She had a belief that her father’s house was nicer than other people’s
houses. It stood off from the high road, in Black’s Lane, at the head
of the town. You came to it by a row of tall elms standing up along Mr.
Hancock’s wall. Behind the last tree its slender white end went straight
up from the pavement, hanging out a green balcony like a bird cage above
the green door.
The lane turned sharp there and went on, and the long brown garden wall
went with it. Behind the wall the lawn flowed down from the white house
and the green veranda to the cedar tree at the bottom. Beyond the lawn
was the kitchen garden, and beyond the kitchen garden the orchard;
little crippled apple trees bending down in the long grass.
She was glad to come back to the house after the walk with Eliza, the
nurse, or Annie, the housemaid; to go through all the rooms looking for
Mimi; looking for Mamma, telling her what had happened.
“Mamma, the red-haired woman in the sweetie shop has got a little baby,
and its hair’s red, too.... Some day I shall have a little baby. I shall
dress him in a long gown-----”
“Robe.”
“Robe, with bands of lace all down it, as long as _that_; and a white
christening cloak sewn with white roses. Won’t he look sweet?”
“Very sweet.”
“He shall have lots of hair. I shan’t love him if he hasn’t.”
“Oh, yes, you will.”
“No. He must have thick, flossy hair like Mimi, so that I can stroke
him. Which would you rather have, a little girl or a little boy?”
“Well--what do you think----?”
“I think--perhaps I’d rather have a little girl.”
She would be like Mamma, and her little girl would be like herself. She
couldn’t think of it any other way.
The school-treat was held in Mr. Hancock’s field. All afternoon she had
been with the children, playing Oranges and lemons, A ring, a ring of
roses, and Here we come gathering nuts in May, _nuts_ in May, _nuts_ in
May: over and over again. And she had helped her mother to hand cake and
buns at the infants’ table.
The guest-children’s tea was served last of all, up on the lawn under
the immense, brown brick, many windowed house. There wasn’t room for
everybody at the table, so the girls sat down first and the boys waited
for their turn. Some of them were pushing and snatching.
She knew what she would have. She would begin with a bun, and go on
through two sorts of jam to Madeira cake, and end with raspberries and
cream. Or perhaps it would be safer to begin with raspberries and cream.
She kept her face very still, so as not to look greedy, and tried not to
stare at the Madeira cake lest people should see she was thinking of it.
Mrs. Hancock had given her somebody else’s crumby plate. She thought:
I’m not greedy. I’m really and truly hungry. She could draw herself
in at the waist with a flat, exhausted feeling, like the two ends of a
concertina coming together.
She was doing this when she saw her mother standing on the other side of
the table, looking at her and making signs.
“If you’ve finished, Hatty, you’d better get up and let that little boy
have something.”
They were all turning round and looking at her. And there was the crumby
plate before her. They were thinking: “That greedy little girl has
gone on and on eating.” She got up suddenly, not speaking, and left the
table, the Madeira cake and the raspberries and cream. She could feel
her skin all hot and wet with shame.
And now she was sitting up in the drawing-room at home. Her mother had
brought her a piece of seed-cake and a cup of milk with the cream on it.
Mamma’s soft eyes kissed her as they watched her eating her cake with
short crumbly bites, like a little cat. Mamma’s eyes made her feel so
good, so good.
“Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t finished?”
“Finished? I hadn’t even begun.”
“Oh-h, darling, why didn’t you _tell_ me?”
“Because I--I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m glad my little girl didn’t snatch and push. It’s better to go
without than to take from other people. That’s ugly.”
Ugly. Being naughty was just that. Doing ugly things. Being good was
being beautiful like Mamma. She wanted to be like her mother. Sitting up
there and being good felt delicious. And the smooth cream with the milk
running under it, thin and cold, was delicious too.
Suddenly a thought came rushing at her. There was God and there was
Jesus. But even God and Jesus were not more beautiful than Mamma. They
couldn’t be.
“You mustn’t say things like that, Hatty; you mustn’t, really. It might
make something happen.”
“Oh, no, it won’t. You don’t suppose they’re listening all the time.”
Saying things like that made you feel good and at the same time naughty,
which was more exciting than only being one or the other. But Mamma’s
frightened face spoiled it. What did she think--what did she think God
would do?