She was sitting alone in the studio, copying a cast of a child’s foot
with great care. She had expressed a ladylike desire to “learn drawing”
and her father had willingly consented, and arranged for private
lessons, which she took in the afternoon, when the other girls had gone
home. She was a bitter cross to her teacher, for not only was she quite
without aptitude, but she likewise had no taste and no spirit. She
couldn’t be fired. She wished to “learn drawing” simply; art and beauty
had nothing to do with it. An artist, to Minnie, was a person who could
so present things that you recognised them on paper. She was often
pleased with her own drawings.
According to her habit, the young teacher had gone out of the room.
Minnie was perfectly contented to be alone, to potter away with those
exasperating fine little lines. She couldn’t be taught, anyway; it was
of no use even to criticise. She had accepted what was told her about
tacking paper on a board, about the mechanical uses of charcoal and
fixative and so forth, and after that wished to go ahead in her own way,
simply drawing. Nothing more to it. She sat before her easel very
straight and serious. She was really absorbed in her messy little
drawing; she thought it was “sweet,” and contemplated giving it to her
father, nicely framed, as a Christmas present. He was sure to admire
anything she did.
The big room was absolutely silent, peopled with ghostly white casts,
heads, limbs, entire figures, lighted coldly from a skylight, so that
she seemed in a world quite different from the brilliant autumn outside.
Calm, quiet, satisfied, in the midst of an extraordinary peace--a peace
which had surrounded her all her short years.
And which ended forever that day. She heard the footsteps of the teacher
coming back along the corridor, more quickly than usual.
“Minnie, dear,” she said, “Miss Leland wishes to see you.”
This surprised Minnie mildly. With her usual docility she got up, put
her charcoal in its little box, and hurried down the corridor, past all
the rooms familiar to her for nearly ten years, rooms all empty now,
with rows and rows of chairs and desks, with their blackboards and
charts and maps, well known to her and more or less dear. She had been
graduated from the school a year ago, and was now, of course, beyond all
that and superior to it, but she enjoyed coming back for these drawing
lessons. She clung to familiar places.
Down the stairs, three flights, and to the comfortable little study of
the principal. Minnie had no reproof to dread, she was and had always
been beyond reproach in everything, a model girl. She tapped on the door
and was bidden to enter.
As soon as she saw her cousin there, she knew something was wrong. A
great dread came over her. She didn’t look at Miss Leland at all.
“What is it, Cousin Ella?” she asked, sharply.
The forlorn spinster, who had years ago technically replaced their
mother, suddenly burst into tears.
“My poor child!” she cried, “My poor child!”
She had come, trembling with dread and grief, prepared to “break” it to
Minnie in a merciful way. But couldn’t endure the sight of the
unsuspecting orphan.
“Minnie!” she sobbed. “Your poor father----”
Minnie had turned very pale.
“Hurry up!” she cried. “Is he--dead?”
Cousin Ella told her in a confused and broken way. A cable had come to
tell of his death from pneumonia in Liverpool, the very day he had
landed.
“I came to you at _once_” she said. “The very instant I had read it.”
That was her duty, of course. News of death must be spread without
delay. She had driven off immediately to intercept Minnie, so that she
should learn of it at least an hour sooner than if she had come home in
the usual way.
Minnie was stunned and incredulous. Cousin Ella always got things mixed,
anyway.
“Let’s see the cable!” she demanded.
Cousin Ella answered, with a shade of resentment, that she hadn’t
brought it.
In a horrible nightmare daze, Minnie followed her to the carriage. It
was not sorrow she felt, but dread; as if the catastrophe instead of
having taken place already, were about to happen, were imminent. They
drove along the familiar suburban roads, lined with charming houses,
smooth lawns without fence or hedge, great trees, a domain prosperous,
lovely and serene. They reached home, a grey stone house on a hill,
planted with dwarf evergreens; they went in. Nothing in any way changed,
the same well-ordered, comfortable dignity. It couldn’t be true! Father
_never_ coming back?
She again demanded the cable, and obtained it.
“_Mr. Defoe died this morning. Pneumonia.
Seven o’clock. Writing._ JOHNSON.”
So it wasn’t a mistake. She looked round instinctively for support, for
reassurance, in her terror.
“Oh, father!” she cried, in a sort of shriek. “Cousin Ella! Oh.... _Do
something!_ Don’t let it be!”
In that instant, the very essence of her father’s soul was comprehended
by her; she could realise him, all his fondness, his immeasurable
indulgence for her. She saw what she had lost, and was overwhelmed. It
was the end of her childhood, the last wholly genuine, wholly
disinterested emotion she was ever to feel.