Phœbe, standing at the center of her own room, slowly turned herself
about, as if taking a farewell look at the big, old bed—so forbidding
when contrasted with the dainty, bewreathed, ivory-tinted “twin” in
which she had slept beside her mother; at the low heavy chest of drawers
that held water-pitcher and bowl; at the marble-topped “dresser”,
equally ugly, with its slab of stone like something out of a cemetery;
at the tall, dark doors; the clothes-closet, that abode of fearful
shapes; the high-backed chairs; and the ancient sofa.
And yet she was not saying good-bye to the room and the familiar objects
in it so much as she was to the life she had led there. A swift change
was coming. But not a change merely from the big room in the big, lonely
house to the dear surroundings in New York. That transfer was indeed to
be made. But there was more about to happen—a glorious thing! And it was
she, Phœbe Shaw Blair, who was to bring it to pass!
She laughed a little, out loud. Then suddenly, for no reason, she
covered her face with both hands, and kissed her palms as if they were
the palms of another’s hands. “Oh, she _must_ say Yes!” she cried.
“Uncle Bob wants her to!”
She was all ready. Her face was rosy after a quick wash in the bowl. Her
hair glistened even with a hurried brushing. She had on white stockings,
and her newest black pumps, and a fresh smock-dress that was pale blue.
She looked down at herself and laughed again. Here she was, who had wept
and worried at the mere idea of a step-mother, and had even been glad
that Miss Ruth was rather cool to Daddy—here she was, actually scheming
to get a step-mother, which step-mother was to be that same Miss Ruth!
She went up to the mirror and looked into it. “Phœbe!” she whispered.
“Oh, you’re such a _funny_ girl!”
She sobered. Her glance had caught her mother’s photograph. She took it
up, holding it in both hands, close, and speaking to it as if to the
living. “Oh, you won’t mind?” she faltered. “Oh, Mother, try to tell me
that you won’t mind!”
She held the photograph against her. Was she being faithless to her own
mother, in taking a new one? She turned to an open window, and looked
up.
Somewhere in the vast sky was her dear one, more beautiful now, and
always to be beautiful and young. Uncle John said this was true of all
who died. And even though Uncle John did not like her mother he could
not say that she fared any differently than all the others who went
away. Out of the great blue was Mother looking down now upon her little
girl? And how? Happily? Or in sorrow?
Phœbe looked at the picture again. There was a tender smile on the
lovely face. The eyes looked full into her daughter’s.
“Oh, I know you don’t mind!” cried Phœbe. “You don’t mind!” She knelt at
the open window. Great white clouds lay against the blue. Phœbe
understood that her mother was beyond them—farther. She shut her eyes,
praying.
“Oh, Mother, thank you!” she whispered. “It isn’t about Daddy you mind—I
know that. But about me—you believe I won’t love you any less, ever. Oh,
Mother, you’ll see I won’t forget you even for Miss Ruth. Don’t let it
hurt, will you? Don’t be a weeny speck jealous. Oh, precious Mother!”
She kissed the picture, and got up, strangely comforted. There was some
pink tissue-paper in the bottom drawer of the dresser. She took it out
and carefully wrapped the photograph. Then she opened the clothes-closet
and found the suit-case.
The lining of the cover was loose at one corner, and two or three little
things were under there, hidden! A valentine from a boy! Some hair-pins,
picked up now and then, and useful, on occasions, for trial attempts at
putting up her hair. And there was a picture post-card. A girl had given
it to her—one of Miss Simpson’s girls. Phœbe did not quite understand
the meaning of the picture on that card. But from the look in the girl’s
eyes, from the curious expression of her mouth, Phœbe had sensed that
the post-card was not nice.
Now she tore it up, with a smart ripping of the pasteboard that had not
a little resentment in it. They were so “select”, those Simpson girls!
Yes! But one of them had pictures like this! Well, it could not stay in
the same place with Mother’s photograph!
The secret little place cleansed of its evil holding, Phœbe pressed the
pink-wrapped photograph to her breast, and to her lips; then slipped it
under the loosened lining. For with more understanding than fourteen may
be credited with, Phœbe realized that any picture of Mother had best be
put away, kept for herself only—not for her father, or for the dear
presence that was to share a new happy home.