Mrs. Holland came out of her room, closing the door carefully behind
her. A shaft of sun came through the skylight, but beyond that bright
bar the hall was dim and very quiet, for her footsteps made no sound on
the thick carpet. She stood there for a moment, as if listening. A tall
woman she was, straight and slender, with a proudly carried head and a
proud and serene face. She did not look her fifty years, but she felt
them this morning.
She listened, but she heard nothing, and presently she went on through
the warm patch of sunshine that for an instant brightened the smooth
blackness of her hair. At the head of the stairs she heard a sound of
life. Some one was coming up from the basement, breathing hard and
walking heavily, and accompanied by a pleasant little jingling of china
and silver.
Mrs. Holland began to descend, and halfway down the flight she met
Hilda, carrying a tray.
“I’ll take it to Miss Joyce, Hilda,” she said.
“No, ma’am,” replied Hilda firmly. “Don’t you bother.”
“I’d like to, Hilda,” returned Mrs. Holland with equal firmness.
“It’s too heavy, ma’am.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Holland.
Her hands, cool and slender, grasped the tray and came into contact with
Hilda’s roughened fingers; and Hilda, the vassal, was somehow shocked by
this.
“All right, ma’am,” she agreed.
Mrs. Holland took the tray and turned back. She heard a miserable little
sniffle from Hilda, but she dared not take notice of it. She was not
prepared to give consolation to other people this morning.
She set the tray down on the floor, and opened one of those closed
doors. It was like another world in there, bright with sun, and a breeze
rioting through, setting in motion all the charming disorder
there--ribbons and silks and tissue paper in half open boxes, gay and
frivolous things hanging over the backs of chairs. It was a very untidy
room, but Mrs. Holland knew it would never be like this again. After
to-day it would be a neat, quiet, empty room.
She closed the window, and then went over to the bedside. Joyce lay
there, with the sheet huddled about her so that only the top of her
rough, bright head was visible. Mrs. Holland touched her shoulder.
“Wake up, child!” she said.
She forced herself to stand there and to greet Joyce cheerfully on this
last morning.
“Here’s your breakfast, you lazy little thing,” she added.
Joyce sat up, dazed and heavy-eyed. Mrs. Holland held out a dressing
gown, and the girl slipped her arms into it with a childlike passivity.
“It’s a beautiful day,” said Mrs. Holland. “You couldn’t have a better
day.”
Suddenly Joyce awoke. Her dark eyes widened, and over her face stole a
shadow--a look so tender, so lovely, that Mrs. Holland was obliged to
turn away to bend over the tray.
“Don’t let the toast get cold, child,” she said.
Joyce did not speak, and when Mrs. Holland turned toward her again she
saw tears in her child’s steady, shining eyes.
“Joyce,” she said, “my dear, my dear, let’s make this a very happy, a
very wonderful day!”
They looked at each other, and Joyce’s lip quivered, but Mrs. Holland
still smiled.
“I must bear this,” she told herself. “I must, and I can.”
She pulled the table close to the bedside, poured out a cup of coffee,
and put cream and sugar into it, just as Joyce always liked it. Then she
lifted the silver cover from the toast.
“Poor Hilda was so disappointed!” she said. “She wanted to bring the
tray herself. Come now, my pet! There, there!”
Joyce’s eyes were still fixed upon her mother’s face.
“This won’t do!” said Mrs. Holland, and then, with that gracious gayety
which so few were ever permitted to see in her, she tied a napkin about
the girl’s neck and began to feed her--a spoonful of coffee, a bit of
toast, a spoonful of coffee.
“Spoiled little thing!” she scolded. “Naughty little thing, when there’s
so much to be done to-day!”
“I know it!” cried Joyce, sitting up straight. “Mother, what shall we do
about old Mrs. Marriott’s candlesticks? When she comes and doesn’t see
them with the other presents, she’ll be so frightfully hurt!”
“I found them last night in a hat box,” replied Mrs. Holland, laughing.
“And, mother, suppose the jeweler hasn’t got that new clasp ready?”
“Your father’s going there as soon as he has had breakfast. He told me
to tell you that if that clasp isn’t ready, he’ll buy you another
necklace.”
“But I want the one that daddy picked out! I--oh, mother!”
The girl stretched out her arms, with tears raining down her face; but
for an instant Mrs. Holland did not respond. She stood motionless, with
an odd, stony look, as if beyond measure affronted by those tears.
“Oh, no, no!” she cried in her heart. “How can I stand this?”
“Mother!”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, took her child in her arms, and
stroked the ruffled head that lay against her breast.
“Don’t, my darling,” she said gently. “It’s not right. It’s not kind to
Nick.”
“I c-can’t help it,” Joyce answered in a stifled voice. “You and
daddy--my own darling people--”
“You must help it, my sweetheart. You’ve eaten nothing at all. I’m going
to run your bath, now, and afterward Hilda will bring you some hot
coffee and toast.”
She disengaged the clinging arms from about her neck, and took both the
girl’s hands in her own. She looked steadfastly into her child’s face,
and still smiled.
“Don’t be so naughty!” she said. “There! Sit up and read your letters
until the bath’s run.”
The tiled bathroom was dazzling in the sunlight. The nickel fittings
flashed like silver, and the water filling the tub was a wonderful
translucent green.
“Mother!” Joyce called out. “Uncle Thomas has sent a check and an
awfully sweet letter!”
Mrs. Holland pretended not to hear. She could not speak just then. She
sat on the edge of the tub, staring down into the shimmering, greenish
water, and even her child’s voice sounded very far away. The last moment
was almost here. In a few hours Joyce would be gone.
“I must not spoil her day,” she thought. “I’ve got to be brave, just
until she goes; and then--then I don’t care.”
The water had risen high enough. She turned off the tap and went back
into the bedroom.
“All ready!” she said cheerfully. “Don’t dawdle, sweetheart.”
“I won’t, mother,” Joyce promised.
She had dried her tears, now. She was very grave, but quite composed.
“That’s exactly how she looked when she went to apologize to grandma for
losing the family photographs,” thought Mrs. Holland. “She was a tiny
girl, then, and she was wearing that funny little plaid dress. She
doesn’t look any older now. She’s so young--so young!”
She crossed the room briskly, opened the door, smiled back over her
shoulder, and stepped out into the dim, silent hall. It seemed to her
that the house had grown terribly old, a pompous, dull old house. She
went down the stairs slowly, for she was old, too. Her life was
finished. Joyce was going away.