Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/744

692 brought John,—their mingling of gain in knowledge and obedience with loss in effort and ideality.

Marcia could allow him the excuse, for his mistakes and abilities had the same source,—he was always single-eyed and confident. But for herself she could not shake off the responsibility. All her life she had been aware of a double consciousness, debating every issue, sometimes yielding against her stronger judgment, sometimes blundering on heedless or defiant. She had known better; or she might have known!

It brought them, however, to common ground of action toward the little legacy that Marcia took from Hastings's dazed and helpless hands. They grew closer together over this baby than even formerly over their own; for where once John had let her do as she thought, now they thought alike; and they had more real joy of it, through the softening of self-importance and overseriousness that comes with the third generation.

"You two between you have spoiled the kid already," Ward laughed, when she was at the toddling, babbling age. "But then grandparents always do, don't they?"

"Oh, I don't believe she would spoil!" Marcia defended them. "She was born sweet."

"And we haven't curdled it by thunderstorms," John added, teasing her like a playful kitten.

"Well, you never risked our immortal futures," Ward remembered, good-naturedly, "by giving us what we wanted for any such simple reason as because we did."

"We're going to let this child grow up," John said, with earnest lightness. "Not too much machinery, eh, mummer? Perhaps her Creator knows as much about making men and women as we do."

The unintentional implications of the speech sobered John, made Ward open a book hurriedly, and Marcia hide her face against the child.

"I—ah—the house received your resignation to-day, Ward." John spoke evenly, but his mouth twitched. "May—we ask your plans?"

"Well, I don't mind telling you now," Ward answered, with the unkindness of embarrassed bravado. "Hoard and Band are going to take me in."

"The architects? As what?"

"Oh, I've been at it several years now. Studied through the mails and at nights with Halley and so on. Those cartoons, you remember,"—once started, he went on, irresistibly,—"the ones signed with the clenched fist,—that's mine,—didn't seem enough to do. I tried window-decorating, too, at night."

"Son! And you never told us!"—Those nights.

"I didn't intend to tell you anything until there was something to tell. That decorating was pretty slick. The Haskell Dry Goods Company offered me a good job. But that was about the time I got on to this and knew I'd struck the trail. I happen, by the way," he couldn't help adding, "to be the only one who didn't put money into the firm."

Marcia knew she must not let herself speak out. Ward hated a scene so. But the ugly mouth and beautiful eyes made their own confession.

"Let me congratulate you heartily," John said.

But Ward's hand grew slack in his. "You—you might have helped a fellow." John winced.

"Oh, son! Didn't he?" Marcia reminded him. "What made you clench your fist?" John turned toward her; their eyes met; they had taken the last step in crossing the chasm. She had at least granted him, too, the right of personality. "And then you would not let us near you."

"I know." It was half resentment, half a boast. "Well, maybe that was what started it. And perhaps it was necessary," he admitted, with the magnanimity of success. "Anyhow now "

"Now," said John, "you've done all I ever asked; and you've proved your point, and have the satisfaction of knowing you did it alone. So I hope," he smiled, "you will feel now that you can let us help you a little."

He was not a romantic figure: what was left of his hair spattered with gray; waist-girth putting chest-measure to shame; hands fat and hairy. But his mature virility was no less masterful than the younger verve was fine.

The two men gripped in a new friendship of equality based on understanding and respect. And Marcia, looking at both, was content.