Sometimes she had queer glimpses of the persons that were called Mary
Olivier. There was Mrs. Olivier's only daughter, proud of her power over
the sewing-machine. When she brought the pile of hemmed sheets to her
mother her heart swelled with joy in her own goodness. There was Mark
Olivier's sister, who rejoiced in the movements of her body, the strain
of the taut muscles throbbing on their own leash, the bound forwards, the
push of the wind on her knees and breast, the hard feel of the ground
under her padding feet. And there was Mary Olivier, the little girl of
thirteen whom her mother and Aunt Bella whispered about to each other
with mysterious references to her age.
Her secret happiness had nothing to do with any of these Mary Oliviers.
It was not like any other happiness. It had nothing to do with Mamma or
Dan or Roddy, or even Mark. It had nothing to do with Jimmy.
She had cried when Jimmy went away, and she would cry again to-night when
she thought about him. Jimmy's going away was worse than anything that
had happened yet or could happen till Mark went to India. That would be
the worst thing.
Jimmy had not gone to India as he had said. He had had to leave Woolwich
because of something he had done, and his father had sent him to
Australia. He had gone without saying good-bye, and he was never coming
back. She would never in all her life see Jimmy again.
Jimmy had done something dreadful.
Nobody but Mamma and Papa and Mark knew what he had done; but from the
way they talked you could see that it was one of those things you mustn't
talk about. Only Mark said he didn't believe he really had done it.
Last Sunday she had written a letter to him which Mark posted:
"Dear Jimmy,--I think you might have come to say good-bye to us, even if
Papa and Mamma do think you've done something you oughtn't to. I want you
to know that Mark and I don't believe you did it, and even if you did it
won't make any difference. I shall always love you just the same, next
best to Mark. You can't expect me to love you really best, because he
will always come first as long as I live. I hope you will be very happy
in Australia. I shall keep my promise just the same, though it's
Australia and not India you've gone to.
"With love, ever your loving
"Minky.
"P.S. No. 1.--I'm reading a new poet--Byron. There was a silly woman who
said she'd rather have the fame of Childe Harold than the immortality of
Don Juan. But I'd rather have the immortality, wouldn't you?
"P.S. No. 2.--Do you think that you will keep Kangaroos? They might help
to make you happy."