WITH MY MOTHER.
THE house where Mary stopped was of red brick, old-fashioned and
stiff-looking, and it stood on an old-fashioned terrace, raised high
above the road. There was one window beside the door, and two windows
above, and two windows again over that.
"Is the whole of the house yours?" I asked, thinking it wasn't
a pretty house, after my dear old country home.
"No," said she. "Only the dining-room and two back bedrooms."
Then she went in, leading the way. It was a narrow dark sort
of passage, with faded oilcloth on the floor. I groped along
after her; and when she turned into the first room, that was almost
as dark, Mary struck a light, and nobody was there except ourselves.
"Your mother must be upstairs," said she. "Sit down, Kitty."
I did as she bade me, tired enough to be glad to rest after my
journey and long walk. I was longing and yet dreading to see mother.
What if she turned from me still? if she was always to turn from me
for the rest of my life?
Mary put the candle on the mantel-shelf, and it lighted up the room
dimly—only a small room, with poor furniture: old black horse-hair
chairs, and a black horse-hair sofa, and a table, and a sort of
little sideboard.
"I get through my dressmaking in this room," said she. "Happily I
have plenty of work—more than I can do alone. I had to refuse
two orders only last week. Why shouldn't you and I make a good thing
of it, Kitty?" and she smiled, to cheer me up.
"I like pretty work, and mother always says I'm quick. But I
shouldn't like to sit all day long in this room."
"Ah, we can't always do just what we like in life," says she quietly;
"can we, Kitty?"
"No!" I said.
"The question isn't so much what we like, as what God likes for us,"
says she.
I got up, and gave her a kiss. "Yes, I'm trying to learn that, Mary,
I am really."
"Then you'll be taught it, dear," said she. "God always gives us
the teaching we need—if we are willing." And she added in a cheery
sort of voice,— "But I don't mean you to work all day long, and never
to have a breath of air. There's the Durdham Downs quite close—
a great stretch of grass and open sky, ever so much wider than your
common—and the river and the rocks and the trees."
"It isn't all houses, only houses, then?" I said.
"No, indeed," Mary answered. "You just wait till you've been over
our Downs. Your mother says she never saw anything to equal them
in all her life."
"I'm glad! I shan't mind work," I said, trying to be brave. "Shall I
come with you to find mother? And am I to sleep with her?"
"Not at first, I think. I shall put you in my little room, and sleep
with your mother myself for a few days. No, sit here, Kitty, and
rest. I'll bring her to you."
Then Mary was gone; and I stayed alone in the strange room,
with everything strange about me; for though we had furniture
of our own, it had all been left at Claxton, till we could settle
where to go and what to do. I was glad to think we should have
our own furniture again some day, and not live among these dingy
chairs and tables.
Mary didn't come back. I went to the window and looked out. It was
very nearly dark outside by now. The terrace pavement was muddy,
for there had been rain, and three boys were playing on it, shouting
and pulling one another about.
As I stood there, watching them, a sudden recollection of Rupert
came. I couldn't say what brought it, except those boys playing
together. Rupert and I had often played together many years before.
Or it may have been that I was free at last from bondage to Walter
Russell, and so I could spring back to my old liking and thoughts
of him. Like a piece of whalebone, you know, that's bent and tied
down; but so soon as ever it's untied, it'll leap out straight
as it was before.
His face rose up before me—such a good plain honest face; and I
seemed to see it as I had that last time with a glow of feeling, only
all the anger and hardness were gone. He had loved me so truly—so
different from Walter Russell, who only loved himself and made use
of me for his own purposes. Two men couldn't be more unlike and
opposite than those two.
"Poor Rupert!" I sighed; "I wonder what's become of him! I wonder
what he would think of all these changes!"
And oh, how grieved he would be about father! I could hardly keep
back my tears, picturing this.
"And it was I who drove him away!" I went on. "I—for the sake
of Walter Russell."
I did want to see Rupert again—poor Rupert, whom I had so scorned
after all his goodness and devotion to me. But perhaps I never
should: and even if some day I did, he would not be the same.
He would have forgotten his old liking for Kitty.
"I shall have grown ugly by that time," I murmured; "and he will
have learnt to like somebody else. And it will be just what I
deserve."
Then Mary came in.
"Is mother upstairs?" I asked.
Mary looked a little pale and troubled, I thought.
"No, dear," she said. "Your mother has been out all the afternoon.
You and I will have some tea to refresh ourselves, and then I must go
and find her."
"But you don't know where she is."
"Not exactly, but I know her favourite haunts. When she walks alone,
she almost always goes to one particular part of Durdham Down. I have
had to fetch her home before now. She forgets how time goes."
"Then mother isn't well yet?"
"I think there is a touch of weakness still, Kitty. I am not sure
that she will ever quite lose it," Mary answered.
She made tea quickly, not letting me help: and presently I asked,
"May I go with you to look for her?"
"Too far, after your journey," says she.
"O no! I am getting quite rested," I said. "Please don't leave me
alone here. Mother might come in."
"Would you be afraid of her, if she did?" asked Mary, with a curious
sort of look.
"No," I said, and I was ashamed. "No, not afraid exactly; only I
don't know how she'll take seeing me."
"I think she will be glad," Mary said.
But when I begged still to go, Mary did not say no. She told me
I might if I was up to it; and after a good tea I felt strong.
Mary seemed pretty sure mother wouldn't come back while we were away.
The same thing had happened before when mother was excited about
something; and no doubt the thought of my returning had excited her.
So as soon as we had finished our tea, we started, I keeping close
to Mary's side, with a sort of protected feeling which I have always
had with her. I think I had it even when she was ill and I was well.
For there's no doubt Mary's was the stronger and firmer nature of the
two. If I had been brought up by another sort of mother than mine,
one who allowed self-indulgence, I should have been turned out a very
useless creature.
Mary didn't take me round by Durdham Down, as it was late, but
through Redland and Clifton streets, till we got to a part of Clifton
Down where it was too dark to see much; only there was grass
and trees.
"Tired, Kitty?" says she.
"No," I answered. "Shall we find mother soon?"
"Yes, I hope so," said she. "We're almost close to where Clifton Down
joins Durdham Down."
"And Durdham Down is where mother goes most," I said.
"Yes; and always to the loneliest parts," said she. "Your mother is
a lover of the country, you know."
We had been going along a level road or path a little way, where
an avenue of trees grew; but soon we left the trees, turning into
a white road, which rose up, with grass downs and scattered bushes
on both sides. Mary said that was Durdham Down. Then she stepped
up on the grass to the left, and led away over it, among the bushes,
on broken ground. I could not see where I went, and I stumbled and
clung to her arm, but she seemed to know every step.
"Not much farther, I hope," said she. "Are you frightened?"
"O no," I said; "only it is so dark and so lonely. I shouldn't like
to be here by myself. But with you—"
"That makes a difference, doesn't it?" said she. "But I should not
have minded coming alone, if it had been my duty. I've done so
before!"
"And you would not have been afraid?"
"Perhaps a little nervous," said she. "But if one is doing one's
duty, I do think one may always look to be taken care of."
Presently we came out together from among bushes and rocks to a place
I didn't expect. There was an iron railing, and beyond the railing
a depth going sheer down ever so far. A river lay below, shining
in the moonlight, which at that very moment had broken out strong
and clear. Beyond the river were high dark banks, covered with woods.
It was a strange wild scene altogether to me, seen in the dim light.
Mary went straight to the railing, stepping quick over the
roughnesses in our path, though indeed we were in no regular path,
but among rocks and bushes and grass; and she stood there looking
about.
"It is a beautiful place," said she.
"I should like it in the day-time," I said.
"I like it always," said she.
"Is this where mother comes to be alone?" I asked.
"Somewhere about here," said she. "Not far off, commonly."
And she called in a soft voice, which must have carried a good way,
the air was so still—
"Mrs. Phrynne! Mrs. Phrynne!"
But there wasn't any answer.
"Come! we'll look," Mary answered.
We kept as near to the railings as could be, but sometimes we had
to go round a pile of rocks and bushes. Mary and I searched some
distance both ways, and all to no good. There wasn't a sign of
a living creature.
Once the moon went in, and how dark it was! I felt chilly and
frightened.
"Perhaps she is gone home, and she'll be tired waiting for us,"
I said.
"I don't think it," Mary answered.
We stood still again, listening, and all at once it came into my head
to call, "Mother!"
"Yes—try that, Kitty!" says Mary.
"Mother!" I cried. "Mother! Mother!"
There was a step among the bushes near us.
"Mother," I cried; "oh, do come!"
No mistake about the step now. In one moment more mother herself
came out from the bushes, walking straight towards us. The moon shone
full on her face, and her eyes were wide open with an eager look.
"Is that little Kitty's voice?" says she. "Is Kitty in trouble?"
"Mother!" I said once more, and I went forward to meet her, while
Mary held back.
"Why—Kitty!" says mother, a slow smile creeping over her face,
and she put both arms round me. "Kitty!"
Anybody that's known what it is to crave and thirst for a mother's
kiss, when that kiss can't be had, may guess how I felt to have
mother's arms round me, hugging me in the old fashion, like as when
I was a little child. She laid her cheek on mine, and made a little
crooning sound, as if I was a baby again, and she petting me.
"Kitty! Little Kitty!" says she. "Come back to mother at last!"
"O mother, I don't want ever to leave you again," I sobbed.
"Poor little Kitty!" says she, and she crooned over me afresh.
I don't know how long that went on; only after a while I heard Mary
say behind, softly, "Now we ought to go home."
So tears had to stop, for choosing of footsteps, and I don't know
to this day how we got over the rough ground back to the road. Mother
wouldn't let go of me for a moment, and Mary guided us both. The moon
went behind a cloud soon, but it didn't matter, for by that time
we had gas-lamps.
All through the longish way back mother clung to me fast, like one
who has found a lost treasure. I was that tired at last, I scarce
knew how to drag one foot after the other; only I could not complain,
I was so happy. And now and then Mary whispered, "Cheer up, Kitty;
we'll soon be there! And it's been worth while," says she. And oh,
hadn't it been?
Mother didn't talk nor ask any questions. She kept on, in a sort
of murmur to herself— "Kitty! little Kitty! my Kitty!" —and that
was all.
When we got indoors, Mary lighted a second candle, to brighten up
the room. Mother stood holding me fast still, not willing to let go.
"Hadn't Kitty better sit down, Mrs. Phrynne?" says Mary. "She's been
on her feet such a time."
"Kitty yes," mother said. "Kitty's tired! Poor little Kitty!"
"Poor little Kitty!" Mary echoed in a quiet voice. "Did you go
to look for Kitty among the rocks, I wonder?"
Mother shook her head. She wouldn't say what took her there, and she
never would say nor talk about it afterward. Only, from the day
I came back, she stopped all her lonesome walks, and only wanted
to have me with her.
I couldn't sit down, mother held me so tight, and a feeling came
as if I should drop if I went on any longer. I'd done a lot that day,
you see.
Mary saw, for she always saw everything, and I suppose I did look
white. She took a candle, and held it up near my face. Then mother
saw too.
"Poor little Kittenkins!" says she tenderly, exactly as father used
to do. It had been father's name for me, not mother's.
She put me down on the sofa, just as if I was a little child, and I
let her do it. Then she spread a shawl over my feet, and took a chair
close by, laying one hand on mine, and sitting there to keep watch.
"Shut your eyes and go to sleep," says she.
Wasn't it sweet to have mother telling me what to do again?
I followed her bidding, and sleep wasn't long coming.
When I opened my eyes, mother sat there still. She hadn't stirred
a finger. And I had slept two good hours at one stretch.
Mary didn't share mother's room with her that night after all,
for mother would have nobody but me; and Mary was only glad to have
it so.