself silently, distantly adoring her as the 
 perfect ideal, cherishing her image in his outer soli- 
 tude. That solution was, indeed, an infinitely sad 
 one but was at least free from bitterness or frustra- 
 tion; and the sadness had a quality of ecstasy. In 
 imagination he resisted with consummate ease the 
 most urgent temptation to lure him from his ascetic 
 worship. 
 
 All the shape of that fantasy was due, no doubt, 
 to the influence of the music, but the effect of it per- 
 
220 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 sisted and calmed him until the end of the evening. 
 Old Edwardes was nodding, and Stephen was not 
 called upon to shatter the delicate texture of his 
 dream by making conversation. The mood, indeed, 
 might have lasted until he met Margaret again, had 
 it not been that another human being intruded vio- 
 lently into his field of vision and destroyed the pat- 
 tern of his thought. 
 
 The car had come for Margaret and her sister; 
 they had said good-by, Margaret with a brief 
 parting reminder to Stephen, concerning her visit to 
 the works and gone out of the room, when Cecilia 
 suddenly snatched a piece of music from the piano, 
 and said to Stephen, 
 
 14 Oh! take this down to them, dear; I promised 
 they should have it. Make haste ; they haven't gone, 
 we should have heard the car start." 
 
 And not until Stephen saw the grouping of Mar- 
 garet and Threlfall in the hall did he realize that 
 the latter had left the drawing-room. 
 
 In itself, their attitude was not compromising, and 
 they did not move apart when Stephen came into 
 view at the bend of the stairs. But the sight of 
 them standing there so close together, instantly pre- 
 sented to him a new and brilliantly illuminating 
 aspect of the whole situation so far as his mother 
 was concerned. It was incredible that Threlfall 
 could be making love to Margaret, yet incredible as 
 it was, Stephen accepted it from that moment as a 
 fact. He remembered Cecilia's tone and expression 
 as she had appealed to her husband's judgment in 
 the question of Margaret's beauty. He remembered 
 Threlfall's slightly embarrassed reply. He found 
 an explanation of Cecilia's action in sending him 
 down with the probably unnecessary song. 
 
 And in one swift moment of realization Stephen 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 221 
 
 knew that he hated Threlfall, had always hated him. 
 He had robbed him of his mother seven years ago, 
 and now, once more, he appeared as the thief and 
 the seducer. In that moment vanished, also, 
 Stephen's chaste resolves, made under the influence 
 of Margaret's singing. He had been willing then to 
 surrender the unattainable to some imaginary lover, 
 but he found himself passionately unwilling to 
 surrender her to Christopher Threlfall. In that 
 violent reaction, Stephen may still have seen him- 
 self in the character of the impersonal deliverer, 
 but he was quite definitely resolved that he would 
 save her. 
 
 Something of that resolve must have been visible 
 in his face and manner as he came quietly down the 
 stairs, for Threlfall turned to him with an impatient 
 frown. 
 
 " Hallo ! Stephen," he said. " Are you going, al- 
 ready? " 
 
 " No, my mother sent me down with this song for 
 Miss Weatherley," Stephen replied, his voice and 
 expression unconsciously mimicking his rival's. 
 
 " Song? " queried Margaret sweetly. 
 
 11 She said she had promised it to you," Stephen 
 explained. 
 
 " Oh! thanks so much," Margaret said, accepting 
 the proffered score and leaving it delightfully un- 
 certain whether or not she had remembered the 
 promise in question. 
 
 Threlfall was leaning against the hall table. 
 " That's all right," he said, in a tone of dismissal. 
 
 Stephen, however, refused to go; though he had, 
 obviously, nothing further to say. 
 
 " I'll come out to the car with you," Threlfall 
 said to Margaret. 
 
 She had so far worn an air of hesitation, as if she 
 
222 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 realized the true meaning of this potentially dramatic 
 situation, but was unable to make any personal de- 
 cision. And when Threlfall spoke she seemed to run 
 away from this demand for exercising and displaying 
 her choice rather than from either of the two men 
 who were soliciting her favor. 
 
 11 Oh ! no, please don't," she said, breathlessly; and 
 she had slipped out of the hall door and closed it 
 something too definitely behind her, before Threlfall 
 could protest. It would have been undignified to 
 follow her, and he had not the temperament that can 
 forget appearances. He proved that by his imme- 
 diate treatment of Stephen. 
 
 "Coming upstairs again?" he asked with a 
 smile that dismissed the short scene in the hall, as 
 the most trivial of incidents. 
 
 Stephen had not the same powers of recovery. 
 11 I don't know," he said sulkily. u I haven't said 
 good-night." 
 
 " Come along, then," Threlfall replied, almost 
 gayly, and led the way upstairs. 
 
 Stephen followed him with a feeling of having 
 been ingeniously thwarted. 
 
 5 
 
 As he walked home to Camberwell, he tried to 
 get everything quite clear in his mind in the light of 
 the recent revelation. He found, however, that 
 nothing was clear except the certainty that he must 
 save both Margaret and Cecilia from the disaster of 
 Threlfall's furtive, and, as Stephen saw it, quite 
 dastardly amorousness. The thought of that made 
 him furious. He could not compare it with the now 
 forgiven infidelity of Cecilia seven years earlier. He 
 saw this threatened treachery of Threlfall's as some 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 223 
 
 kind of absolute; a veritable sin against the Holy 
 Ghost. His mind swayed vehemently between his 
 condemnations of the infidelity to Cecilia and the 
 threat to Margaret. And each of these aspects 
 aggravated the wickedness of the other. He was 
 so sure of the rectitude of his judgment, that it never 
 occurred to him that he might be jealous. 
 
VI 
 
 STEPHEN had to endure more than two days' 
 inactivity before he was granted any oppor- 
 tunity to begin his active interference with the base 
 schemes of his step-father. Mr. Dickinson had 
 come up to town on Monday morning and he kept 
 Stephen even more busy than usual until late on 
 Tuesday evening. 
 
 He had had a qualm of uneasiness when his em- 
 ployer appeared unexpectedly at the Embankment 
 works. His first thought had been of the possibility 
 of Margaret's visit that same morning, and he had 
 had something of the feeling of a schoolboy in fear 
 of disgrace. Afterwards, as he and James Dickin- 
 son went over the building, he had realized the ab- 
 surdity of his fear. If she came, it would not mat- 
 ter. There was no reason why he should not invite 
 people to see the works, especially such appropriate 
 and probable people as the Weatherleys. Neverthe- 
 less he hoped that Margaret would not come while 
 Mr. Dickinson was there. 
 
 Stephen was down in the basement on Wednesday 
 morning when Bennett came to inform him that there 
 was " a young lady in the orfice asking after him." 
 Bennett's manner simply bristled with tact as he 
 made the announcement. He might have been 
 warning Stephen that there was a warrant out 
 against him. 
 
 224 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 225 
 
 "What had I better say, Mr. Kirkwood?" he 
 asked, as if he were quite willing to abet Stephen's 
 escape, if necessary. 
 
 " Is it Miss Weatherley, do you know? " Stephen 
 said, as coolly as he could. Now that his hour had 
 come he would willingly have postponed it. 
 
 " She didn't give no name," replied the conspira- 
 torial Bennett. " She's a very good-looking young 
 lady with dark eyes, and she just came in and arst 
 for you." 
 
 11 All right. I'll come up," Stephen said, and 
 added by way of self-defense, " It's Miss Weather- 
 ley, the daughter of Dr. Weatherley who used to 
 be at the King's School. I I met her the other 
 day and she wants to go up in the crane to see the 
 view. I suppose I can take her up in the bucket? " 
 
 Bennett rubbed his chin, looking rather shocked. 
 11 We been loadin' joists, all the mornin'," he said 
 thoughtfully. " P'raps I'd better 'ave the bucket 
 rubbed round. You don't think as she'll be fright- 
 ened, Mr. Kirkwood? " 
 
 Stephen shrugged his shoulders with a pretense of 
 indifference. " I'll come up," he repeated. " Yes, 
 you might see that the bucket's fairly clean, will 
 you?" 
 
 As he climbed up from the basement, he realized 
 that his mistake had been in promising to take Mar- 
 garet on the crane. This was why he had had that 
 sense of wrong-doing under the eye of Mr. Dickin- 
 son. It was perfectly reasonable and right to take 
 occasional visitors over the works, but this other af- 
 fair was just a lark, and the men could only regard 
 it as such. 
 
 Stephen entered the office with a stern determina- 
 tion to dissuade Margaret from the adventure. 
 
 She greeted him with a touch of nervousness. 
 
226 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " I've come, you see, Mr. Kirkwood," she said, of- 
 fering him her hand. " I hope I haven't chosen a 
 bad time? Am I a nuisance? " 
 
 He was glad that she was wearing gloves. He 
 had come straight into the office from climbing a 
 thirty-foot ladder, and he knew that his own hands 
 were soiled and gritty. " Oh ! no, it's quite a good 
 time," he said, "but I'm afraid there's nothing much 
 to see, yet." He had a wild hope that if he made no 
 reference to the crane, she might be glad of an 
 excuse to postpone her adventure. 
 
 Her answer left him in no doubt about her atti- 
 tude towards that side of the entertainment. 
 
 " Well, I didn't really come to see anything to- 
 day, did I ? " she returned. " Unless it was the view 
 of London. You promised to take me up to the top 
 of nowhere in a bucket, didn't you? I don't know 
 why it should sound so much more prosaic than a 
 broomstick, but it does." 
 
 Stephen frowned. " You're quite sure you want 
 to? " he asked. 
 
 "Quite sure," she affirmed confidently, although 
 she was unquestionably nervous and excited. I 
 mean to go up in an aeroplane, the first chance I get, 
 so this will be a kind of preparation." 
 
 Still Stephen hesitated. He wished, now, that he 
 had entered into a league with Bennett. He might 
 so >easily have arranged to receive a message that 
 the crane was out of order or something. But even 
 as the thought crossed his mind, he saw through the 
 open door, the great shape of the bucket drawing up 
 from the basement, lifting and threading its way with 
 a deliberate and solemn certainty towards the plat- 
 form in front of the office. 
 
 Margaret caught the direction of his glance, and 
 joined him by the door. " Is this it, coming? " she 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 227 
 
 asked with a little break in her voice, and laid her 
 hand on his arm as if for support. 
 
 " There's no earthly reason why you should go, 
 if you'd sooner not," Stephen said. But he had 
 changed his mind again. He wanted now to go up 
 with her in that great iron receptacle which was al- 
 ready almost at their feet; he wanted to be if only 
 for so short a space of time, her support and pro- 
 tector. He did not care what the workmen thought 
 or said. 
 
 " No, no, I wouldn't sooner not," she protested 
 eagerly. " You will take me, won't you? " 
 
 He nodded quickly. " All right, wait one mo- 
 ment," he said. " I'll just get one of the office 
 chairs for you to get down by, and, I say, do you want 
 to go as high as we can? " 
 
 Please," she said breathlessly. 
 
 " Very well, I'll just tell the engineer," Stephen 
 replied with the same effect of haste. " We've got 
 a telephone up to him from the office." 
 
 He returned in a few seconds, carrying the chair. 
 The bucket had paused with its upper edge some 
 couple of feet higher than the platform in front of 
 the office and now hung, slowly swaying and turn- 
 ing with an appearance of vast and turgid deliber- 
 ation. 
 
 Stephen lowered his chair into it. " Just for you 
 to climb down by," he explained, " and it'll be use- 
 ful to stand on when you want to get the view. 
 You'll hardly be able to see over the edge when 
 you're standing on the bottom of the thing." 
 
 Margaret looked up at the great jib of the crane 
 that now hung almost horizontally, above them. 
 The wire rope seemed to dwindle into a mere thread 
 before it reached that distantly supporting beam. 
 And far away on the top of the staging she could 
 
228 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 just discern the tiny figure of the watching engineer 
 to whom she was about to entrust her destiny. 
 Then as the contrivance slowly turned past her she 
 boldly laid her hand on the sloping chain of the 
 suspending apparatus, stepped up on to the iron rim 
 before her and climbed lightly down, first on to the 
 chair and thence to the bottom of the bucket. 
 
 " All right," Stephen shouted up to the stag- 
 ing, and putting his hand on the edge of the 
 bucket vaulted in beside her with a single move- 
 ment. 
 
 Far away in the sky she heard the racket of the 
 engine that was taking her away from earth, and 
 looking up she could see the staging slowly falling 
 down to her, and the raw heads of the processional 
 steel stanchions, dipping below the limits of her small 
 horizon. 
 
 " We're swinging a bit, not much," said the quiet 
 voice of her companion. " We shall steady up as we 
 go higher and the cable gets shorter." 
 
 " How high are we going? " Margaret asked. 
 She had had a moment of intense trepidation as they 
 started, but now all sense of fear had left her. 
 She found herself suddenly lifted out of the world 
 and utterly alone as it seemed with this quiet com- 
 manding man who had authority over a whole army 
 of workmen. It was certainly a great adventure, 
 but it no longer seemed to her dangerous. The 
 clatter of the engine had come nearer, but now she 
 could see nothing above her but a rapidly shortening 
 length of cable, and the great arm of the derrick 
 that had an effect of peering down at them, in- 
 quisitively. 
 
 " Well, as high as we can get," Stephen said. 
 " When we've run up as near as we can to the pulley, 
 the man will raise the jib till it's nearly upright. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 229 
 
 When we stop, you can get up on the chair and look 
 over." 
 
 Margaret smiled at him with a charming air of 
 companionship. " Ripping of you to let me come ! " 
 she said. 
 
 Stephen hastily diverted the conversation from 
 that topic. He could not tell her that he was will- 
 ing to risk his situation or his life to gratify her 
 whim; and nothing less than that statement could 
 adequately express him. 
 
 " We're up to the pulley," he said awkwardly. 
 " Now the jib will begin to rise." 
 
 As he spoke, the new movement began, and it 
 seemed to Margaret that she and the bucket and that 
 inquisitive nose of the derrick were all going straight 
 up into the sky together, while the crane's great 
 arm was slowly following, dipping and approaching 
 them. 
 
 " How big it is," she commented, observing this 
 approach. And it looks such a delicate thing from 
 below." 
 
 Stephen nodded and glanced with a touch of 
 anxiety at the now almost vertical jib. They were 
 high enough. If they went any further the bucket 
 would begin to tip. He hoped the engineer was not 
 going to play any of his larks. You never knew with 
 these chaps. He would not have cared for him- 
 self. They had tried these tricks on him before, and 
 had never yet succeeded in scaring him. But it was 
 a different matter with Margaret. He must call 
 down and tell him to stop. Without a second 
 thought, he laid hold of the rim of the bucket and 
 pulled himself with a quick easy lift to a sitting pos- 
 ture on the edge. 
 
 The engineer, however, was not up to any of his 
 larks and his engine had already stopped. 
 
230 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " It's all right, now," Stephen said, looking down 
 at Margaret. " Do you feel like standing up on the 
 chair and looking round? " 
 
 He was surprised to see that all the color had 
 gone from her face. 
 
 11 You're not frightened? " he asked. " Do you 
 want to go down again? " 
 
 " No, no. I'm all right," she said. " I'll climb 
 up. You gave me such a shock when you jumped 
 up on to the edge like that. I I thought you were 
 going over. Do be careful. Is it safe to sit 
 there?" 
 
 Stephen smiled reassuringly. Until she had put 
 this question, he had not thought of " showing off." 
 Now, he became conscious that his complete disre- 
 gard of heights might assume, in her eyes, an aspect 
 of courage. 
 
 11 Oh ! this is safe enough," he said. " I've never 
 been giddy yet. You have to get used to heights in 
 this trade." 
 
 But Margaret still hesitated to climb up on to the 
 chair. The sight of him there poised on the rim of 
 the bucket gave her a feeling of insecurity. 
 
 11 It's awfully silly of me," she apologized. " But 
 would you mind holding on to that chain? " 
 
 He obeyed her at once, and if she had needed any 
 further confirmation of his perfect indifference to 
 fear, she would have found it in this instant com- 
 pliance with her wish. The braggart would have 
 refused, doubting his own courage and seeking fur- 
 ther opportunity to prove it. 
 
 Margaret caught her breath with a little gasp 
 when she took her first sight of the world she had 
 left below her. She had not anticipated quite that 
 effect she received of hanging perilously over the 
 solid fabric of neighboring roofs and chimneyi. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 231 
 
 The tall building across the road was near enough to 
 lead her eyes down to the canon of the narrow street, 
 busy with the traffic of tiny foreshortened humanity, 
 of unexpectedly oblong little carts and bolster-backed 
 horses. 
 
 She lifted her head from that scrutiny and shut 
 her eyes, clutching the red rim of her cage with both 
 hands. 
 
 " Giddy? " Stephen asked, anxiously watching her. 
 
 " Just for a minute," she said. " I'll be all right 
 in a moment." 
 
 " You can't fall out, you know," he comforted 
 her. 
 
 11 I know I can't," she said, " but I felt as if I 
 simply must throw myself down. I'm getting better, 
 now. It is a wonderful view, isn't it? " 
 
 " Pretty good," he admitted. " But it's too hazy 
 to see far to-day. You ought to come here just be- 
 fore rain." 
 
 She schooled herself to look about her, staring 
 down over the trees on the Embankment, at the 
 dwarfed profession of Blackfriars Bridge. 
 
 " We've got an audience," her companion re- 
 marked. 
 
 " An audience?" she repeated. She wished he 
 wouldn't talk. She believed that she could manage 
 quite well, if he would leave her alone. 
 
 " Quite a crowd of people watching us from the 
 Embankment," he said. 
 
 As he spoke he moved his position to indicate 
 the crowd he had mentioned; and the iron receptacle 
 which was for the time being Margaret's only link 
 with the solid earth, sluggishly swayed. 
 
 She gripped the rim of it in a panic, and then with 
 a slight feeling of sickness compelled herself to look 
 down at the stippling of pink faces that stared up at 
 
232 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 her from the remote background of the distant pave- 
 ment. 
 
 That feat, however, was the limit of her endur- 
 ance. 
 
 " I think I should like to go back, now," she said 
 and climbed down with a thankful sense of recovered 
 safety into the blindness afforded by the walls of the 
 bucket. 
 
 Stephen still maintained his seat on the rim, lean- 
 ing over, now, and shouting down his instructions to 
 the engineer. 
 
 Margaret crouched in her chair and kept her gaze 
 on the iron floor below her. She was aware of their 
 movement, of the creak of the jib, the faint grind of 
 the cable, and a sense of steady falling, but none of 
 these things affected her so long as she did not look 
 
 She was surprised when her cicerone's voice hailed 
 her cheerfully with the announcement, " Here we are. 
 Hold on a minute. We've got rather a swing on. 
 I'll try and steady her before you get out." 
 
 She looked up to see him hanging fixedly on to one 
 of the chains that connected bucket and cable, and 
 being dragged along the platform in his effort to 
 counteract the slow swing of the enormous pendulum. 
 Once or twice the bucket bumped against the edge of 
 the platform, with the deep powerful thud of a 
 vessel against a pier. 
 
 " All right, now," Stephen panted. " Can I help 
 you? " 
 
 She was glad to take the hand he held out, and 
 when she had safely gained the platform she grasped 
 the comforting solidity of his firm arm. Her legs 
 were trembling, and the flooring under her feet 
 seemed to be oscillating with the slow deliberate 
 swing of that horrible bucket. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 233 
 
 " Come into the office and sit down for a few 
 minutes," Stephen said. 
 
 Her giddiness passed almost immediately and gave 
 place to a feeling of exhilaration. 
 
 " I'm tremendously glad I went," she said, sitting 
 on the edge of the office table and swinging her feet. 
 u It was a great adventure." 
 
 Stephen surreptitiously wiped his hands on the in- 
 side of his coat-pockets. He was still warm from 
 his struggle with the pendulum. 
 
 :< I'm afraid it made you a bit dizzy," he said. 
 
 " Yes, it did," she admitted. " But that's quite 
 gone, now, and I feel as if I'd discovered the North 
 Pole or something. It isn't everybody who has been 
 up to the very top of a thing like that, is it? I shall 
 boast about it for weeks." 
 
 " It's just possible," he said, " that you're the first 
 woman who has ever done it. I've never heard of 
 any other woman doing it, before." 
 
 " And you think simply nothing of it," she com- 
 mented on a note of intense admiration. 
 
 " Used to it, you see," he explained. 
 
 " But you weren't always used to it," she said. 
 " Weren't you dizzy, at first on scaffoldings and 
 things?" 
 
 Stephen searched his memory. " I don't remem- 
 ber," he said. " I suppose I've always had a good 
 head for heights. I remember going up the tower 
 of the Cathedral at Medboro' when I was about ten, 
 and sitting on the battlements." 
 
 " I suppose boys are different," she concluded; but 
 she was thinking less of the difference between the 
 sexes in this matter of a " head for heights " than of 
 
234 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 the remarkable difference between Stephen and all 
 the other men she knew. 
 
 M Well, I'm interrupting your work," she con- 
 tinued. " I ought to be going, oughtn't I ? " 
 
 " It's all right," Stephen mumbled. " The men 
 have knocked off for the dinner hour. The whistle 
 went while we were up on the derrick." 
 
 It may have been u all right " as he had said, but 
 Margaret found that she had nothing more to say. 
 They had come to the crisis of an embarrassed and as 
 it seemed a significant pause. It was as if they had 
 but just realized the fact that they were there and 
 talking to each other. 
 
 " The dinner-hour? " ejaculated Margaret, clutch- 
 ing at an excuse. " Then I must be getting back on 
 my own account if not on yours. It was frightfully 
 good of you to take me up, Mr. Kirkwood. I've 
 really enjoyed it immensely, although I was so silly 
 as to get giddy. Thank you ever so much for taking 
 such a lot of fcother." 
 
 She had got down from the table and was talking 
 herself out of the office. Stephen followed her 
 quietly to open the door in the hoarding that gave on 
 to the street. And when she reached the safety of 
 the busy pavement again, the courage that had so 
 unexpectedly deserted her, returned, and prompted 
 her to say, 
 
 14 Won't you come to see us in Bryanston Square 
 sometime ? I'm sure my father would be glad if you 
 would. He's very keen on talking to his old pupils. 
 We know quite a lot." 
 
 " Thanks, I should like to," Stephen said. 
 
 She held out her hand and smiled as she said 
 " Good-by." 
 
 He took her hand as if it had been made of egg- 
 shell china. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 235 
 
 She left him confirmed in her opinion that he was 
 different from any other man she had ever met. She 
 had been fully aware of the provocative quality of 
 her smile. Any other man would, at least, have 
 pressed her hand. 
 
 Stephen watched her until she turned the corner 
 into Tudor Street, but she did not look back. He 
 was being very stern and determined with himself. 
 He had no intention of permitting himself to be en- 
 couraged by her condescension in visiting the works, 
 or by the thrilling intimacy of her smile. He was 
 quite sure that he was not going to be foolish about 
 her. He was in love with her, of course. He could 
 not deny that. But only in the hopeless, infatuated 
 way, in which a clerk might be in love with a society 
 beauty whose photograph he had seen in a weekly 
 paper. He meant to keep that fact clearly before 
 him ; and saw no reason why he should not allow him- 
 self to worship her presence wherever opportunity 
 offered. He would, for instance, accept that invi- 
 tation to Bryanston Square. 
 
 A single word of a conversation he overheard as 
 he returned to the office, stiffened him still further in 
 his determination to keep himself well in hand. 
 Gray, his junior clerk, was talking to Bennett as 
 Stephen approached, and he caught the one word 
 " sparkler." He had no doubt as to its application. 
 Every man on the place was probably discussing the 
 same subject at this moment; and in their several 
 manners of speech most of them would attempt some 
 variant of Gray's epithet. And it was just this 
 aspect of her that he must never allow himself to 
 forget. In this even, dull world that smelt of mor- 
 tar and stone and rusty iron, a world that was harsh, 
 hard and sour; she sparkled. She was rare 
 and exotic, destined to sit and rule in the high select 
 
236 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 places of society. He must before all things re- 
 member that : he must never let her imagine by any 
 word or sign that he ever aspired to do more than 
 adore her from a respectful distance. He could do 
 that, and still protect her from the infamies of Chris- 
 topher Threlfall. 
 
 Stephen went to see his mother the following 
 evening. 
 
 This was his first visit since Sunday and he in- 
 ferred from her greeting that she considered her- 
 self neglected. He decided to put that matter right 
 at once. 
 
 11 Mr. Dickinson has been up in town this week," 
 he began as soon as he had sat down. " And I've 
 had a pretty thick time. He took me out to dinner 
 on Monday, and on Tuesday I didn't get home till 
 after nine." 
 
 Cecilia sighed wearily and leaned back in her 
 chair. She had received him in her own little sitting- 
 room on the second floor, and had already confessed 
 to being tired. 
 
 "And Wednesday?" she asked carelessly. 
 
 "Well, I was fairly late getting home; it was 
 after eight, and I felt too fagged to go out again," 
 he explained. 
 
 " I suppose you had a lot of lost time to make 
 up," she suggested. 
 
 " Not that I know of," he said. " Why lost time, 
 mother?" 
 
 " Taking your visitor up on the crane, and so 
 on," Cecilia replied with an air of weary disgust. 
 
 "Oh! that! How did you know?" Stephen 
 asked, attempting a smile and trying very hard not 
 to be at all embarrassed. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 237 
 
 " She was here, this afternoon," Cecilia said. 
 " She left a note for you." 
 
 Stephen instinctively suppressed his desire to 
 clamor for an immediate sight of this astounding 
 treasure. 
 
 " Oh! And she told you all about it, did she? " 
 he asked, with a covert glance at the mantelpiece. 
 
 Cecilia nodded, and put her hand up to her eyes. 
 " The note is over there on my bureau," she said, as 
 if the mere effort of speaking were too much for 
 her. " For Heaven's sake, get it and read it. I 
 shall never have your attention until that's done 
 with, and I want to talk to you." 
 
 "I there's no hurry about the note," Stephen 
 returned stoically; convinced in his own mind that he 
 was carrying the thing off very well. " What do 
 you want to talk to me about, mother? " 
 
 She was still covering her eyes with her right 
 hand, and waved her left vaguely in the direction of 
 the bureau, without speaking. 
 
 Stephen pretended to accept the gesture as a com- 
 mand and got up and went over to the bureau with 
 an effect of amused submission to her whim. 
 
 The note lay on the blotting pad, addressed in a 
 rather girlish hand to " Stephen Kirkwood Esq.," 
 and he hesitated a moment before he opened it. If 
 he had been alone, he would have hesitated still 
 longer. He would have liked to turn the envelope 
 over in his hands, and gaze at it as at some inestim- 
 able treasure, before he violated its perfection by the 
 brutal strength of his rough fingers. 
 
 The contents of the note were very simple, and it 
 had apparently been written in haste. It ran: 
 
 " Dear Mr. Kirkwood: 
 
 " My father tells me that one of your old school- 
 
238 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 fellows, Mr. Fletton Hall, is coming to tea with us 
 on Saturday. Won't you come and meet him ? 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 11 Margaret Weatherley." 
 
 Stephen carefully replaced the letter in the en- 
 velope and put it in his breast pocket. 
 
 11 There's a waste-paper basket over there if you 
 want one," Cecilia's voice said maliciously. 
 
 " I'm keeping it for the sake of the address," 
 Stephen replied, although there was no address given 
 in Margaret's note. Miss Weatherley has asked 
 me to go to tea there on Saturday to meet young 
 Hall Fletton Hall she calls him. I suppose that's 
 secundus, his initials were R. F." 
 
 He was puzzled by some unplaced association with 
 the complete name, Fletton Hall; some association 
 of recent date that had nothing to do with the King's 
 School. 
 
 Cecilia, however, was not interested in young Hall. 
 
 " Shall you go? " she asked. 
 
 Stephen returned to the chair opposite his 
 mother. He was no longer afraid of her possible 
 scrutiny. He had a feeling of unexpected security, 
 of being able to talk of Miss Weatherley and her 
 invitation without embarrassment. 
 
 14 I expect so," he said with a nonchalance that 
 displayed but the smallest hint of exaggeration. " I 
 should like to see Dr. Weatherley, again and 
 young Hall." 
 
 " And Margaret? " queried Cecilia. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I should like to see her again, too," he 
 admitted boldly. " She's awfully pretty, of course." 
 
 Cecilia threw off her air of lassitude, and sat up 
 in one of her characteristic attitudes, suddenly alert, 
 a little strained. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 239 
 
 " I suppose you realize what you're doing, 
 Stephen?" she said. " You realize, I mean, that 
 there's no chance of your marrying her? " 
 
 He had affirmed that fact to himself often enough, 
 but it shocked him to hear it stated by his mother. 
 
 " Of course I do," he said without conviction. 
 
 " I'm not maligning her, you know," Cecilia went 
 on quickly. " I think she's quite a nice little thing 
 in some ways, but she has had her head turned by 
 too much admiration. From all kinds of men 
 quite celebrated men, some of them." 
 
 11 Yes," Stephen agreed uncomfortably. He was 
 thinking of his stepfather, and did not like to look 
 up at his mother, lest she should guess his thought. 
 
 " Christopher is quite silly about her," Cecilia 
 continued, ruthlessly thrusting aside all obstacles. 
 
 " Dr. Threlfall? " Stephen tried feebly. 
 
 She dismissed that evasion with silent contempt. 
 " Had you guessed that? " she asked. 
 
 " Do you mean . . .? " he began, but she inter- 
 rupted him impatiently. 
 
 " There's no need to quibble, my dear boy," she 
 said. " I'm not jealous. In fact, I should be quite 
 glad if Margaret would lead him on a little. It 
 would do him good to find out at the end that she's 
 not in the least in love with him. For she isn't. 
 It may be a dreadful shock to Christopher when he 
 finds out, but she thinks of him as quite an old man. 
 She admires him, thinks him quite handsome no 
 doubt, but she would be horrified if he really made 
 love to her. . . ." 
 
 " Do you believe she would? " Stephen put in 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Why do you ask me like that?" she returned 
 sharply; and then as he hesitated to reply, she said 
 " Have you seen anything? " 
 
240 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " No, no, I haven't," he protested. 
 
 " What were they doing last Sunday night, when 
 you took that song down? she asked. 
 
 " Nothing," Stephen said. 
 
 14 Then why do you think she is in love with him? " 
 Cecilia persisted. 
 
 " I don't," Stephen replied. 
 
 " But you think she might be? " 
 
 " How can I possibly tell, mother? " he defended 
 himself. 
 
 " I wish you would tell me what it was you saw 
 last Sunday night, that made you suspicious," she 
 said, returning to the real point of her attack. 
 
 Stephen could not resist the pressure of her de- 
 termination. He got out of his chair and began 
 to walk up and down the little length of the boudoir. 
 He remembered with a sense of reliving the past, 
 how he had in almost exactly the same way tried to 
 avoid his sisters' pertinent enquiries about his mother 
 in the room over the shop in Long Causeway. 
 
 " I didn't see anything," he said. " But they 
 were standing rather close together as I turned the 
 corner of the stairs, and I guessed all of a sudden, 
 that there might be something. They weren't a 
 bit confused or anything of that sort; but you'd put 
 the idea into my head the first night I .came here, and 
 then I thought it might be possible that . . ." 
 
 " She isn't," Cecilia declared. " But apparently 
 you are." She disregarded the too ingenuous 
 "What?" that he inevitably interpolated, continu- 
 ing rapidly, " But I don't want you to be spoiled, 
 Stephen. I don't want you to fall head over ears 
 in love with her, and make yourself utterly miserable. 
 She isn't worth it. No woman is, unless she is will- 
 ing to give herself up body and soul. And I don't 
 fancy that Margaret is one of that sort." 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 241 
 
 She had but repeated his own argument in another 
 form, but instead of stiffening him, her speech gave 
 him an odd pleasure. This open discussion of the 
 possibility of his falling in love with Margaret, 
 brought with it a heartening air of reality. It is 
 true that Cecilia's recognition of the probabilities 
 still left Margaret hopelessly beyond his reach, but 
 it no longer seemed a vain absurdity for him to 
 adore her openly. He felt that he had been given 
 a license to worship her without disguising his emo- 
 tion even from herself. 
 
 " I know, mother, really, I do. I understand all 
 that," he said. " I know I should never have any 
 sort of chance with her." 
 
 " Then hadn't you better cure yourself of your in- 
 fatuation as soon as possible?" Cecilia replied. 
 " Why go and see her again on Saturday, for 
 instance? " 
 
 Her tone was not unkind, although it could hardly 
 be called sympathetic, but she was, Stephen knew, 
 keeping something in reserve. He guessed that she 
 was willing to discuss the subject with him for just 
 so long as he could treat it quietly and remotely; 
 but that she shrank from hearing any emotional pro- 
 test of his love for any woman other than herself. 
 
 " I think I'm safe," he hazarded, after a short 
 pause. 
 
 " You've only seen her twice, so far," Cecilia 
 began, as if she were going to show further cause 
 for his immediate relinquishment of the pursuit, but 
 he interrupted her without a thought for the further 
 complications in which he was involving himself. 
 
 " Oh ! much oftener than that," he said. 
 
 " When? " she asked sharply. 
 
 " Why at the King's School," he said. 
 
 11 You don't mean to tell me that you were in 
 
242 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 love with her then," she commented. " I should 
 have known ! " And then evidently recalling all the 
 old life at Medboro', speculating and guessing as she 
 talked, she went on. Unless it was after I went. 
 But didn't they, Mrs. Weatherley and the children 
 go away, too, that term? You couldn't have . . . 
 Stephen, when was it? Just a day or two before I 
 went away? What happened? Did you speak to 
 her?" 
 
 He chose to concentrate on the last question, 
 " No, I never spoke to her till I met her here last 
 Sunday," he said. 
 
 " But you had made eyes at each other? Was 
 that it? In the Park Road or somewhere?" 
 Cecilia's tone betrayed excitement. She seemed to 
 be on the verge of some important discovery. 
 
 Stephen had forgotten his shrewd inference with 
 regard to his mother's distaste for hearing of his 
 love for another woman. He was reveling in the 
 joys of confession. All this talk seemed to bring 
 Margaret so near to him. He could almost per- 
 suade himself, at the moment, that he and she had 
 been in some wonderful manner pledged by their 
 youthful recognitions of each other. 
 
 11 She smiled, once, that was all," he said foolishly. 
 11 In the dining-room at the School. We were 
 practically alone, there. And she remembered it 
 here, the other day. She mentioned it." 
 
 " But when was that, Stephen? " Cecilia asked 
 eagerly. " Do you remember the exact day? " 
 
 For his present purpose, he remembered it all 
 too exactly. 
 
 " It was the day before you went away," he 
 said. 
 
 For two or three minutes, he continued slowly to 
 pace the carpet, rapt in his own thoughts. The 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 243 
 
 memory of that one insignificant incident in the 
 King's School dining-room was becoming to him a 
 kind of holdfast and solace. He magnified its im- 
 portance. In retrospect it glowed with a peculiar 
 and wonderful light. He believed that it marked 
 the one high and illuminating moment of life in 
 which he had caught a passing sight of the essential 
 reality. 
 
 He was haled out of these intoxicating reflections 
 by the growing consciousness that his mother's si- 
 lence had been unduly prolonged. 
 
 She was sitting very upright and still, staring 
 straight out before her with an expression of intense 
 concentration. As yet there was no suggestion of 
 judgment in her face, but rather of recollection, of 
 analysis; and of an impending and distressing reali- 
 zation. 
 
 As Stephen stopped and looked at her, she drew 
 in her breath with a deep and sustained inspiration, 
 as if she sought by that means to renew and uphold 
 her strength. 
 
 " Is anything the matter, mother?" Stephen 
 asked. " You don't feel faint, do you? " 
 
 She turned her head, then, and stared at him with 
 the cool, detached glance of a judge listening to the 
 defense of some unimportant prisoner. 
 
 " Was it, really, the day before I went away? " 
 she said as if no interval had elapsed since he had 
 marked that critical date. " The day that I had 
 my organ lesson in the Cathedral, and the Bells 
 came in after supper, and I came up to your 
 room and told you everything about Christopher and 
 me? What a lot of things happened on that day, 
 Stephen. Do you believe in Fate?" 
 
 The awful detachment of her tone made him 
 shiver, it had the aloofness of the insane. He tried 
 
244 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 instinctively to combat it by the familiar humanity 
 of a slight pettishness. 
 
 " I don't see why you should take it like this," 
 he said irritably. / didn't, when you told me that 
 you were in love." 
 
 She gave no sign of being annoyed by that daring 
 thrust. 
 
 M On the other hand you certainly gave me neither 
 sympathy nor encouragement," she remarked with a 
 cool ironical smile. 
 
 " Well, how could I under the circumstances? " 
 he returned, still maintaining his defensive note of 
 irritation. 
 
 11 Oh! the circumstances! " Cecilia ejaculated dis- 
 dainfully, as if no circumstances could be of any 
 account in this case. 
 
 Stephen stood staring at her; trying to read some 
 subtle meaning in her last sentence. 
 
 "Wasn't it just you and me?" she explained, 
 with the first ring of emotion coming into her voice. 
 " And wouldn't you have at least tried to under- 
 stand, if your silly boy's head hadn't been full of 
 some ridiculous nonsense about a child of how old? 
 twelve was she, then, or thirteen?" 
 
 " That hadn't anything to do with it," he said 
 with an effort of scorn, as though he must dismiss 
 her absurd suggestion at once, beat it down and 
 crush it out, before it had time to display itself. 
 
 " It had everything to do with it," Cecilia said 
 with an effect of definitely taking the stage. " I 
 didn't know at the time; I couldn't understand it, 
 then; but I see it now oh ! so clearly. You didn't 
 want me; quite suddenly you didn't want me any 
 more. And I knew it, though I never guessed why. 
 I thought you were jealous, at first, but afterwards 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 24s 
 
 I felt that it was more than that. I felt that it 
 was final, that I had lost you. 
 
 " I was so puzzled by that," she continued in a 
 cooler tone. I wondered if it were possible that 
 I had always been mistaken in you if you were 
 after all, just a conventional little narrow-minded 
 Kirkwood like your father and sisters, and had been 
 so shocked that it had all come out. I tried to 
 believe that. Do you remember how you came in 
 after the cricket match? I was convinced then. 
 I was sure that if you were like us, you couldn't 
 possibly be so wrapt up in your games that you hadn't 
 a thought to spare for me, just then, of all times. 
 And I tried to console myself with that idea. I kept 
 saying to myself, Oh ! Stephen's just a Kirkwood, a 
 little, shop-keeping Medboro' Kirkwood. He isn't 
 worth bothering about. 
 
 " But it wasn't that. I can see it, now. You 
 were in love, in your boy's way, with that chit at 
 the school. And you didn't want me, not then. 
 You'd have been afraid to tell me about it. 
 Wouldn't you? You'd have expected me to laugh 
 at you. So you weren't so very sorry, after all, 
 that I was going to leave you for good." 
 
 ' That isn't true," Stephen put in with conviction. 
 " I'd have done anything in the world to stop you 
 going, you know I would. Didn't I try my hardest, 
 and you only laughed at me." 
 
 " Not your hardest, at least not until it was too 
 late," she said. " Why didn't you try before? On 
 the field that afternoon? Instead of sulking and 
 mooning and then going in and making a hundred? 
 And afterwards when you came home. Did you try 
 then? You didn't, you know you didn't. You were 
 glad to be free of me." 
 
246 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen frowned and clenched his hands. He 
 could not find the defense that he felt sure must be 
 forthcoming. The accusation that he wanted to be 
 free from her, had a spice of truth that he could 
 not deny. He remembered clearly his feeling of 
 release. Yet, he was sure that there must be some 
 explanation of that. 
 
 " Weren't you, now? " she pressed him. 
 
 " It's so difficult," he said evasively. " It was 
 all so complicated. I don't know what I wanted. 
 I didn't then except that I am quite certain that I 
 didn't want you to go away with Dr. Threlfall." 
 
 " If you'd wanted to keep me, you could have 
 stopped me," she returned. " I knew it, then. 
 And I should have been glad if you had stopped me. 
 I wanted something to hold on to. I meant, I 
 always meant to hold on to you ; and then you failed 
 me." She pulled herself up, controlling the faint 
 tendency to hysteria in her voice as she went on, 
 " Queer, isn't it, Stephen, to think that if that school- 
 girl hadn't happened to smile at you, that day, I 
 might still have been living at Medboro'? " 
 
 He caught at that suggestion as a means of escape 
 from the responsibility she was steadily thrusting on 
 him. " But, mother," he said, " You're glad, now, 
 anyway, that you're not living there still. As things 
 have turned out, it has been all for the best in a way, 
 hasn't it?" 
 
 She paused for a moment, watching him atten- 
 tively. " Well, yes, of course," she said lightly. 
 " I'm certainly better off, as I am." 
 
 It was not a convincing answer, and Stephen real- 
 ized the suggestion of some vital reserve which she 
 might or might not be willing to reveal if he pressed 
 her. But he did not wish to penetrate those secrets, 
 or certainly not just then. He wanted to renew 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 247 
 
 the relations she had established so happily, ten 
 days before. They might be superficial, even a 
 trifle theatrical, but they satisfied him. He desired 
 eagerly to be on good terms with her, filial terms, 
 but he knew that they could never recover the old 
 intimacy; that she could never again be his sole object 
 of love and adoration. 
 
 He made a gesture that he had caught from her. 
 "Well, then, why are you so hard on me?" he 
 asked. "If it has all been for the best?" He 
 smiled. He did all he could to achieve the effect of 
 displaying his love for her under an assumption of 
 serious gayety. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and then played up 
 to him by saying, " I suppose you had my future 
 welfare in mind all the time? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I hadn't," he said. " If anything 
 I could have done would have kept you from 
 going away, I'd have done it without a second 
 thought." 
 
 " And now? " she asked. 
 
 " Now?" he repeated. 
 
 " What would you do to keep me, now? " 
 
 " Anything. Any mortal thing," he said, and for 
 fear she might instantly name the one obvious thing 
 he would not do, he went on quickly; " Even walk all 
 the way home to Camberwell, because it's too late 
 to get a 'bus or a tram; after a long day's work. 
 Can you ask more than that?" 
 
 She could have asked much more, but she spared 
 him, then. " I'll give you five shillings for a cab," 
 she said. 
 
 For the time being, the new relations between 
 them were reestablished as a working arrangement 
 that might last until the next crisis. But Stephen 
 knew that that crisis might arise at any moment; 
 
248 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 that he might have to choose between Margaret and 
 his mother at his mother's direction. 
 
 She only made one further reference to that topic 
 before he went. They were at the Hall door, then, 
 and she said : " When will you move your things 
 up to Bloomsbury Street on Saturday, if you're go- 
 ing to the Weatherleys' ? " 
 
 u Oh ! I'll do that first," he replied. 
 
 "Shall you come in here afterwards to sup- 
 per? " she asked. 
 
 He said that he would. 
 
 Stephen was irritably aware of not being at all 
 a success for the first half of his call on the Weath- 
 erleys. Dr. Weatherley seemed to him more adult 
 than ever, and more unimpeachably a scholar and a 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 While they were having tea, he stood on the 
 hearthrug like a pocket colossus, admirably manag- 
 ing his tea-cup, and talking persistently, in a steady 
 stream of assertions that showed how clearly he had 
 made up his mind on every conceivable subject and 
 how definitely he was able to express himself. He 
 diversified his lecture, however, and at the same time 
 acknowledged his duties as host, by a system of ques- 
 tion and answer. Every one present got his or her 
 neat examination in turn, and after the viva voce 
 Dr. Weatherley would close that aspect of his case 
 with a neat summary by way of a concise expo- 
 sition or a polite disagreement, and turn to the next 
 candidate. It was evidently understood by all his 
 visitors that he was a very great man, condescending 
 to an ignorant, if momentarily interesting, group of 
 intelligent listeners. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 249 
 
 His sister, Mrs. Galloway, who ran the house for 
 him, appeared to accept the inevitability of her 
 brother's manner of conducting the entertainment 
 without approving it. She was a rather untidy 
 widow of fifty or so, with an air of absent-mindedly 
 wishing that the affair was over so that she might 
 attend to something really important elsewhere. 
 
 The only visitor whom Stephen particularly 
 noticed among the six or seven who were apparently 
 sitting for their pass degree, was young Hall. 
 (Stephen had still failed to place the distinctive 
 association suggested by the name Fletton Hall). 
 He was precisely the same bright, trickily clever boy 
 he had shown himself to be in old Sercombe's class. 
 Stephen thought him overdressed. His elegant tail- 
 coat, the white slip under his waistcoat, the amazing 
 straightness of his gray trousers, the brilliant boots 
 emphasized by white spats that fitted so perfectly 
 they might almost have been painted on, all pro- 
 duced an effect that could only be described as 
 " slick." Even his neatly handsome face and fair 
 hair seemed to have been considered in relation to 
 his general appearance. He was altogether too 
 complete and consistent for a young man of twenty- 
 four. 
 
 He passed his examination with credit. His sub- 
 ject was the influence of journalism on the molding 
 of public opinion, and as he made it clear that he 
 fully endorsed his host's public pronouncements on 
 the question of Tariff Reform, he received an en- 
 couraging pat on the back in the course of Dr. 
 Weatherley's summary. 
 
 Stephen, on the other hand, did not shine at all. 
 Weatherley, who made it his business to know every- 
 thing, had deftly turned his address to the subject 
 of trades-unionism by the time he reached Stephen, 
 
250 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 and having asked him by way of introduction what 
 was the effect of that movement on the building 
 trade, forced from him the rather grudging admis- 
 sion that it increased the cost of labor without im- 
 proving its quality. 
 
 14 You admit, in fact," Weatherley said, moving 
 towards his summary, " that the growth of the 
 trades-unions is becoming a menace to society." 
 
 44 The men must defend themselves against sweat- 
 ing," mumbled Stephen, who was very familiar with 
 the labor point of view on this subject. 
 
 44 That can be better done by legislation," Dr. 
 Weatherley replied and showed precisely why and 
 how. 
 
 14 Only it isn't done," Stephen persisted, " and 
 half the abuses of employment would never have 
 been heard of, if the men hadn't got together and 
 resisted them." 
 
 Weatherley denied that assertion with selected in- 
 stances, summarized the general argument and 
 passed on to the next candidate. It was understood 
 that Stephen had been plowed. He saw young Hall 
 regarding him with a supercilious smile, and had a 
 dreadful inclination to put his tongue out at him. 
 It was not that Stephen cared for young Hall's 
 opinion nor even for Dr. Weatherley's but he would 
 have preferred to have appeared to better advan- 
 tage before Margaret. She had looked at him, 
 once, rather sympathetically, when he was under ex- 
 amination, and it had flashed across his mind that 
 she might not always agree with her father's views. 
 How splendid it would have been if he could have 
 been eloquent and convincing, but he knew that he 
 could never be that. He was just a practical, com- 
 petent builder's clerk, and he must not be tempted 
 to forget the fact. Nevertheless, he longed 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 251 
 
 earnestly for some opportunity to score off that slick, 
 impudent young Hall. 
 
 At half-past five, Dr. Weatherley having given 
 more than an hour of his valuable time to his infer- 
 entially grateful guests, announced with a decent air 
 of regret that he had to attend a committee at 
 six o'clock; and there was a general stir and an 
 orthodox murmuring concerning other remembered 
 engagements. Stephen got up with the others, and 
 his hand was shaken in its turn by his departing host. 
 " You must come and see us, again, Kirkwood," 
 Weatherley said with a vague smile; " always de- 
 lighted to see our old boys." 
 
 Stephen mumbled his acknowledgments, and was 
 looking for Mrs. Galloway, when he saw Mar- 
 garet shaking her head at him with a look that said 
 plainly enough that he was not to go, yet; making 
 at the same time a little gesture, as if playfully com- 
 manding him to sit down again. 
 
 He trembled slightly as he obeyed her, not only 
 because this invitation was an unexpected mark of 
 favor, but also because as their eyes had met, he 
 had seen something of the same beckoning look she 
 had given him in the school dining-room. In the 
 midst of that little crowd of moving people, he and 
 she had been for one infinitesimal moment, alone, 
 and aware of each other, alone as they had never 
 once been, when they were suspended together in that 
 dangling bucket, two hundred feet in the air. It 
 seemed to him as if in that moment, she had lowered 
 her defenses, singled him out and approved him. 
 
 He was startled when a smooth voice beside him 
 said, " Well, Kirkwood, how are you getting on? " 
 
 " Oh ! all right," Stephen replied automatically. 
 He was absurdly downcast and disappointed to find 
 that young Hall had, also, been invited to outstay 
 
252 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 the other guests. Had Margaret given him the 
 same signal, Stephen wondered? 
 
 " Mighty clever man, Dr. Weatherley," Hall re- 
 marked by way of continuing the conversation. 
 " Had you badly over that trades-union argument, 
 didn't he?" 
 
 Stephen frowned. " Is that what you call an 
 argument? " he asked. " I should have called it a 
 lecture. I never got a chance to put the men's side 
 of the case, and I can tell you they've got plenty 
 to say." 
 
 Hall nodded, and neatly crossed his beautiful legs. 
 " Socialist? " he asked pertly. 
 
 " Not likely," Stephen returned with scorn. 
 11 But I shall probably be a big employer of labor 
 one day, and it's just as well to understand what 
 you're up against." It was not his habit to boast, 
 but young Hall provoked the fighting quality in him. 
 A bitter regret that he had not licked him seven years 
 ago flashed across Stephen's mind, and was followed 
 by a sudden pleasure in the thought of how conclu- 
 sively he could do it, now, if opportunity offered. 
 
 Hall's eyebrows went up. Didn't know you 
 were one of the bosses," he remarked, without any 
 sign of being impressed. 
 
 " I'm not, yet," Stephen replied curtly. " What 
 are you doing, now? " 
 
 Hall looked modestly down at the toe of his 
 shining boot. " Such is Fame," he commented 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Why, what have you been doing?" Stephen 
 asked. " Robbing a bank or something? " 
 
 11 I published a book last autumn that had rather 
 a success," Hall explained. a You may have seen 
 it advertised, perhaps, and forgotten it. It was 
 called ' The Stone Rejected.' " 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 253 
 
 "Oh! Good Lord! " Stephen ejaculated, placing 
 his lost association at last. " Of course, Fletton 
 Hall. That's you is it? Yes, I read that book, 
 in Medboro' last January. They shoved it on to 
 me at the library, there, told me it was the great 
 success of the year. But I never knew that it had 
 anything to do with you." 
 
 " It did go rather well," Hall admitted compla- 
 cently. " Hardly your kind of book, though, I 
 should imagine." 
 
 " Well, no, it wasn't much," Stephen said brutally, 
 remembering the medley of sentimentalism and re- 
 ligion that had been the book's chief attraction. 
 " Have you turned pious, then ? " he asked. " From 
 what I remember you had the religious stop on 
 pretty loud." 
 
 " It pays, you know," Hall replied lightly. 
 ' When it's not overdone, of course. And luck- 
 ily for me, I seem to have the knack of it; though 
 honestly, I believe it all as I write. I get tre- 
 mendously moved by my own writing, some- 
 times." 
 
 Stephen experienced a sensation of almost physi- 
 cal disgust. He felt that there was something in- 
 nately false in young Hall. He, himself, had un- 
 doubtedly inherited some of the perception and sen- 
 sibilities of the artist from his Edwardes ancestry, 
 and he intuitively recognized and loathed the suc- 
 cess of the Charlatan. 
 
 He had no opportunity, however, even if he had 
 had the intention, of expressing his feelings on that 
 subject, for Mrs. Galloway had returned while Hall 
 was speaking and, now, drifted over to the corner 
 in which the two young men were sitting, with an 
 expression of not being quite sure what they were 
 doing there. 
 
254 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen felt a little uncomfortable, but Hall was 
 fully equal to the occasion. 
 
 u Hope we're not being a nuisance, Mrs. Gallo- 
 way/' he said brightly. Miss Weatherley asked 
 me to stay and talk over that play I wanted to write 
 for her. I'm hoping to collaborate with Miss Cran- 
 tock. And Kirkwood and I were just having a chat 
 over old times. We were at school together, you 
 know." 
 
 " No, I didn't," Mrs. Galloway replied vaguely. 
 11 Dr. Weatherley has such a large collection of old 
 boys. I don't know why." 
 
 Would you think it rude of me if I went down- 
 stairs to write a few letters? " she continued, look- 
 ing at Stephen. u Margaret and Grace will enter- 
 tain you. Are you writing a play for Margaret, too, 
 Mr. Kirkwood? I suppose you must be. Every 
 one is." 
 
 Stephen laughed. " Then I'm the one exception," 
 he said. 
 
 11 Exception to what? " asked Margaret who had 
 come into the room with her sister, as he was 
 speaking. 
 
 " To the rule that every one is writing plays for 
 you," he said. To young Hall and Mrs. Galloway 
 he had spoken lightly and easily, but his voice and 
 manner changed as he addressed Margaret. There 
 was now something almost reproachful in his tone, 
 as if he would chide her for being so beautiful. 
 
 " You might try another idea for the Master 
 Builder," put in Hall, " with lots of convincing de- 
 tail, you know. By the way is that your show on the 
 Embankment? I thought I saw old Dickinson's 
 board up there, the other day." 
 
 " Yes, that's my show," Stephen replied gravely, 
 and looked at Margaret, at once expecting and 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 255 
 
 dreading that she would retell the tale of her recent 
 exploit to young Hall. 
 
 It appeared, however, that she also had suddenly 
 developed a reticence upon that topic, for when her 
 aunt began, " Wasn't that where you went? " Mar- 
 garet interrupted her at once by saying, " Now dear, 
 you may get off to the writing of your beloved let- 
 ters. You know you're dying to get away." 
 
 Mrs. Galloway sighed and turned to Stephen. 
 " My nieces pride themselves on being very mod- 
 ern," she said. " I'm sure I don't know what we 
 can do about it. Good-by, Mr. Kirkwood. I do 
 really hope you'll come and see us again, soon. It's 
 so original of you not to write plays." 
 
 She drifted out of the room without taking any 
 further notice of the brilliant young author of The 
 Stone Rejected." 
 
 He, however, gave no sign of being offended by 
 her oversight. " Now, Miss Weatherley," he said 
 to Margaret, " are you going to be good enough to 
 give me half-an-hour ? There are heaps of things I 
 want to ask your advice about, and I want your help, 
 too, about Miss Crantock. You must persuade her, 
 you know; / can't. Sometimes she almost gives me 
 the impression, incredible as it seems, that she's a 
 little jealous of my success. Her own books, you 
 know, don't sell. Too clever for the G.P. I tell 
 her it's always a mistake to be too clever. Never 
 do it myself." He simpered with an affectation of 
 implying that cleverness of Miss Crantock's sort was 
 not in his line. 
 
 Margaret hesitated and glanced almost timidly 
 at Stephen, who on his part was ready, just then, to 
 pick up young Hall by the slack if he could find 
 any of his lovely trousers and toss him out of 
 the window. He knew quite certainly that he could 
 
256 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 not endure to see young Hall holding a long private 
 conversation with Margaret. He was willing to 
 risk even the ultimate penalty of her displeasure to 
 avoid that. Her hesitating glance decided him. 
 He knew instantly that she did not want to talk 
 about that infernally silly play; and if he had her 
 on his side he cared nothing for manners. 
 
 He turned upon young Hall with a touch of fierce- 
 ness. " I've got something to talk about to Miss 
 Weatherley, too," he said roughly. " You'll have 
 to wait." 
 
 Hall manifestly blenched. Stephen's attitude was 
 violent and threatening. He had in that one mo- 
 ment transformed the decorous and secure drawing- 
 room of the house in Bryanston Square into a place 
 of primitive and brutal passions. And Fletton Hall 
 was already a creature of use and custom, over civ- 
 ilized and tender. His spirit wilted at the least 
 threat of violence. His very vices were the pale and 
 feeble growths of solitude, etiolated and tender 
 from confinement. 
 
 He snickered nervously. " Oh ! all right, all 
 right, Kirkwood," he said in a high, thin voice. 
 " No need to get excited about it, you know. I can 
 wait." 
 
 Grace Weatherley, standing a little apart from 
 the other three, had surveyed this scene with a smile 
 of amusement: " If you could put up with my com- 
 pany for a little time, Mr. Hall," she suggested, 
 now, " perhaps my very precious sister might be able 
 to spare you your half-hour later on. Or do you 
 think she's really worth fighting for? " 
 
 11 Grace! " Margaret protested. 
 
 Hall was mumbling expostulations to the effect 
 that Miss Grace Weatherley's company was all that 
 any man could desire. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 257 
 
 "But why shouldn't we be frank, my dear?" 
 Grace asked. " It's so refreshing. I think it would 
 be perfectly delightful to see an honest fight. 
 Couldn't you come up to the scratch, Mr. Hall? 
 I'll be your second. Just one round for the privi- 
 lege of the first call upon Margaret's attention." 
 
 Hall, rapidly recovering himself, laughed lightly. 
 
 " Afraid I'm hardly up to Kirkwood's weight, 
 you know," he said. " He can give me two or 
 three stone, at least. Besides which I shall be de- 
 lighted to wait. I don't think you can have heard 
 all the charming things I've been trying to say about 
 you, Miss Weatherley." 
 
 " Oh ! come alone, Mr. Kirkwood," Margaret in- 
 terpbsed, " Graqe is perfectly dreadful when she 
 gets in this mood. She has got some crazy theory 
 or other about self-expression." 
 
 She was moving away as she spoke and Stephen 
 followed her across the drawing-room which was cer- 
 tainly large enough to accommodate two couples 
 without interference. 
 
 The whole incident had not lasted more than three 
 or four minutes, but the effect of it had definitely in- 
 fluenced the relations of Stephen and Margaret. 
 Her sister had exhibited him in the guise of Mar- 
 garet's lover, and she, herself, so far from repu- 
 diating that suggestion had given him preference 
 over his rival, and was leading him into the seclu- 
 sion of a private conference. At the moment he had 
 been abashed by Grace's innuendo, but now he found 
 himself suddenly valiant and confident. 
 
 " I don't want you to talk about that silly play 
 with Hall," he said boldly, as soon as they were 
 seated together on the far side of the room. 
 
 " Why not? " she asked, without looking at him. 
 Even now that he had so manifestly come to the 
 
258 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 verge of love-making, she found him different from 
 the other men with whom she had traversed this 
 familiar ground. 
 
 11 I want to wring his neck," Stephen affirmed 
 savagely. 
 
 " I'm sure you could," Margaret said; "but I 
 don't know why you should want to." 
 
 " Do you like him? " Stephen asked, suspiciously. 
 
 " Not particularly," she said. 
 
 11 But you you tolerate him; and you'd let him 
 write a play for you? " 
 
 She looked at him mischievously. " Why not? " 
 she asked. 
 
 Stephen frowned. " I don't like him," he said. 
 
 " I inferred that," she replied, smiling, " But it's 
 hardly a reason why I should refuse to let him write 
 a play for me, is it? " 
 
 "Have you read his book?" Stephen asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Of course. That's what the play is about," 
 she said. 
 
 11 But you don't mean to say that you could . . . 
 that you'd care to act in a thing like that? " he pro- 
 tested. 
 
 11 To be quite honest, I don't think I would," Mar- 
 garet replied more seriously. His earnestness made 
 her nervous. She was afraid to respond to it, lest 
 what she intended to be nothing more than an amus- 
 ing flirtation should develop into a disturbing and 
 difficult love-affair. But she found that she could 
 not maintain her persiflage against the steady oppo- 
 sition of his sincerity. Moreover he had so much 
 the air, just now, of wanting to protect her. 
 
 Stephen's gravity was mingled with an evident 
 strain of perplexity as he replied, M But if you don't 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 259 
 
 want him to write the play for you, why do you en- 
 courage him to think you would? " 
 
 " Oh! one does," Margaret said. 
 
 ' I wish you wouldn't," Stephen ventured. 
 
 44 So insincere? " she questioned, prepared to find 
 entertainment in the lecture, she, now, confidently 
 anticipated. 
 
 He was surprised by her answer. He would 
 never have dreamt of questioning her sincerity, nor, 
 indeed, of criticizing her by any common standard. 
 If she were insincere, then insincerity was an exquisite 
 and charming virtue in her. There was at the mo- 
 ment but one thing he could not forgive her, and that 
 was the granting of a private interview to the despic- 
 able Fletton Hall. 
 
 44 Oh! no, I didn't mean that," he said. 
 
 44 What did you mean then? " he asked. 
 
 14 Only that I didn't want you to talk to young 
 Hall," he said. 
 
 44 Very well, I won't," she agreed, experimentally; 
 feeling that it was high time they attempted a new 
 variation. And, then, a little scared by the com- 
 promising sound of her promise, she continued at 
 once. " All the same, I should like to know what 
 you've got against him, particularly. We none of 
 us care for him, of course. Father thinks he's clever 
 in his way, but that's all. And Aunt Judith can't 
 bear him. She calls him the white rat." 
 
 44 He was called 4 rat,' at school," Stephen inter- 
 polated. 
 
 44 Was he? " Margaret commented with interest. 
 She was relieved to find herself on safe ground after 
 her too significant concession to Stephen's wishes. 
 44 And did you dislike him very much then? " 
 
 44 1 suppose you've forgotten that he was in the 
 
260 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 dining-room that day, when you . . . that day at 
 the King's School, we were talking about last Sun- 
 day? " he said. 
 
 He had been so solemn from the outset of their 
 conversation that she failed to remark the additional 
 reverence with which he avoided a too particular 
 description of the unique occasion. 
 
 11 When I smiled at you, do you mean? " she said. 
 " No, I seem to remember that there was some one 
 else in the room; I didn't know it was Mr. Hall. 
 Why?" 
 
 "Oh! he he used to rot me about it, after- 
 wards," Stephen said. " I wanted to fight him, 
 badly; but he sneaked out of it. I wish I had made 
 him, now." 
 
 She glanced at him with a touch of bewilder- 
 ment. He had made no attemt to flirt with her; he 
 did not even look at her while he was speaking. 
 Yet had his words been delivered with a less serious 
 air, they could only have been interpreted as con- 
 veying the intention of love-making. It flashed 
 through her mind that he might be making fun of 
 her, but she dismissed that solution as being too 
 incredible. 
 
 " I should have been frightfully proud if I'd 
 known that the boys were fighting about me," she 
 remarked. 
 
 " I don't know that they ever did, actually," 
 Stephen said, " but, of course. . . ." 
 Of course, what? " she prompted him. 
 
 " They well they admired you tremen- 
 dously," he said. 
 
 She laughed gayly. " I wish I'd known," she 
 commented. 
 
 " I don't see that it could have meant anything 
 to you," Stephen said. " I should have thought, 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 261 
 
 even then, you must have been pretty well used to 
 it" 
 
 He had no sense of boldness in making that state- 
 ment; no thought of paying her a compliment. He 
 had simply, as he supposed, affirmed the obvious. 
 
 Margaret blushed. "Oh! what rubbish!" she 
 said. 
 
 Stephen accepted her disclaimer in all seriousness. 
 
 " You must have known, surely," he said, " by 
 the way some of the boys used to look at you." 
 
 11 I'm sure you never did," she replied. 
 
 " I was too shy," Stephen explained. " I felt that 
 I wasn't good enough, any way, if you know what 
 I mean? Even when you . . . smiled at me, I was 
 afraid to smile back. I thought you might have 
 meant it for young Hall, or something." 
 
 " And did you go on thinking that afterwards? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " No, not afterwards." 
 
 14 What did you think, then? That I was a for- 
 ward little minx? " 
 
 " Afterwards I dared to hope that for some rea- 
 son or other you had meant it for me," Stephen said, 
 still with the same detached sedateness. " I kept 
 on thinking about it. And I suppose it's true in a 
 way that it altered the whole of my life." 
 
 Margaret made an ejaculation of incredulous 
 surprise. 
 
 Do you mind my telling you all this? " Stephen 
 asked. " You don't think it impertinent of me? " 
 
 11 No, no, please tell me," Margaret said. She 
 was beginning to realize his attitude, now. She 
 saw it as a strange and thrilling revival of the days 
 of chivalry. He was proclaiming himself her 
 knight, but he asked for no return save the privi- 
 lege of offering humble service. 
 
262 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " It's rather hard to explain," Stephen continued: 
 " but our affairs at home were in a very funny state 
 just then. It was the day before my mother went 
 away, and she told me two nights ago that it was the 
 way I behaved that settled it. She said I was 
 different to her." 
 
 " Do you mean that she knew about me?" 
 Margaret asked. 
 
 " Not at the time," Stephen said. " She only 
 guessed last Thursday when I got your note. It 
 was, then, she told me what a difference it had made 
 my being . . ." He could not finish that, and went 
 on, " You see, she saw I had altered in some way, 
 although she didn't know why. She said she felt 
 as if I didn't want her any more. We were such 
 tremendous friends in those days. . . ." He left 
 his explanation hanging in the air, but he had said 
 enough. 
 
 " But you can't mean to say that you were really 
 in love with a little girl of fourteen," Margaret said, 
 " whom you'd never spoken to and hardly ever 
 looked at." 
 
 " I suppose that I'd always known you were 
 there," Stephen replied, and by that one uncon- 
 sidered sentence stated his whole case. 
 
 To Margaret, that statement came as a revelation, 
 a revelation for which she was not prepared. She 
 had been living a gay, exciting, unnatural life for the 
 past three years. She had been flattered and spoiled. 
 But within her the longing for an ideal had moved 
 deeply, and powerfully, and she had had no image 
 for it. Her innumerable triflings with love had in- 
 variably ended in boredom; and in the course of the 
 last twelve months she had been strongly influenced 
 by the opinions of her younger sister who had been 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 263 
 
 preaching the current doctrine of sex antagonism and 
 denouncing the exploitation of women by men. 
 
 But, now, in a sudden flash of inspiration, Mar- 
 garet saw the resolution of her own personal dissat- 
 isfactions. She knew that for her, also, some one 
 " had always been there." She recognized him by 
 the fact that he, too, knew, and the thought of that 
 thrilled her with the ecstatic emotions of discovery. 
 She suddenly saw Stephen's adoration for her as an 
 expression of the Great Romance, of the longing and 
 dreaming that can only be completed by finding the 
 longed for companion in the perfect flesh ; and learn- 
 ing that they have dreamt the same dreams in their 
 own solitudes. 
 
 Her reply was not less spontaneous than Stephen's 
 statement. 
 
 11 Do you know Kipling's story ' The Brushwood 
 Boy ' ? " she asked. 
 
 He shook his head, and for the moment the liaison 
 of their spirits was broken. She was disappointed. 
 He ought to have known that reference, she thought, 
 and failed to realize that his ignorance of the liter- 
 ary precedent enhanced the value of the romance, 
 since he had created the story anew by his own genius. 
 
 Stephen, on his side, misread her question as an 
 attempt to divert their conversation from the inti- 
 mate confessions into which he had been led. 
 
 11 Oh ! you ought to read that," she said care- 
 lessly. " But I suppose you don't have much time 
 for reading." 
 
 " I haven't lately," he admitted; and by an abrupt 
 transition which neither of them could understand 
 they found that all the life had gone out of their 
 intercourse and that they were, apparently, com- 
 mitted to the banalities of polite conversation. 
 
264 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 It was almost a relief to them when the patient 
 Fletton Hall at last came across to them to claim 
 the interview. 
 
 " Awfully sorry, Miss Weatherley," he said, " but 
 I'm afraid I must go in another few minutes. I've 
 got an engagement for dinner that I absolutely 
 daren't break; even for. . . ." His smile and ges- 
 ture more than completed his sentence, making the 
 compliment a trifle fulsome. 
 
 11 Some other day, perhaps," Margaret suggested 
 coldly. 
 
 Hall was obviously taken aback. " But I say, 
 Miss Weatherley, you promised," he protested. 
 11 And, honestly, it is rather important, isn't it? " 
 
 11 Is it?" Margaret said absently. 
 
 11 Well, tremendously important to me, at any 
 rate," he pleaded, in a voice that seemed to hold the 
 promise of tears. 
 
 Margaret looked at him with an immense detach- 
 ment, as if she were unable at the moment to con- 
 centrate her attention on his pleadings. 
 
 " I can't see that it has anything to do with me," 
 she said. 
 
 " But the play is to be written for you," he remon- 
 strated. 
 
 Margaret shook her head. M Don't write it for 
 me," she said. " I've practically decided to give up 
 all idea of going on the stage. Miss Crantock is 
 quite right. She has told me I shall never be able 
 to act." 
 
 " But I thought it was all arranged," protested 
 Hall with a gasp of dismay, and he looked at Stephen 
 with a sudden malignity, as if he had little doubt who 
 was responsible for this perfidy. 
 
 " Well, now it's disarranged, Mr. Hall," Mar- 
 garet replied with a touch of petulance. " I'm sorry 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 265 
 
 if it has put you out in any way, but it's absurd to 
 pretend that the success of the play depends upon 
 me. You must write it for some one else, that's 
 all some one who can act." 
 
 Hall made it as clear as he could that he was 
 deeply offended. " Oh, of course, if you've made up 
 your mind, Miss Weatherley, that settles it," he 
 said. " I can only apologize for having bothered 
 you. I'm afraid I must really be going, now. 
 Good-by." 
 
 He bowed neatly to Margaret, stared for a mo- 
 ment vindictively at Stephen, and walked stiffly out 
 of the room with his head up. 
 
 Grace Weatherley had already gone, and Mar- 
 garet and Stephen were left alone. 
 
 " You're quite right. He's a silly little man," 
 she said. " I'm sorry if I was rude to him, but I 
 know such hundreds of silly little men, and one has 
 to be definite." 
 
 "Oh! yes," Stephen agreed without interest. 
 Young Hall had ceased to exist for him. 
 
 " I ought to be going too, I suppose? " he went 
 on after a perceptible pause. 
 
 "Must you?" was Margaret's conventional re- 
 sponse. On the whole she wanted to keep him a 
 little longer; she had already realized that the fact 
 of his not having read the Kipling Story was, if any- 
 thing a point in his favor; but she was afraid to give 
 him too much encouragement. Now that she was 
 alone with him in that big empty room, she had a 
 feeling of being exposed and insecure. 
 
 " Yes, I'd better," Stephen said and stood up; and 
 even as he spoke, Margaret knew that her fear had 
 been foolish, the outcome of her too limited expe- 
 rience. With this man, she would be safe in any 
 conceivable circumstances. 
 
266 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " There's no reason why you should go, as far as 
 I'm concerned," she said, getting up too. " I ex- 
 pect my aunt will be back directly." 
 
 Stephen did not answer at once, and they automati- 
 cally moved away from the seclusion of their corner 
 into the open spaces of the room. 
 
 11 I've nothing particular to do," he said suddenly, 
 when they were half way to the door. 
 
 " Well, wait a few minutes, then," Margaret re- 
 
 f)lied. She stopped in her walk as she spoke and 
 eaned against the back of a settee. 
 
 11 It's only that I want to ask you one question," 
 Stephen said, standing before her. " Were you of- 
 fended, just now, when you asked me if I'd read that 
 story of Kipling's? Was it just to change the con- 
 versation? I didn't mean. . . ." 
 
 Margaret blushed furiously. "No; you didn't 
 understand," she interrupted him. " And I can't 
 tell you, now. You'd better get the book and read 
 it. Then you will know what I meant. But I think 
 perhaps it might be as well if you did go, now. Will 
 you?" 
 
 She gave him her hand with the full intention of 
 returning the pressure she expected; but he took it 
 with a reverence that made her a trifle ashamed of 
 her anticipation. She ought to have known, she 
 thought, that he would never attempt to flirt with 
 her. 
 
 When he left Bryanston Square, Stephen made 
 straight for the nearest bookshop in Oxford Street. 
 He remembered seeing several volumes of Kipling 
 in his mother's shelves, but he could not wait until 
 he reached Bloomsbury. Moreover it was quite 
 possible that this particular story might not be in- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 267 
 
 eluded in Cecilia's collection, and in that case he 
 would have to wait until Monday before he received 
 Margaret's message. The thought of that threat- 
 ened delay so terrified him that he broke into a run. 
 He reached the bookshop, just as the assistant was 
 about to lock the door the shutters were already 
 down. 
 
 " Oh ! I'm sorry," Stephen said breathlessly. 
 " Just a minute. There's a book I very particularly 
 want, if you don't mind." 
 
 The assistant had caught sight of Stephen running 
 down Oxford Street, and had paused in his work of 
 closing the shop to watch him. It seemed to him, 
 now, something of an adventure that the man he had 
 watched should have been coming to his own shop. 
 ' ; What book was it?" he asked, and even as he 
 spoke his mind was tentatively exploring his stock, 
 trying vainly to guess what sort of book it could be 
 that should tempt a man to run so fast. 
 
 " A story of Kipling's called ' The Brushwood 
 Boy,' " Stephen said eagerly. " Have you got it? " 
 
 " I'm not sure," the assistant replied, backing into 
 the darkened shop and switching on the light. 
 " D'you know which collection it's in? " Probably 
 to settle some bet, was the conclusion to which he 
 had conventionally and disappointingly arrived. 
 
 11 No notion," Stephen said. 
 
 " Here's the Macmillan pocket edition," the as- 
 sistant went on, pointing to a shelf in a big show case. 
 " If the story is in one of the usual collections, it 
 ought to be there." 
 
 Stephen instantly began his search, not methodi- 
 cally but with an eagerness that seriously threatened 
 the clinging leaves of an India paper edition. 
 
 " It couldn't be in that, you know," the assistant 
 advised him as he began to flutter the pages of 
 
268 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " Kim." " That's a 'ole book. What we've got to 
 look in is the collection of short stories. What did 
 you say the name was? " 
 
 Stephen supplied the name. 
 
 " You don't know what it's about? " the assistant 
 asked. He had begun to believe himself mistaken 
 about the bet. 
 
 " No idea, at all," Stephen muttered, running 
 down the list of contents of " Life's Handicap." 
 
 " Here it is ! " the assistant answered triumph- 
 antly. " Last story in ' The Day's Work.' Shall 
 I wrap it up for you? " 
 
 Stephen's face cleared. M No, no, rather not. 
 Thanks very much," he said, paid the three-shillings 
 and six-pence demanded on the paper wrapper, and 
 fled, leaving the assistant to take down another copy 
 of M The Day's Work " to read at home that even- 
 ing. He was under thirty, and still full of human 
 curiosity. The theory he formulated a few hours 
 later was near enough to the truth. " Some girl, I 
 suppose," he commented, and afterwards dreamt his 
 own dreams. 
 
 Stephen, neglecting the dinner he had ordered in a 
 neighboring restaurant, was almost confounded by 
 the wonder of his dream, now, so astoundingly tak- 
 ing the substance of reality. He realized the appli- 
 cation of the story as soon as he reached the account 
 of Georgie's visit to the " Pepper's Ghost " enter- 
 tainment in Oxford and the consummation made him 
 catch his breath, and hastily bend his head to hide the 
 evidences of his emotion. 
 
 There were immense differences between that 
 romance of " The Brushwood Boy " and his own 
 case. He could not claim the supernatural guid- 
 ances of a shared dream. But neither could he mis- 
 take the clear and exquisite message that had been 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 269 
 
 conveyed to him. " I had always known you were 
 there," he had said to her, and she had replied by 
 asking him if he had ever read this story. She 
 could have meant but one thing, surely; that she, too, 
 had known he was there and had waited for him. 
 
 The glory of that unquestionable inference was, at 
 first, something too bright for him. He dared not 
 let his thought rest on her, almost terrifying as she 
 now was with new possibilities. While she had been 
 removed from him both by her beauty and position, 
 he had been protected by the knowledge of his own 
 inferiority. He could not then be guilty of pre- 
 sumption. The meanest postulant has a right to 
 worship; and he had not aspired to make even the 
 smallest petition for favor. But her message lie 
 could only regard it as a message had lifted him 
 from his knees and set him beside her. And the 
 transition had been too sudden. He trembled with 
 nervousness at the thought of their next meeting. 
 What could he say to her, how could he look at 
 her? He was so depressingly aware of his own 
 coarseness and inferiority. He laid his strong work- 
 man's hands on the table and shuddered at the sight 
 of them. He was ashamed of himself. He had 
 wild thoughts of running away. . . . 
 
 When he had paid for the dinner he had not 
 eaten, he set out for a long walk. He could think 
 more calmly while he was walking. He turned his 
 face to the west, and went down the Bayswater Road, 
 through Notting Hill and Chiswick to Kew. Some- 
 times he walked very softly, approaching the mystery 
 of Margaret's personality in thought; and then he 
 would flush hotly at his own daring and stride along 
 so furiously that people would turn to look curiously 
 after him. 
 
 He was completely unaware of his surroundings. 
 
270 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 It was as if the ordinary processes of his being had 
 interchanged their functions. His conscious mind, 
 absorbed by a single idea, had withdrawn from the 
 duties of everyday life, and his safe guidance through 
 the traffic and hazards of London was relegated to 
 the power that will steer a somnambulist unerringly 
 along the edge of an abyss. 
 
 But gradually, his thought, and with it his whole 
 being, began to right itself. Some misconceived, 
 slightly aborted tangle of his life was clearing and 
 dissolving with every approach to his realization of 
 Margaret. Although he, himself, was serenely un- 
 aware of the fact, he was separating his conception 
 of her from that of his mother ; and with that separa- 
 tion, the strange dread that had interposed between 
 him and his human desire for Margaret was slowly 
 dispersing. His head lifted and a new confidence 
 came into his walk. The sense of his own un- 
 worthiness began rapidly to fade. He realized him- 
 self as supremely favored among men. 
 
 He came back to a vivid knowledge of his sur- 
 roundings, on the middle of Kew Bridge, staring 
 westward at the sinking fires of the June sunset. In 
 the middle distance the stain of rose reflected from 
 the sky merged into the black greens of the darkening 
 river. And to Stephen, the scene had an effect of 
 resolving some prodigious conflict. The smooth 
 flow of the slackening flood, softly sucking and 
 gurgling about the piers took up the same suggestion 
 of consummation. He felt himself moving with the 
 tide, not towards rest and peace, but towards some 
 tense and trembling climax of achievement. 
 
 His heart cried aloud that he was Margaret's 
 lover: and a free man, free to plead and to woo. 
 
 But at that thought, an intolerable desire for her 
 presence surged over him. He wanted furiously to 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 271 
 
 explain to her the intricate and detaining mysteries 
 through which he had passed to reach her. She, 
 alone, would be able to understand how he had 
 groveled at her feet, and why he was now ready to 
 stand beside her. Had she not admitted her knowl- 
 edge of the fact that they two were predestined affini- 
 ties ; lovers from another time, magically renewed to 
 continue their eternal romance in this exquisite world 
 of form and color ? 
 
 The realization that Margaret would be at the 
 Auditorium decided Stephen that he need not wait 
 until the next day before he saw her again. If he 
 had had to storm the house in Bryanston Square, he 
 might have hesitated. Although he was moving on 
 a higher plane of existence that evening, his judg- 
 ment upon the little affairs of common humanity was 
 quickened rather than impaired by his translation. 
 He looked down upon the earth with an exquisitely 
 sensitive understanding of all mankind. He was 
 God, and he loved all men and women, knowing their 
 weakness. He knew, for instance, that Dr. Weath- 
 erley and his sister, temporarily blinded by the petti- 
 ness of the flesh, would resent and resist an attempt 
 to pick Margaret out of her proper surroundings at 
 ten o'clock, in order to tell her that he and she were 
 predestined affinities. But he could see her after 
 the theater without opposition. He could meet her 
 at the stage-door and they would drive around 
 Grosvenor Square while he told her everything that 
 he had in his heart to tell her. 
 
 He corrected one egregious mistake in that plan, 
 however, as he ecstatically pondered the detail of it 
 on the tram that took him back to Hammersmith, 
 
272 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 They must not drive round Grosvenor Square; that 
 was the scene of his reconciliation with his mother; 
 and had associations that he instinctively wished to 
 avoid. No, they would go straight back to Bryan- 
 ston Square and drive round that, in sight of her 
 own house, under her father's eye, as it were. By 
 doing that, he would conciliate the petty prejudices of 
 the earth-bound, who could not be expected to under- 
 stand. 
 
 He reached the theater soon after ten and an in- 
 quiry of the stage-door keeper who seemed quite 
 used to the question put to him and evidently ex- 
 pected a tip, elicited the information that Miss 
 
 Winifred Travers," as Margaret was known at 
 the Auditorium, would not leave the house until 
 a quarter past eleven. 
 
 The delay did not greatly vex Stephen. He 
 looked forward to the meeting too serenely to be 
 annoyed by its postponement for another hour. His 
 spirit moved in places of deep and tranquil expecta- 
 tion. Greater joy was presently to come to him, but 
 the anticipation was very sweet. 
 
 He wandered aimlessly about the comparatively 
 quiet streets, renewing his happiness by the con- 
 templation of all that Margaret had implied by her 
 message. And once or twice, he paused near an arc 
 lamp and reread a passage here and there from 
 " The Brushwood Boy." 
 
 When he returned to the theater, the audience was 
 already thronging the pavement about the portico; 
 and he turned with a sudden haste into the side 
 street. The fear that he might miss her after all 
 came with a shock of surprise. His dreams had 
 been so confident. 
 
 There was a little group of men and women round 
 the stage-door, a chattering of high-pitched, feminine 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 273 
 
 voices and a clinging aroma of scent. But Margaret 
 was not a member of that group, and as Stephen 
 skirted it, it began rapidly to disperse with laughter 
 and the exchange of shrill repartee. And then as 
 Stephen with a falling heart made for the door, 
 Margaret came out talking to an imposing-looking 
 aristocrat in a crush-hat and evening-dress. 
 
 Stephen had not considered this most probable 
 contingency, but he did not hesitate. Ignoring her 
 companion, he went straight up to Margaret. " I 
 had to see you again, to-night," he said. " I 
 couldn't wait. I've read i The Brushwood Boy,' 
 and I I understand everything." 
 
 Margaret took a step backward as if he had 
 threatened her. 
 
 " Here, what's this? " her companion exclaimed, 
 making a movement as if to interfere between them. 
 
 The haze of romance through which Stephen had 
 been observing the transfigured pageant of the world 
 was rapidly thinning; and through the dissolving 
 vapors he saw Margaret's face, perplexed and doubt- 
 ful, when it should have glowed with the fervor of 
 the response he had so faithfully expected. 
 
 " Don't you understand? " he besought her, en- 
 tirely disregarding her companion's tentative effort 
 to come between them. " I've read your your 
 message " his hand was groping at his jacket- 
 pocket as if he would produce his evidence " and 
 . . . and I thought . . ." 
 
 His voice trailed away into silence. The last 
 wreath of mist had cleared from before his eyes, and 
 the vividness of Margaret's expression and gesture 
 presented a reality only less cruel than the sound of 
 her laugh. 
 
 He turned away with a quick movement that con- 
 veyed his sense of horror. Just so might he have 
 
274 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 fled, if some lovely fantasy taking shape before him 
 had instantly and revoltingly developed into the 
 image of the foul and obscene. He was stricken 
 with a furious passion to escape; and he began to run 
 even as he had run seven years before, from the 
 sound of a laugh which seemed to him now to have 
 been precisely repeated. 
 
 But, this time, he believed that he could never es- 
 cape by flight; that Death could be his only refuge. 
 While he lived he could never forget, nor indeed 
 cease to hear, the note of contempt that dinned in 
 his ears, and changed to high hysterical mockery, 
 invading and surrounding him, till he felt that he 
 must beat his head savagely against the wall, beat 
 out the power of hearing and feeling, beat out his 
 very life to escape from the torture of that madden- 
 ing regardless persecution. 
 
VII 
 
 IT was nearly midnight when Stephen came to the 
 door of the Threlfall house in Bedford Square. 
 
 The necessity for seeing his mother at once was 
 quite clear in his mind, although he had no definite 
 idea of what he proposed to say to her. She repre- 
 sented for him, just then, his single holdfast on life; 
 and so far as he was capable of making any plan, he 
 had decided that if she failed him, he would plunge 
 himself forthwith into the darkness and rest of the 
 unknown. What means he should adopt to hasten 
 his crossing of the great boundary, he neither knew 
 nor cared. He left that question for later consider- 
 ation. He knew that he could do it. He had but 
 to recall his emotions of the past hour, and the reso- 
 lution of despair would come to him. Or even 
 the thought of Margaret, despising him and in 
 love with another man, would be sufficient. His 
 struggle would be for the desire to live. Death 
 would be welcome, and easy of attainment. . . . 
 
 Christopher Threlfall opened the door. He was 
 in evening dress and looked tired and worried. 
 
 "Hullo! Is it you?" he exclaimed. "Cecilia 
 gave you up an hour ago." He stood in the door- 
 way and apparently had no intention of asking 
 Stephen to come in. 
 
 I want to see her," Stephen said. He felt that 
 275 
 
276 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 he could not be bothered with Threlfall just now, 
 and gave his sentence the sound of a command. 
 
 " Rather late, isn't it? " Threlfall asked. " I ex- 
 pect she has gone to bed." 
 
 11 May I come in? I must see her," Stephen re- 
 plied, impatiently. " Can't you see that it's im- 
 portant? " 
 
 Threlfall shrugged his shoulders hastily. M If 
 you must, of course," he said as if he nevertheless 
 regretted Stephen's lack of manner. 
 
 1 Where shall I find her? " Stephen asked as he 
 came into the hall. 
 
 11 She was in her own room, upstairs," Threlfall 
 replied, " but I should say that she's probably in bed, 
 now." He closed the hall door and went into his 
 own study on the ground floor, with the air of re- 
 fusing to be implicated any further in so uncon- 
 ventional and ill-bred an affair. 
 
 Stephen went straight up to his mother's bou- 
 doir, and walked in without knocking. He was 
 quite sure that he would find her there. What he 
 still doubted was her welcome. 
 
 She was standing in the middle of the room facing 
 the door when he entered. 
 
 "What is it, Stephen? What has happened?" 
 she asked before he had time to speak. I heard 
 the bell ring, and I knew it was you." 
 
 There was a note of agitation and distress in her 
 voice, but her eyes shone with a light that, in some 
 way, suggested triumph. 
 
 I had to come and see you," Stephen said. 
 
 Cecilia was watching him intently. She guessed 
 that there could be but one reason for his coming at 
 that time and with this mark of tragedy in his face; 
 but she was uncertain, as yet, of the nature of his 
 wound. He was, she knew, one of those who would 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 277 
 
 take their first love seriously, perhaps tragically. 
 And it might be that he had suffered no more than 
 a scratch, had mistaken some indifference or feminine 
 whim of Margaret's for the ultimate disaster. 
 
 11 Come and tell me all about it, little boy," she 
 said gently. " We sha'n't be interrupted." She 
 shut and locked the door, herself, and then took his 
 arm and led him across the room. She had an air of 
 petting and protecting him, as if he were an invalid. 
 
 " Sit at my feet, Stephen, as you used to do and 
 tell me all about it," she said softly, humoring and 
 soothing him. And when she had sat down and 
 Stephen, silent still but obedient to her will, was sit- 
 ting on a footstool at her knee, she did not urge him 
 to begin his story, but waited quietly in an attentive 
 silence, gently smoothing and fondling his hair. 
 
 " You won't mind my telling you everything? " he 
 began, after a long pause. Already, he felt soothed 
 and comforted, but as her influence increased about 
 him, the memory of his boyhood aroused old habits 
 of caution. She was going to be nice to him, but 
 even her softest moods sometimes gave way under 
 provocation. 
 
 11 Tell me everything, dear," she said. " Of 
 course I can guess most of it. But have you actually 
 said anything to Margaret? So soon? Wasn't 
 that too too precipitate? " 
 
 " In a way, I have," he admitted. " Only not the 
 usual way, quite. You see, we talked this afternoon 
 quite a lot we were practically alone in the draw- 
 ing-room; and we got back to the subject of the 
 King's School and her smiling at me. And then I 
 said, I don't remember just how it came in that 
 I had always known she was there, and she asked me 
 if I had ever read ' The Brushwood Boy.' Do you 
 know it, mother? " 
 
 1 
 
278 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 11 Yes, I know it, dear; go on! " she said. 
 # " Well, I didn't know it," he continued. " But 
 directly I left her, I went and bought a copy, and 
 then I thought oh ! I felt sure that there couldn't 
 be any doubt about it. Wouldn't any one? I felt 
 as if she had sent me a message to say that she 
 cared, too." 
 
 " And how do you know that she doesn't? " Cecilia 
 asked. 
 
 11 I went to meet her as she came out of the 
 theater," Stephen said. " And I saw her come out. 
 She was with another man." He stopped abruptly. 
 He had been calm enough in his telling of the story 
 until then. It had all seemed to him so remote in 
 time from his present life, like the memory of some 
 far away disaster from which he had mercifully es- 
 caped. But, now, all his pain began to burn him 
 again. He gave a little groan and leaned forward, 
 hiding his face in his hands. 
 
 " But, Stephen," Cecilia protested, " that might 
 not have meant anything." 
 
 11 Oh! not in itself; but I know " he muttered. 
 
 11 Did you speak to her? " 
 
 11 Tried to," he said. " She didn't answer at 
 least . . ." 
 
 "What? What did she do?" 
 
 He had to make a violent effort to tell her, but 
 once the fatal word had been uttered, his bonds were 
 loosed and all that was scalding and destroying him 
 burst forth. " She she laughed," he said. And 
 then he jumped to his feet, and went on, facing his 
 mother. " Not just an ordinary laugh a horrible, 
 cruel laugh. It was exactly like your laugh when I 
 begged you not to go away with Dr. Threlf all ; that 
 night in the Lincoln Road. It nearly drove me mad. 
 I had to run to get away from it. And to-night, it 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 279 
 
 was just the same. I couldn't bear it. I I 
 wanted to bang my head against the walls." 
 
 11 Oh ! Stephen ! " Cecilia's outcry was so emo- 
 tional that the sound of it arrested the growing vio- 
 lence of his confession. 
 
 " What? Why did you call out like that?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She was sitting, tense and scared, staring at him 
 with an expression that was at once amazed and 
 terrified. 
 
 " You couldn't possibly remember," she said, and 
 drew a deep, upholding breath. The fear was dying 
 out of her face, but the look of wonder remained. 
 " Oh ! it isn't possible," she exclaimed. " It couldn't 
 be that." 
 
 " Couldn't be what? " he asked with an echo of 
 her recent alarm in his voice. He had instantly 
 leapt to the conclusion that she had guessed at some 
 horrible explanation of Margaret's rejection of him, 
 that she knew some damning fact of which he was 
 ignorant. 
 
 " Sit down again, Stephen," his mother begged 
 him. " I'll tell you. It can't hurt you, now. But 
 I've never told any one, before. No one knows but 
 you and me ; and you've forgotten." 
 
 He sat down again at her feet and stared up at 
 her with an eager dread. She was quite calm, now, 
 but that look of curious wonder still remained on her 
 face. 
 
 " What is it, mother? " he asked apprehensively. 
 
 11 Perhaps, it hasn't anything to do with it," she 
 said. " But when you talked about my laughing and 
 your wanting to bang your head against the wall, it 
 brought everything back to me, so vividly. It 
 seemed just as if it were happening all over 
 again." 
 
280 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen shivered slightly. "Again?" he re- 
 peated. 
 
 " You were only three, darling," Cecilia explained. 
 11 Just a little bit of a toddling thing, with a funny 
 temper of your own that used to amuse me. I've 
 seen you bite a cupboard door in your little rage be- 
 cause you couldn't get it open. And one day for 
 some reason, I quite forget what, you got in one of 
 your rages with me, and I began to laugh at you. 
 I began to laugh, just because it was really funny to 
 see such a mite attacking me so viciously; but the 
 more I laughed the more angry you were, and at last 
 I got absolutely hysterical and I simply could not 
 stop. And then quite suddenly, you ran away from 
 me, and began to bang your head against the wall. 
 That stopped me at once. It was dreadful to see 
 you doing it, and I jumped up and caught hold of 
 you. But either you had really banged your head 
 hard enough to hurt yourself, or you had some kind 
 of fit; whatever it was, you went as white as a ghost 
 when I took you up and for ten minutes or more, you 
 were just like a dead thing. I I thought you were 
 going to die. . . ." 
 
 Stephen had closed his eyes, and as she paused he 
 said in a low, still voice, " And afterwards, you were 
 angry with me for having frightened you." 
 
 Stephen! Do you remember it? " she asked. 
 
 " I do, now," he said, in the same calm, remote 
 tone, and still keeping his eyes shut. " It's like 
 something that's happening at the present moment. 
 I can see the pattern on the wall paper where I 
 banged my head. There was a sort of diamond 
 shape on it, and I thought it was really sharp and 
 would run into me. I've dreamt of that diamond 
 shaped thing, but I never knew what it was before. 
 And I can hear your laugh. It was like a thousand 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 281 
 
 devils persecuting me ; it was the most hateful thing 
 in the world. I felt that if I couldn't get away from 
 it, I must go mad." 
 
 " Stephen, don't," Cecilia besought him. She laid 
 her hand over his mouth to check his speech; and 
 then she leaned right over him, and pressed her face 
 against his head. "Can't you forgive me?" she 
 whispered. " It was silly of me to laugh at you, but 
 I couldn't help it at the beginning and afterwards I 
 couldn't stop." 
 
 He did not shrink from her caress. " I can for- 
 give you for that easily enough," he said tenderly. 
 " It was the second time that really hurt me." 
 
 " But that. . . ." she began, and checked herself 
 with a faint gasp of realization. 
 
 For in that moment, she understood the choice 
 that lay before her. Even as her mind returned to 
 the scene on that fateful evening in the Lincoln Road, 
 seeking the true explanation of her refusal of Ste- 
 phen's advances, she understood not only how her 
 own laugh had been forced from her by her very love 
 for Stephen, but, also, that Margaret, too, loved 
 him. 
 
 She saw the two cases as influenced by identical 
 motives. She had desired that freedom of oppor- 
 tunity, that larger life which her love for Stephen 
 would have forbidden; and she read into Margaret's 
 response the stirring of a precisely similar impulse. 
 For Margaret, the admission of love could only 
 mean a marriage that would confine her within the 
 boundaries of a very limited world; and she had, no 
 doubt, reacted in face of that threatened limitation 
 just as Cecilia had done before her. 
 
 And with that, as she believed, certain knowledge 
 to guide her, Cecilia instantly recognized the altern- 
 atives between which she must make her choice. 
 
282 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 On the one hand she might explain to Stephen the 
 quality and influences^ of the emotion that had 
 swayed her to repulse him, and by so doing encourage 
 him even to the sure hope of winning Margaret. 
 11 If you had persisted, you would have won me," 
 she heard herself saying, " and you can win her, too, 
 if you want her." And in imagination she saw the 
 light of happiness coming into Stephen's face, at the 
 prospect of a joy that would, as she knew, finally 
 separate him from herself. 
 
 On the other hand, she might say nothing and keep 
 him; now, when she so desperately wanted him. 
 The chances were that he would not meet Margaret 
 again. She had crossed her Rubicon with the re- 
 jection of him outside the theater, and would go on 
 to the attainment of her personal ambitions; while 
 he was too convinced of her contempt for him to 
 dare any further pursuit. . . . 
 
 " What were you going to say? " Stephen asked, 
 looking up at her with a touch of wistfulness, as if 
 he were very willing to accept any explanation she 
 might have to offer. 
 
 Oh ! my dear," she said. " I don't think you 
 must be too hard on me for what happened that 
 night. Think what an awful state of nerves I was 
 in. My laugh was simply hysteria. When you be- 
 gan to plead to me, it just put the last touch to it 
 all. I was crying before you were well out of the 
 room." 
 
 He nodded, thoughtfully, seeming to tick off her 
 answer to every indictment he could bring, and ap- 
 proving the defense. 
 
 " I can understand it all, now" he said. " It 
 looks quite different. I feel as if what you told me 
 about that first time, at home, explains everything. 
 I'm glad I've remembered that, somehow. It's 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 283 
 
 it's rather like waking from a bad dream, and finding 
 it isn't true." 
 
 He put up his face to be kissed, much as. he might 
 have done twenty years earlier. 
 
 After that caress they sat in silence for a few 
 minutes, and then Cecilia's imperative need for the 
 response she desired from him led her on to con- 
 fession. 
 
 " We're neither of us very happy people, to-night, 
 Stephen," she began; " but we've got each other 
 again, haven't we? We can find no end of consola- 
 tion in that." 
 
 He sighed as if the thought of his own unhappi- 
 ness had been revived by her speech. u It all looks 
 just a blank," he said, " so far as I'm concerned. I 
 loathe the idea of going back to the works, on Mon- 
 day. I think I shall go abroad, emigrate to Canada 
 or Australia or some place like that." 
 
 " You'll take me with you, Stephen, won't you? " 
 Cecilia replied, intent on her own trouble. 
 
 " But, mother," he expostulated, " you don't mean 
 that there's anything really wrong between you and 
 and Dr. Threlfall, do you?" 
 
 She gave a little contemptuous laugh. " Oh ! my 
 dear," she said. " Everything's just as wrong as it 
 can possibly be has been for three years or more. 
 I'm an old woman, and he's clever and handsome 
 and attractive, and cursed by a temperament. He 
 was a widower when he met me, of course, and his 
 first wife hadn't been his first love; and there were 
 others between her and me. And, well," she 
 shrugged her shoulders, " I've let him go his own 
 way for the last three years." 
 
 Stephen jumped to his feet. " Good God, he 
 ought to be horsewhipped," he said fiercely. 
 
 Cecilia smiled and pursed her lips. " Oh ! no," 
 
284 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 she said. " It was my own fault. I might have 
 known what to expect. And he cares for me still, 
 in a way. He doesn't want me to leave him. He's 
 always making promises." She sighed her long re- 
 gret for the feeble possibilities of life, as she con- 
 tinued, " One can't have it both ways, Stephen. 
 Your poor little father adored me utterly, and I 
 despised him for it. Now. . . ." she broke off 
 with a gesture that did not too clearly display the 
 alternative. 
 
 " But do you care for him, still? " Stephen asked, 
 underlining her omission. 
 
 " I don't know what I care for or what I want," 
 she said with a touch of passion; " except that I 
 want to live. There's this play, for instance; it's 
 practically settled and I shall make a success of it." 
 She got up and began to move restlessly about the 
 room as she spoke, turning to Stephen, now and 
 again, to make her points. " Well, that's living, at 
 moments. One gets applause and admiration, and 
 it's like drink or drugs, at the time. Afterwards 
 one has the usual reaction. It doesn't really satisfy 
 me, and I know it, but I must do something, before 
 I'm burnt out. I was shut up so long. Just think 
 of alL those years at Medboro', Stephen. Is it any 
 wonder that I've wanted to crowd a lifetime into the 
 years since I came away? . . . But now oh! I 
 don't know. I can see the futility of it, sometimes. 
 There's no satisfaction in it, nothing real for a 
 woman of forty-eight, because one daren't look for- 
 ward. Suppose I do make a success of the part, it 
 can't last. And, besides, I don't want to be tied to 
 the stage for the rest of my life. I should get bored 
 with it, I know I should, in a year or two espe- 
 cially as, at the best, I can only hope to be quite a 
 minor star. No, I want a real occupation, Stephen. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 285 
 
 Something that will absorb me, body and soul. Do 
 you think I could find that in looking after you, in 
 the wilds of Canada? " 
 
 " I doubt it," Stephen said solemnly. 
 
 11 Why? " she asked, coming up to him, and put- 
 ting her hands on his shoulders. " You mean more 
 to me than any other living being. And I'm 
 as strong as a horse. I could work at whatever one 
 does in those places, making bread and looking after 
 the dairy or whatever it is." 
 
 " And never seeing another soul from one month's 
 end to the next? " he suggested. 
 
 " Oh! you don't want me, that's what it is," she 
 replied petulantly, but still holding him. " You 
 want to go and brood over your misery in solitude, 
 and I sha'n't let you." 
 
 14 1 don't," he said, but he looked as if he were 
 near the edge of tears. 
 
 " Does it hurt so much? " she asked. 
 
 His only reply was to put his arms round her and 
 hide his face on her shoulder. Her talk of Canada 
 had shown him all too clearly that there was nc 
 escape for him by that way. He wanted Margaret. 
 With her, he could have welcomed any solitude. 
 But Cecilia was no longer a lover to him. All the 
 tangle of his thought had been straightened out; 
 and he saw her, with something of shame at his own 
 infidelity but something also, of the careless arro- 
 gance of youth, as the selfish, rather difficult woman 
 whose one claim upon him was the fact that she was 
 his mother. 
 
 Cecilia drew herself away from him. " It's no 
 good pitying yourself, Stephen," she said. " I told 
 you it was hopeless and you said you could take care 
 of yourself." 
 
 I could, if she hadn't let me think that she cared 
 
286 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 for me," he returned, turning his shoulder to her, so 
 that she might not see the evidences of what she 
 had termed his self-pity. 
 
 She was conscious of having been rebuffed, al- 
 though neither his words nor his actions had given 
 her any sensible cause for that feeling. " But you 
 surely aren't going to waste your life, because Mar- 
 garet Weatherley flirted with you," she said sharply. 
 
 She flirts with every one. I fancy that Christopher 
 has had quite a bad heartache on her account." 
 
 u Oh! you can't understand," Stephen said, still 
 with his back to her. 
 
 Cecilia flinched. He did not care. She no longer 
 had any influence over him. She saw herself and 
 him alone together in the wilds, and her picture of 
 him was of a man brooding over a perpetual sorrow. 
 They would quarrel. She would never be able to 
 endure the sight of his unappeasable longing for an- 
 other woman. 
 
 11 1 suppose you think I'm horribly selfish," she 
 said on the impulse of the moment. 
 
 Stephen slowly lifted his head and turned to look 
 at her. u I didn't mean that, mother," he said. " I 
 only meant that you'd never be able to understand 
 how I feel about about this." 
 
 "Why shouldn't I?" she asked. 
 
 " I don't know why," he said. He had an in- 
 stinctive desire to spare her. He felt that he was 
 to blame for haying failed her; that he ought to 
 have welcomed her suggestion of their going away 
 together. 
 
 She read this thought all too clearly. She real- 
 ized that her power over him was gone and could 
 never be recovered. Something had happened to 
 him that night while they had been talking together. 
 It was as if a spell had been broken, though how or 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 287 
 
 when it had been broken she had no idea. But with 
 that realization, a feeling of impotence came to her, 
 an unendurable feeling that she could not endure. 
 Power she must have, and if she could no longer 
 exercise it in the old way she would find a new mode 
 of expression in her dealings with him. She would 
 give, would make him a magnificent present of 
 his desire; and in giving recover, not his 
 worship that had been transferred to another 
 ideal but at least his admiration for her clever- 
 ness and something, perhaps, of his fond gratitude. 
 But, with that determination, her instant apprecia- 
 tion of the part she was called upon to play changed 
 her resentment to sympathy. She was suddenly 
 sorry for his distress. Had she not deserted him 
 when he had pleaded with her; been ready to con- 
 demn him to a greater misery when it was in her 
 power to bring him what he would regard as supreme 
 happiness? She saw her life influenced by a new 
 and as it seemed then, an exquisitely beautiful 
 motive, the motive of self-renunciation. 
 
 " I can tell you why," she said. " Because you 
 think that I could never bear to see you in love with 
 another woman. Well, it's true, or it was true; but 
 no other woman will ever love you as much as I 
 have, Stephen, even if I have been selfish in my 
 love." She looked straight into his eyes, watching 
 him anxiously as she continued. " And Stephen, I 
 never loved you so much as when you pleaded with 
 me the night I ran away. That laugh of mine that 
 hurt you so much ought to have told you how I loved 
 you. Can't you see, now, that it was a sign of my 
 despair? I couldn't keep you off. That laugh was 
 my last effort to defend myself. If you'd said one 
 more word, I should have given in. I was at the 
 end of my resources. I should have given up Chris- 
 
288 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 topher and gone home with you. And I don't know, 
 now, whether it was a relief or a bitter disappoint- 
 ment to me when you ran away." She paused, but 
 still he did not understand. 
 
 " It's true, Stephen," she said. " Can't you re- 
 alize, now, that when a woman laughs like that, it is 
 because she is torn in two? " 
 
 And then the sight of the dawning realization in 
 his eyes nearly changed her purpose. Was she to 
 have no part in his happiness, even though she won 
 it for him by an act of self-renunciation? 
 
 11 Oh! you begin to see new prospects, do you? " 
 she asked mockingly. " But you might at least 
 thank me for opening your blind eyes." 
 
 " Do you mean that you think it's possible she 
 really does care after all? " he asked. 
 
 Cecilia laughed. His obsession was too manifest. 
 Yet while it provoked her, it stiffened her in her de- 
 termination. She was aware of him as of an un- 
 responsive audience. Only one item in her whole 
 repertoire could quicken him, now, and she meant to 
 produce it. After that, she must resign herself to 
 the inevitable. In future she would be just his 
 mother; a useful, elderly relation who was expected 
 to be sympathetic and kind on all occasions. No 
 doubt, he would still be polite to her. 
 
 14 Do I think it's possible? " she said with a half- 
 supercilious aloofness, her habit impelling her to play 
 with him and keep him in suspense for still a few 
 more moments. You have told me so little about 
 your meeting," she continued. u How did she look 
 at you? Was she smiling, when she laughed at 
 you?" 
 
 Stephen shook his head emphatically. " She 
 looked hard and cruel," he said. 
 
 Cecilia lifted her chin with a little movement of 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 289 
 
 contempt. " What fools men are, when they're in 
 love," she commented. 
 
 " Mother ! you don't really believe. . . ." he be- 
 gan eagerly, but she impatiently waved her hands at 
 him, for silence. 
 
 " Believe ? No. I'm sure," she said. " Haven't 
 
 I been through it all, myself? Can't you see that 
 you're a temptation to her, boy? She wants you 
 desperately, but she's a trained and experienced 
 modern young woman, and she has a very clear idea 
 of the value of money and position and of all that 
 she would lose by marrying you. Love in a cottage 
 is very pretty and romantic, but love in a semi- 
 detached villa, you know, Stephen, is not an attract- 
 ive ideal. And I don't suppose for one minute that 
 old Dr. Weatherley will help you. He's just the 
 kind of a man to make an endless fuss. He's just 
 as much a schoolmaster as ever he was, and he'll 
 treat you as if you were a very naughty boy and try 
 to expell you. 
 
 " So you see," she went on in a more gentle voice, 
 
 II that Margaret had a very good excuse for wanting 
 to choke you off, Stephen. I've no doubt that 
 after you left her this afternoon, she told herself 
 seriously that it wouldn't do. And, by the way, do 
 you realize that she probably absented herself from 
 the matinee to-day, on purpose to see you? And 
 very likely her reaction took the form of promising 
 to go out to supper with a really eligible young man. 
 Did he look eligible? Yes? It was probably Lord 
 Merton. He proposes to her regularly once a 
 week. Well, picture her feelings, my dear little boy, 
 when she came out of the theater, full of the best 
 intentions to marry suitably, and saw her temptation 
 waiting for her. Of course she hated herself, and 
 hated you for having made her love you. What 
 
2 9 o AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 she would have liked to do, at that minute, would 
 have been to shriek and push you under the wheels 
 of a motor bus. She wanted to get rid of you, at 
 any price. And I've no doubt that as soon as you 
 had run away, she refused to go out with young Lord 
 Merton, and went home and cried." 
 
 " Oh ! mother," sighed Stephen ecstatically. She 
 had made it all look so reasonable and probable that 
 the memory of Margaret's laugh was becoming a 
 beautiful and thrilling thing. 
 
 11 But what ought I to do? M he asked. 
 
 Cecilia smiled rather sardonically. u I'm the 
 complete instructress, aren't I, Stephen?" she re- 
 plied. " You didn't realize how useful I might be 
 in advising you how to make love. Do ? Why be- 
 siege her, of course. Take it for granted that you 
 and she are romantically pledged to each other. 
 Keep that stop out all the time and never mind how 
 often you repeat the motif. Make her run away 
 with you. Though Heaven knows what you'll do 
 afterwards, what will Mr. Dickinson say? " 
 
 11 Oh ! that'll be all right," Stephen said impatient- 
 ly. He was full of courage and determination, now. 
 If he could but have spoken to Margaret at that 
 moment, he would, indeed, have " besieged " her 
 with confidence. 
 
 u Will it? Oh! very well. I don't suppose I 
 can expect you to be sensible about that," Cecilia 
 replied. Her voice had suddenly fallen to a note of 
 weariness and distaste. She looked as if she had 
 passed in a moment from the publicity of the stage 
 to the solitude of her own thoughts. 
 
 " I think you must go now, Stephen," she said. 
 " It's nearly two o'clock, and I feel fagged out." 
 
 Stephen looked disappointed. He would have 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 291 
 
 liked to stay a little longer, gleaning new and more 
 glorious encouragement from her. 
 
 She saw the longing in his face and anticipated his 
 request. " You'd better go," she said. " If you 
 stay another minute, I shall probably spoil every- 
 thing I've said to you, out of sheer ennui. I simply 
 can't bear another word about your infatuation, to- 
 night;' 
 
 He realized the finality of her threat, and his 
 conscience reproached him, for his selfishness. 
 "Yes, you're tired out," he said; "I'll go. And 
 mother, I am most tremendously grateful to you. 
 You know that, don't you? " 
 
 " Oh! yes," she agreed wearily. " Don't try to 
 make amends by thanking me." 
 
 He hesitated a moment over the word " amends," 
 but decided to let it pass. " I shall see you to-mor- 
 row, sha'n't I?" he asked, and then embraced her 
 with something more than his usual warmth. " I 
 don't know what I should do without you," he mur- 
 mured fondly. 
 
 She took his kiss placidly. " You must tell me 
 how your affair goes," she said. 
 
 But when he had gone, she sat quite still in her 
 chair, staring out in front of her as if she sought to 
 find some least hope that would make her future life 
 endurable. And once, long after he had left the 
 house, she got up and made a quick movement to- 
 wards the door as if, after all, she had changed her 
 mind and would call him back to her. 
 
 Stephen awoke the next morning in his Blooms- 
 bury Street lodgings, with a sense of new beginnings. 
 It seemed to him that from to-day his whole life 
 
292 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 would start afresh. Something had happened to 
 him, some dark place in his mind had been opened 
 and cleared up, and he felt himself invigorated and 
 renewed. He attributed the change solely to the 
 fact that his mother had given him hope of winning 
 Margaret. Cecilia's analysis appeared no less true 
 to him, this morning, than it had when it had come 
 to him as a revelation the night before. And he 
 found no special significance in the fact that his 
 thought had a tendency to revert with a strange sense 
 of pleasure, to that other explanation of hers con- 
 cerning the origin of his peculiar horror at the sound 
 of hysterical laughter. The thought of that, now, 
 was like ease after pain. He could reflect upon it 
 and smile at his old weakness in the enjoyment of his 
 present strength. 
 
 It was not until he had had breakfast that he began 
 to apprehend the possibility that he had, also, lost 
 something. He found himself wanting to ask his 
 mother for further advice, and realizing that it would 
 be impossible for him to go to her. He was aware, 
 he knew not how or why, that the liaison of sympa- 
 thy between them was definitely broken. He had 
 accused her of not understanding, and she had re- 
 plied by proving to him how truly and comprehen- 
 sively she understood all about him. But in do- 
 ing it she had, he thought, too fully revealed her- 
 self. He saw, now, that she must have deliberately 
 hidden her knowledge in the first instance. She must 
 have known when he told her of the scene outside the 
 theater that the true interpretation of it could only 
 be read as an encouragement to hope. Yet she had 
 concealed that vitally important knowledge from 
 him, then, and had even, with what seemed to be un- 
 forgivable chicane, disguised the true cause of her 
 own laughter, seven years earlier. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 293 
 
 The purpose of her deceit was quite evident. She 
 had wanted to keep him to herself, to separate him 
 from Margaret. It was not until she had seen how 
 hopeless her purpose was, that she had thrown up 
 her hand and told him the truth. And in doing that 
 she had, he knew, relinquished her claim upon him. 
 He had the same feelings of loss and relief that he 
 had had when they quarreled at Medboro'. But 
 this time, it was final. Her last words to him had 
 been to the effect that he must tell her how his " af- 
 fair " went; the conventional request of a faintly in- 
 terested spectator. That speech, alone, was enough 
 to warn him that he must take her no more confi- 
 dences. But had he not always known that he would 
 never be able to confide to her his love for another 
 woman? That was her limitation, and this morning 
 it seemed to him a very drastic one. . . . 
 
 He was surprised when, at one o'clock, the ad- 
 mirable Butler brought over a letter from Cecilia. 
 At first he thought that contrary to all precedent she 
 had put her grievance against him in writing. But 
 the note was very brief : 
 
 " Dear Stephen : 
 
 " I got her on the telephone this morning, and 
 she's coming here this afternoon. Don't turn up be- 
 fore six and then come straight up to my room. If 
 you don't obey these necessary instructions I wash 
 my hands of you. 
 
 11 Your patient Mother." 
 
 When he read that note and for some consider- 
 able time after, Stephen had no thought to spare for 
 the writer of it. He had spent the better part of 
 the morning pretending to read, and wondering 
 whether when he went to Bryanston Square, he 
 
294 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 would find an opportunity to speak to Margaret, 
 alone. He had meant to go, although he could think 
 of no excuse to offer for calling there again so soon. 
 There was, indeed, nothing else to be done. He had 
 for a few reactionary moments considered the idea 
 of writing to Margaret, and then had dismissed that 
 absurd notion with contempt. He had no more 
 ability to write, now, than when he had attended old 
 Sercombe's literature class. Perhaps, rather less. 
 It had been an obvious deduction therefore, that he 
 must snap his fingers at convention and go to Bryans- 
 ton Square. He had meant to go early, say at three 
 o'clock, and ask for Margaret at the door. 
 
 And, now, everything was to be made easy for 
 him; and he could meet Margaret with the certain 
 assurance that she would, at least, listen to him. If 
 she had wanted to avoid him, she would not have 
 accepted an invitation to his mother's house. 
 
 Nevertheless, although Stephen's mind during the 
 next five impatient hours continued to be occupied 
 unprogressively with a hundred different versions of 
 his coming conversation with Margaret, he found 
 time for an occasional thought of Cecilia. She was 
 going to be sensible, was his summary of that aspect 
 of the future. She was going to be a reasonable 
 mother and help him as any reasonable mother 
 should. Already the new life that he had begun so 
 hopefully that morning was beginning to absorb him, 
 and only quite distantly was he aware of some vague 
 tragedy that had threatened her. Probably all her 
 talk of the night before had been exaggerated. She 
 worked herself up into such states of emotion. No 
 doubt, she and Threlfall would settle down quite 
 comfortably in time. And she had her play and 
 little Chris. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 295 
 
 But if some vital quality in their relations was 
 spent, he had lost none of his admiration for her 
 powers of finesse. He had no idea what her plan 
 might be for that afternoon, but he had no doubt 
 that it was most admirably adapted to the needs of 
 the situation. Once she had, as he now presumed to 
 be the case, conquered her ridiculous jealousy, she 
 would prove an invaluable ally. It might be that if 
 all went well, she could be coaxed into using her won- 
 derful powers for the conciliation and persuasion of 
 Margaret's father. 
 
 He heard no sound of conversation as he passed 
 the drawing-room door, and inferred that the usual 
 crowd of Sunday visitors had already departed. De- 
 spite his confidence in Cecilia's inspired diplomacy, 
 he was immensely alert and rather anxious. He had 
 a queer dread of finding Margaret alone in his 
 mother's room. He felt that he wanted time for 
 preparation, a breathing space in which to watch her, 
 and listen to her voice, and excite himself to what 
 would be, he knew, the incalculably difficult task of 
 saying what he had to say. 
 
 He was greatly relieved to hear Cecilia's voice 
 speaking, as he paused outside the door ; but the con- 
 fidence that filled him as he entered the room was 
 instantly withdrawn again. 
 
 His mother and Margaret, who had taken off her 
 hat and looked very much at home, were sitting side 
 by side with an effect of exchanging confidences, on 
 the little Chesterfield between the windows. Cecilia 
 raised her eyebrows as he came in with an expression 
 of surprise. 
 
 " You? " she said. " I'd quite given you up for 
 to-day." 
 
296 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen's heart fell. He had hoped that the 
 great difficulty had been smoothed away from him by 
 his mother's offices, that she had perhaps told Mar- 
 garet his story. And, now, not only was all his task 
 still before him but also he was taxed with the dis- 
 tasteful necessity of playing up to Cecilia's dis- 
 honesties. He did not even see the quick look of 
 inquiry that Margaret gave him, as muttering some- 
 thing that he intended to be inaudible, he crossed the 
 room to greet her. 
 
 " Hardly any one came to-day," Cecilia explained 
 in a bright, clear voice. " It happens like that some- 
 times, so Margaret and I escaped up here to talk 
 about the theater. We are quite agreed that it's 
 a perfectly hateful profession." 
 
 " And I'm giving it up, if I can ever be said to 
 have belonged to it,' Margaret added, with a slightly 
 conciliatory air of having deferred to some wish of 
 Stephen's. " But I practically told you that yester- 
 day, didn't I? " she concluded. 
 
 " Do you mean that you are leaving the Audi- 
 torium? " he asked as he drew up a chair towards 
 his mother's end of the Chesterfield and sat down. 
 
 " At the end of this week," Margaret said. " I 
 don't know why I ever started it." 
 
 11 The craving for excitement," Cecilia suggested. 
 
 Margaret acknowledged the possibility as if she 
 made confession for the vanities of youth. " One 
 does, rather run about after excitements," she ad- 
 mitted, and added with a whimsical glance at Ste- 
 phen, " Even such things as going up to the top of a 
 crane. Did he tell you that it nearly made me ill? " 
 
 11 He told me nothing whatever about it," Cecilia 
 replied. " If I hadn't had the news from you, he 
 would have kept the whole adventure a profound 
 secret." 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 297 
 
 Stephen understood that his mother was loyally 
 playing his game for him, but he did not want it to 
 be played in this way. He was still uncomfortably 
 aware of being there under false pretenses. Cecilia, 
 perhaps doubting his ability, had not forced him to 
 invent an excuse for coming at six o'clock. Her 
 trick was probably safe enough. But he disliked 
 the idea of playing any kind of trick on Margaret.. 
 And this innuendo concerning his reasons for saying 
 nothing of the crane incident was almost equally 
 " tricky." It all so very manifestly struck a false 
 note. 
 
 He frowned, and looked at Margaret with an 
 expression that begged her not to take him at any 
 value other than his own. 
 
 " As a matter of fact," he began, but Cecilia in- 
 terrupted him. 
 
 11 I must just go to Chris for a few minutes, dear," 
 she said to Margaret. " He and I had a slight mis- 
 understanding this afternoon, and I promised to go 
 to him as soon as the people had gone. And when 
 we've made it up, will you come and help me put him 
 to bed?" 
 
 The two women looked at one another with a 
 perfectly clear understanding of this further piece of 
 chicane, and there was something in Margaret's eyes 
 and voice that as it were reluctantly submitted to it, 
 when she replied. 
 
 11 If you're not too long," she said. 
 
 " Ten minutes at the outside," Cecilia returned 
 gayly. 
 
 Stephen jumped up to open the door for her. She 
 did not look at him as she went out. 
 
 He closed the door behind her with an exaggerated 
 carefulness. He was so intent, now, upon what he 
 had to say that Margaret's presence in the room with 
 
298 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 him appeared to be little more than a necessary inci- 
 dent of the setting. He dared neither look at her 
 nor think of her, and he began to speak with the 
 whole width of the room between them, finding sup- 
 port in leaning his back against the door as if barring 
 any possible invasion, though the truth is that he 
 was entirely unconscious of his own attitude. 
 
 " I want to explain," he said. " My mother sent 
 me a note this morning telling me not to come till 
 six. I thought she'd probably tell you. I don't 
 want you to think I arranged this. I meant to come 
 and see you in Bryanston Square, this afternoon. I 
 had to see you somehow after last night. I told my 
 mother about it. I couldn't help it. I'd been think- 
 ing all kinds of things; after I'd seen you outside the 
 theater. I thought you had had done with me 
 didn't want to be bothered with me any more. 
 And I meant to have an accident at the works. I 
 didn't tell my mother that, but I knew that that was 
 what it must come to, and I suppose I wanted to put 
 everything straight with her first. I'm not sure. I 
 was a little off my head. I can't tell you really why 
 I came here after I saw you. But anyway I did, 
 and my mother gave me a sort of hope that per- 
 haps I was wrong about your not wanting to see 
 me again. She was tremendously kind to me, and 
 encouraged me no end. . . ." He made his first 
 pause before he added by way of rounding up his 
 speech and making his intention quite plain. " And 
 then your coming here to-day." 
 
 He had not once shifted his gaze from a particular 
 spot on the carpet about half way between him and 
 Margaret, while he made this explanation, and that 
 spot still held his attention while he waited for her 
 reply. 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 299 
 
 Margaret, although she had sat quite still and 
 made no effort to interrupt his explanation, had per- 
 mitted herself to look at him. One side of her mind 
 listened to and clearly understood every word he was 
 saying, another side was offering her the strangest 
 contrasts. She remembered the many other pro- 
 posals she had received, all so similar in kind. 
 Nearly all of them, so it seemed to her, had been 
 accompanied by a surreptitious snatching for her 
 hand, or by attempts to embrace or kiss her. Indeed 
 the one exception she could recall was the instance of 
 Graham Coulter, the author, who had lounged in the 
 corner of a settee and regretfully admitted that he 
 saw no alternative but to marry her, although it 
 would probably ruin his work to do so. 
 
 When she spoke she was still awaiting the verdict 
 of her own suspended judgment. She had had a 
 strong reaction after he had left her the previous 
 afternoon. She had been scared at her own liking 
 for him, and had determined, finally, as she sup- 
 posed, that " it would never do." Then the scene 
 outside the theatre had upset her again. Cecilia's 
 guess had not been quite a correct one. Margaret 
 had gone out to supper with young Lord Merton, 
 and had been haunted all through that entertainment 
 by the memory of the horror in Stephen's eyes. She 
 had felt ever since that she must make some explana- 
 tion to him, and had welcomed the chance of meeting 
 him that afternoon in Bedford Square. 
 
 " I don't quite understand why you ran away so 
 quickly last night," she said. " I had been laughing 
 a good deal all the evening, and you know how, when 
 one gets in that mood, the least thing sets you off 
 again. It wasn't a bit that I didn't want to see you 
 any more." 
 
3 oo AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 Stephen looked up doubtfully. This explanation 
 did not run with his desire nearly so well as his 
 mother's had done. 
 
 " But what did you mean by asking me to read 
 that story? " he asked. 
 
 Margaret blushed. The direct question rather 
 flustered her. And he looked so big and solemn and 
 ominous standing there with his back to the door. 
 
 " What you said made me think of that story," she 
 said, trying very hard to persuade herself that her 
 reference to " The Brushwood Boy " was just a com- 
 monplace remark without any compromising signifi- 
 cance. " I didn't know that you would take it so 
 seriously," she added. 
 
 "Was that all?" Stephen asked, and she could 
 not fail to realize that for the first time in her life 
 she was in the presence of tragedy. 
 
 There could be no mistaking him. He was too 
 utterly sincere. He would neither threaten nor be- 
 seech her; he would not even press her for a more 
 explicit statement. He would just go away and the 
 next morning there would be an accident at the 
 works. And however doubtful she might still be of 
 her ultimate intention, she knew quite certainly that 
 she could not bear him to be killed not only be- 
 cause the responsibility would be hers, but also be- 
 cause she definitely wanted him. The thought of 
 marrying him opened up a prospect of endless incon- 
 veniences and difficulties, but she preferred even that 
 alternative to the thought of the threatened " acci- 
 dent." 
 
 " No, it wasn't all," she said. 
 
 He did not look up. " What else did you 
 mean? " he asked. 
 
 She threw back her head as if she wanted more 
 air. " Would you mind very much, coming over 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 301 
 
 here and sitting down? " she said. " It tires me to 
 talk right across the room like this." 
 
 She made a place for him on the Chesterfield, and 
 he went and sat by her, but he still made no attempt 
 to touch her. 
 
 " What else did you mean? " he repeated. 
 
 u Well, it was true, in a way," she said with a 
 slight touch of fretfulness in her voice. " I did 
 always rather like you. At the King's School, you 
 know, I I picked you out, in a way. And when 
 I saw you again, that night outside the theater about 
 a fortnight ago, when we didn't speak, you remem- 
 ber, I had a a sort of feeling that you'd come 
 back." 
 
 "And, now?" he persisted relentlessly. 
 
 " You're so dreadfully serious about it, you 
 frighten me," she said. 
 
 "Oh! yes, I'm very serious about it," he said. 
 " I don't think it would be possible for any one to 
 be more serious about anything." 
 
 " You mean that you want to to . . ." she sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " To marry you." 
 
 He said it quite firmly, as if he reminded her that 
 he had made his intentions quite clear on that point a 
 few minutes earlier. Nevertheless, he used the 
 word " marry " with a kind of gentleness as he 
 uttered it; dwelling upon it slightly as upon a word 
 of extraordinary sacredness and beauty. 
 
 She made a little leap to get beyond the danger 
 point as quickly as possible. " But you don't seem 
 to realize all the difficulties," she said with a defen- 
 sive feverishness, and rather as though they had been 
 engaged for years. " Your position, I mean, for 
 one thing. My father, for instance, wouldn't hear 
 of it, I know. And then what could we live on? 
 
3 02 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 I've been so dreadfully spoilt, I should hate to have 
 to live on about seven or eight hundred a year now. 
 It's all very well for you to threaten me with dread- 
 ful things like that accident you talked about; but 
 supposing I did agree, what could we possibly do? " 
 
 He did not answer immediately and then he said 
 steadily, " Yes, I know, but what I want to be sure 
 about first of all is whether you could ever care . . . 
 enough to marry me." 
 
 Margaret had, she believed, been playing her part 
 in the conduct of this unique affair with the greatest 
 coolness and dexterity; and she was amazed and hor- 
 rified with herself when she discovered that she was, 
 suddenly and disgracefully, on the verge of tears. 
 
 11 It isn't ... I don't . . ." she began and felt 
 for her pocket handkerchief. " You you do bully 
 me so," she protested passionately and then her tears 
 came in a quite astonishing gush. She had always 
 wept with this quiet violence. As a little girl, her 
 sister Grace used to implore her not to cry. " Oh, 
 Marge, don't! you'll make yourself so wet*' was 
 Grace's invariable form of remonstrance. 
 
 The sight of the impetuous stream of tears that 
 began to trickle down her face, even before she 
 could use her ridiculously inadequate speck of a 
 handkerchief, had an almost miraculous effect upon 
 Stephen. He entirely forgot himself. He could 
 not bear to see her crying like a little girl of twelve. 
 He was willing to do anything she could ask him to 
 stop that astonishing fount of tears. But she was 
 obviously incapable of speech, and it was an immense 
 protective influence rather than any demonstration 
 of passion that made him put his arms round her and 
 beg her not to cry any more. 
 
 But having then impulsively and dispassionately 
 achieved the embrace, he found that he could not re- 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 303 
 
 lease her. His arms tightened about her, he drew 
 her still more closely to him, he bent his cheek down 
 and pressed it violently against her hair. He knew 
 that he was taking an unfair advantage of her, but 
 he did not care. He felt that he must go on holding 
 her, even against her will. This was the supreme, 
 ecstatic moment of his life, and he meant to pro- 
 long it to its utmost limit. He had no thought for 
 the future, nor at the moment for Margaret's own 
 desire, he was conscious only of the perfect enjoy- 
 ment of holding her close to him, and he was ready to 
 resist, brutally if need be, any attempt to deprive 
 him of his ecstasy. 
 
 Margaret, however, made no resistance, and it 
 seemed to him that ages of exquisite bliss had passed 
 before he heard her voice, little and smothered, cry- 
 ing out to him. 
 
 He shuddered with apprehension. " I couldn't 
 hear," he whispered, prepared still to disobey her 
 if she commanded him to let her go. 
 
 M Oh ! have you a handkerchief? was Margaret's 
 slightly petulant response. 
 
 The needs of convention undid him where force 
 or protestation would have failed; and as he found 
 the handkerchief for her, she pulled herself away 
 from him. 
 
 " You admit that you do bully me," she said in 
 a calm voice. 
 
 14 I couldn't help it," he said. His eyes had found 
 their pleasure at last. He was no longer afraid to 
 look at her; and his glance still held and caressed 
 her, while his heart beat furiously at the realization 
 that she was not, after all, angry with him. 
 
 " Don't," Margaret said, blushing. 
 
 " I must," he said. 
 
 " Not like that," she pleaded. 
 
304 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 " I can't help it," he said. 
 
 " But I must look such an awful sight," she remon- 
 strated. " With my eyes and nose all red. I know 
 what I always look like after I've been crying." 
 
 He drew a long sigh of rapture. You look 
 . . ." he tried, and failed completely to find any 
 comparison that was not hopelessly banal. But his 
 eyes spoke for him. 
 
 She took the more obvious means of escape by 
 hiding her face in her hands and his handkerchief. 
 
 11 1 haven't even said that I don't hate you," she 
 murmured from behind her ambush. " I'm sure 
 I've got reason enough." 
 
 11 Do you?" he asked with a touch of anxiety. 
 He knew that a further resort to physical force was 
 no longer possible, and already he was aching with 
 the need for the further delight of her. 
 
 She dropped her hands. " We must be sensi- 
 ble," she said. 
 
 What do you propose to do? To marry ^ne on 
 how much a year? " 
 
 " If you care for me, it doesn't matter how much 
 money we have," he said with calm conviction. 
 
 " But it does," she retorted with a feebleness that 
 was almost ludicrous by comparison with his as- 
 surance. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Oh! Stephen! " she protested, but he knew that 
 the protest was not against his contradiction, but 
 against the intense avowal of love that still showed 
 in his eyes. He was, however, encouraged by her 
 use of his Christian name. 
 
 11 You do care," he said. " I know you do. You 
 have always; although you may not have known it 
 yourself. Haven't you? Don't you know it, 
 now?" 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 305 
 
 He was rapt and lost in love, divinely without self- 
 consciousness; and the movement with which he 
 slipped on to his knees before her and took her 
 hands in his, had all the grace of the natural animal. 
 
 "Oh! Perhaps. I don't know. Yes. Yes, I 
 do. I always have." She surrendered finally with- 
 out reserve. She felt the power of his longing draw- 
 ing her like a physical force. She bent her head and 
 kissed him on the lips, with a long, passionate kiss 
 that made renunciation of all her other ambitions. 
 
 " And you care enough to live in a pokey little 
 house, anywhere, Medboro' for instance? " he asked 
 after a long interval. 
 
 She raised her eyebrows in an expression of whim- 
 sical surprise. " Does it matter at all what Vm 
 prepared to do?" she asked. "I've given in. I 
 haven't any will of my own left. You'll make me 
 do whatever you want." 
 
 " It won't be such a very pokey house," he assured 
 her, by way of apology for getting his own way. 
 
 " Afrd what about my father? " she continued. 
 
 " I'll never be able to persuade him," he admitted. 
 " I'll try, of course, but he won't listen. We'll have 
 to be married without his consent." 
 
 " I suppose you'd break into the house and take 
 me away by force? " she suggested. 
 
 " If necessary," he agreed quietly. He knew that 
 nothing could stop him, now that she had admitted 
 her love for him. 
 
 Indeed so superb was his confidence, that in a sud- 
 den panic lest he might suggest carrying her off then 
 and there in order to anticipate all future opposition, 
 she desperately dragged him back to a recognition of 
 the common affairs of life. 
 
 " Surely," she exclaimed, " your mother's been 
 away more than ten minutes? " 
 
306 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 He looked at his watch. " It's just after seven," 
 he said. " Wait here for a minute. I'll go and 
 find her." 
 
 As he left the room, he heard somewhere deep 
 down in the house, the distant slamming of a door. 
 
 Cecilia was not in either of the nurseries, and the 
 drawing-room was quite empty. But in the hall he 
 found Butler who told him that Mrs. Threlfall had 
 gone out a few minutes before. She had not said 
 where she was going, nor when she would be likely 
 to return. 
 
RETROSPECT 
 
 IN attempting to record the unfolding of a life in 
 its relation to a definite influence, there must nec- 
 essarily be a tendency to choose only such incidents 
 as affect that relation. And for this reason, the 
 story of Stephen Kirkwood's life, after his mother's 
 influence ceased to be an important factor in it, does 
 not fall within the scope of this book. 
 
 Looking back upon his history, one sees that his 
 slight departure from the normal was due to a severe 
 nervous shock in his early childhood. If it had not 
 been for that spiritual wound, he would have fol- 
 lowed the line of average development, have broken 
 away from Cecilia's influence when he was seventeen, 
 and probably have married his cousin, Phyllis Bell. 
 An accident saved him from that. He was caught in 
 a tiny swirl of fate that after spinning him about a 
 fixed center for seven years, flung him out into a 
 channel which he could never have entered if he had 
 been free to drift, untethered by the centripetal 
 forces of that spiritual whirlpool. But once he was 
 released he moved on with the common tide; and 
 only by a strained and prejudiced reading of his 
 future life could the early influence be traced in his 
 later development. 
 
 Wherefore, this excrescent chapter may be taken 
 as a kind of appendix, or lengthy foot-note, designed 
 to give a detached historical summary of certain 
 subsequent events, and not for the purposes of elab- 
 
 307 
 
308 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 orating or confirming the episode which closed when 
 Cecilia, unable to bear the thought of witnessing 
 Stephen's blissful adoration of Margaret, made her 
 escape from the house in Bedford Square. 
 
 Yet, so far as Cecilia was concerned, the original 
 tangle was still unloosed; the new impetus that had 
 come to her at forty was not yet exhausted. Unfor- 
 tunately her affairs no longer include those of her 
 son. 
 
 They met, of course, quite often; but their in- 
 terests were moving further and further apart. She 
 was bored by his accounts of the slowly dissolving 
 difficulties that interfered between him and Mar- 
 garet; while he chafed at, and was inclined to rep- 
 rimand her growing attachment to the theater. In 
 those earlier meetings their old relations were almost 
 reversed. He would be the teacher and she was 
 the petulant, quite unmanageable child. 
 
 Nor did the success she made in Norah Crantock's 
 comedy do anything to convince him that Cecilia at 
 forty-eight had found her true metier. It is, in- 
 deed, quite certain that no one activity could ever 
 bring her satisfaction. She was too various and too 
 greedy for life, and, now, at fifty-seven after a bril- 
 liant but too brief career as a war-worker in many 
 capacities (including the entertainment of soldiers 
 at a French base-camp), she is going into politics. 
 
 She still lives with Sir Christopher Threlfall, who 
 received his knighthood in 19 13, by which time he 
 had definitely emerged from the indignities of writ- 
 ing popular music and had taken his place as an 
 English composer. The knighthood did him good. 
 It steadied him, filling him with ambition for respect- 
 ability which is so necessary for those who would 
 achieve distinction in an English art. And Cecilia 
 was content to stay with him, so long as he did not 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 309 
 
 check her activities, none of which fortunately had 
 any tendency to approach the scandalous. 
 
 Her plunge into politics at the last general election 
 ( 19 1 8 ) , was partly due to the precocious blossoming 
 of little Chris. He is unquestionably a musical 
 genius and Cecilia was driven into new forms of self- 
 assertion by his rivalry. She is, as one would expect, 
 an uncommonly good speaker, and with her vitality 
 has still a future before her. Her father, old Ed- 
 wardes, is still a hale and capable man at eighty- 
 seven. 
 
 Stephen's life onward from that Sunday in June 
 when he proposed to Margaret, would make another 
 book but not a very interesting one. 
 
 Being a practical man in most ways, he took the 
 logical step of giving James Dickinson his fullest 
 confidence before approaching the intimidating and 
 hypothetically immovable Dr. Weatherley. But 
 Dickinson was somewhat unsympathetic at the out- 
 set. He had a prejudice against marriage, and was 
 inclined, without any kind of reason to find points 
 of likeness between Margaret and his own wife. 
 
 " Was that the girl you took up on the Scotch- 
 man ?" was his first question, thereby momentarily 
 embarrassing Stephen who fondly believed that his 
 employer was ignorant of that exploit. But his 
 affection for Stephen was stronger than his preju- 
 dices, and when he realized the quality of Stephen's 
 love for Margaret, he gave way generously, and it 
 was James Dickinson who ultimately held the terri- 
 ble interview with Weatherley. 
 
 It must be admitted, however, that Weatherley 
 did not permit himself to be persuaded. His dig- 
 nity would not allow him to oppose the marriage by 
 any resort to physical measures. But he would not 
 
310 AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 
 
 give his consent, and allowed it to be understood that 
 if Margaret married Stephen, she would do it against 
 his wishes and need expect no further financial sup- 
 port from him. What largely weighed with him, 
 no doubt, was the memory of Stephen's origin and 
 the fact that he had two very middle-class sisters, 
 still living in Medboro' one a national school- 
 mistress and the other the wife of a chemist. 
 
 Even Margaret was a little shocked by her real- 
 izations of Stephen's family, although on the whole 
 she preferred the company of Emily and Hilda to 
 that of Mrs. Bell and her daughters. That prob- 
 lem, however, though it is not yet solved, has only 
 been intermittent. The Kirkwoods did not go to 
 live in Medboro' until the beginning of 19 12, be- 
 fore that they had a small flat in Bloomsbury, and 
 then they were only there for twelve months, as 
 Stephen had to return to London to undertake the 
 supervision of another big job that the firm had con- 
 tracted for. They took a small house in Hampstead 
 on this occasion, as the second of their four children 
 had already arrived, and they lived there until 
 Stephen returned to Medboro' in the summer of 
 19 1 5, first to overlook the alterations necessary to 
 turn the Stretton works into a government factory, 
 and afterwards to manage it. Later the govern- 
 ment found another use for him, but although he 
 went into khaki and was brevetted Major early in 
 19 1 8, he never went into training and was never out 
 of England. 
 
 But there is little interest in these bare facts, and 
 this is not the place in which to recount those intimate 
 details which make the living reality of our daily 
 life. One thing, however, may be added though the 
 probability of it should be manifest from what has 
 been said of Stephen. He is as deeply in love with 
 
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER 311 
 
 Margaret, now, as he was nine years ago. Theirs 
 is one of those ideal marriages that are so exceed- 
 ingly rare. They were both monogamous by in- 
 stinct and it may be that they were blessed by some 
 special ordinance of Fate. For it is not possible to 
 account for their happiness in each other by any 
 theory either of likeness or of a particular dove- 
 tailing and complementing of each other's char- 
 acters. Nor can the attraction be explained after 
 all these years on purely physical grounds; though 
 it must be confessed that Margaret, at thirty, is an 
 unusually beautiful and gracious lady. 
 
 THE END 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
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