The Precipice | Page 4

yet certain. It was pleasant to
be with him, but even for a gala occasion she was not sure but that she
was happier with Honora Daley than with him. Honora Daley was
Honora Fulham now--married to a "dark man" as the gypsy
fortune-tellers would have called him. He seemed very dark to Kate,
menacing even; but Honora found it worth her while to shed her
brightness on his tenebrosity, so that was, of course, Honora's affair.
Kate smiled to think of how her mother would be questioning her about
her "admirers," as she would phrase it in her mid-Victorian parlance.
There was really only Ray to report upon. He would be the beau ideal
"young gentleman,"--to recur again to her mother's phraseology,--the
son of a member of a great State Street dry-goods firm, an excellently
mannered, ingratiating, traveled person with the most desirable social
connections. Kate would be able to tell of the two mansions, one on the
Lake Shore Drive, the other at Lake Forest, where Ray lived with his
parents. He had not gone to an Eastern college because his father
wished him to understand the city and the people among whom his life
was to be spent. Indeed, his father, Richard McCrea, had made
something of a concession to custom in giving his son four years of
academic life. Ray was now to be trained in every department of that
vast departmental concern, the Store, and was soon to go abroad as the

promising cadet of a famous commercial establishment, to make the
acquaintance of the foreign importers and agents of the house. Oh, her
mother would quite like all that, though she would be disappointed to
learn that there had thus far been no rejected suitors. In her mother's
day every fair damsel carried scalps at her belt, figuratively
speaking--and after marriage, became herself a trophy of victory. Dear
"mummy" was that, Kate thought tenderly--a willing and reverential
parasite, "ladylike" at all costs, contented to have her husband provide
for her, her pastor think for her, and Martha Underwood, the
domineering "help" in the house at Silvertree, do the rest. Kate knew
"mummy's" mind very well--knew how she looked on herself as sacred
because she had been the mother to one child and a good wife to one
husband. She was all swathed around in the chiffon-sentiment of good
Victoria's day. She didn't worry about being a "consumer" merely.
None of the disturbing problems that were shaking femininity disturbed
her calm. She was "a lady," the "wife of a professional man." It was
proper that she should "be well cared for." She moved by her
well-chosen phrases; they were like rules set in a copybook for her
guidance.
Kate seemed to see a moving-picture show of her mother's days. Now
she was pouring the coffee from the urn, seasoning it scrupulously to
suit her lord and master, now arranging the flowers, now feeding the
goldfish; now polishing the glass with tissue paper. Then she answered
the telephone for her husband, the doctor,--answered the door, too,
sometimes. She received calls and paid them, read the ladies'
magazines, and knew all about what was "fitting for a lady." Of course,
she had her prejudices. She couldn't endure Oriental rugs, and didn't
believe that smuggling was wrong; at least, not when done by the
people one knew and when the things smuggled were pretty.
Kate, who had the spirit of the liberal comedian, smiled many times
remembering these things. Then she sighed, for she realized that her
ability to see these whimsicalities meant that she and her mother were,
after all, creatures of diverse training and thought.

II
What! Silver tree? She hadn't realized how the time had been flying.
But there was the sawmill. She could hear the whir and buzz! And there
was the old livery-stable, and the place where farm implements were
sold, and the little harness shop jammed in between;--and there, to
convince her no mistake had been made, was the lozenge of grass with
"Silvertree" on it in white stones. Then, in a second, the station
appeared with the busses backed up against it, and beyond them the
familiar surrey with a woman in it with yearning eyes.
Kate, the specialized student of psychology, the graduate with honors,
who had learned to note contrasts and weigh values, forgot everything
(even her umbrella) and leaped from the train while it was still in
motion. Forgotten the honors and degrees; the majors were mere minor
affairs; and there remained only the things which were from the
beginning.
She and her mother sat very close together as they drove through the
familiar village streets. When they did speak, it was incoherently. There
was an odor of brier roses in the air and the sun was setting in a