The supper was at an end. I was in my room.
Now was the time to look at mother's picture. The hunger in my heart
was now to be satisfied. For many long years I had wanted to be the
possessor of that portrait, which I knew existed, but which I had never
seen. How easily I had got possession of it in the end! It was queer,
for we had all been afraid to speak of mother to father. He had said
once that he could not stand it, and after that we never mentioned her
name. But she was my mother. I had envied girls who had mothers, and
yet some girls did not appreciate them. There was Augusta, for
instance; how rude and insufferable she was to her mother! She called
her commonplace. Now, I could have been very happy with Mrs Moore. I
could have been quite glad to be kissed by her and fondled by her, and
to sit with her and encourage her to tell me stories about herself. And
I could have helped her with her needlework, and to keep the place tidy;
and I should have enjoyed going with her to dine with Uncle Charles--
whoever Uncle Charles might be. But there was Augusta, who did not care
a bit about her mother, but wanted to be the daughter of my father. Oh
yes, she was right; it was a strange, mixed world.
Well, I had the picture of mother, and I was going to look at it
to-night. I lit three or four pieces of candle in honour of the great
occasion, and then I drew my chair near the ugly little dressing-table,
and I took the case and opened it. The picture within had been
carefully painted; it was a miniature, and a good one, I am sure, for it
looked quite alive. The eyes seemed to speak to me; the gentle mouth
looked as though it would open with words of love for me. It was the
sort of mouth I should like to kiss. The face was very young. I had
imagined that all mothers must be older than that. It was a girlish
face.
"It was because no one understood her that she died," I said to myself.
"Hannah said she was killed. Hannah spoke nonsense, of course."
Tears filled my eyes.
"Darling, I would have loved you," I murmured. "I'd have made so much
of you! You wouldn't have been a bit angry with Dumps for not
resembling you. You'd have let me kiss you and kiss you, and your
hungry heart would not have pined and pined. Why didn't you live just a
little longer, darling--just until I grew up, and Alex grew up, and
Charley grew up? Why didn't you, dearest, darling?"
My tears flowed. I gazed at the picture many, many times. Finally I
put it under my pillow.
In the middle of the night I woke, and my first thought was of the
picture and of the mother whom it represented. I clasped it tightly to
my breast and hugged it. Oh yes, the picture of my mother was better
than nothing.
The next morning I got up with a sense of relief at knowing that father
would be away for at least a couple of days. It was a sadly wrong
feeling; but then I held mother's picture, and father had not understood
mother, and mother had died. Killed!--that was what Hannah had said--
killed because she had not had enough sunshine.
"It was such a pity you didn't wait for me! I'd have made things
sunshiny for you," I thought.
I ran downstairs. The boys had had their breakfast and had already gone
to school; but there was a little pot of coffee inside the fender, some
bread-and-butter on the table, and a jug of cold milk and some sugar.
It was one of Hannah's unpleasant ways that she never would make the
milk hot for the children's coffee. She said cold milk was good enough
for them.
But there was something else also on the table. There was a letter--a
letter addressed to me. Now, when you hardly ever get letters, you are
interested. I had been terribly excited about Miss Donnithorne's
letter; and now here was another, but it was not written by Miss
Donnithorne; it was in father's handwriting. What could father have to
say to me? He had never written to me before in the whole course of my
life. I took the letter in my hand.
"I wonder if he is coming back to-day," I thought.
I felt rather sad at this thought, for there was quite a lot of money
left and we could have another good supper to-night.
Then I opened the letter and read its contents. They were quite brief.
These were the words I read:
"My dear Rachel,--I have just done what I trust will contribute much to
your happiness. I have been united in marriage with Grace Donnithorne.
I will bring your new mother back on Sunday evening. Try and have the
house as nice as possible. My dear child, I know well what a great
happiness lies before you in the tender care and affection of this
admirable woman.--Your affectionate Father."
I read the letter twice, but I could not comprehend it. I read it in a
misty sort of way, and then I put it on the table and went to the window
and gazed out into the street. There was no fog this morning; there was
even a little attempt at watery sunshine. I remembered that if I was
not quick I should be late for school; and then it did not seem to
matter whether I went to school or not. I took up the letter again.
What was the matter with my eyes? I rubbed them. Was I going blind?
No, no--of course not. I could see perfectly. I read the words, "I
have been united in marriage with Grace Donnithorne."
United in marriage! That meant that father had married Grace
Donnithorne, the lady I had stayed with on Saturday and Sunday and
Monday and part of Tuesday. She was--oh no, what nonsense!--she was
nothing of the sort; I would not even allow my lips to frame the words.
I tore the letter up into little fragments and thrust the fragments into
the fire. I kept saying to myself, "Nonsense! it isn't true! Father
was in one of his dreams!"
I deliberately poured out my coffee and drank it; I cut a hunk of bread,
buttered it, and ate it. All the time I was saying fiercely to myself,
"It isn't true; it is a practical joke that father is playing on me."
I was so fiercely, terribly indignant with myself for even allowing the
thought of that word, which from ordinary lips would be applied to Miss
Donnithorne, to come so near my own lips, that I had no time to remember
that father was the very lost man to play a practical joke on any one.
Hannah came into the room. I looked at Hannah. Her face was quite
unsmiling, quite everyday. If it was true Hannah would know--certainly
Hannah would know; she would be the last person to be kept in ignorance.
"Why, Miss Dumps--sakes alive, child! You'll be late for school. Hurry
up. Whatever are you pondering about? What's the matter?"
"Nothing. What should be the matter? Hannah, I have got a little
money; father left it with me."
"That's something queer," said Hannah. "How much did he give you?"
"Five shillings."
"My word! Sakes alive! The man must have lost his senses!"
When Hannah said this I rushed up to her, and clasped both her hands,
and said, "Oh Hannah, Hannah darling, say that again--say it again!"
"Whatever am I to say over again? I've no time to repeat my words."
"Oh Hannah, do say it once more! Father has lost--"
"What little sense he ever had," said Hannah. "Don't keep me, Dumps."
She had laid a hideous iron tray on the table, and with a noisy clatter
she put the cups and saucers on it.
"When people have lost their senses they say and do all sorts of queer
things, don't they?" I asked.
"My word, child, they do!"
"And other people, when they know that they have lost their senses,
don't believe them?"
"Believe 'em? Who'd ever believe what people who have gone crazy say
and do?"