Indeed, the very next morning at breakfast I noticed that mamma looked pale and almost as if she had been crying, and father was, so to say, "extra" kind to her and to me. He talked and laughed more than usual, partly perhaps to prevent our noticing how silent dear mamma was, but mostly I think because that is the way men do when they are really anxious or troubled.
I don't fancy Haddie thought there was anything wrong—he was in a hurry to get off to school.
After breakfast mamma told me to go and practise for half an hour, and if she did not come to me then, I had better go on doing some of my lessons alone. She would look them over afterwards. And as I was going out of the room she called me back[Pg 34] and kissed me again—almost as she had done the night before.
That gave me courage to say something. For children were not, in my childish days, on such free and easy terms with their elders as they are now. And kind and gentle as mamma was, we knew very distinctly the sort of things she would think forward or presuming on our part.
"Mamma," I said, still hesitating a little.
"Well, dear," she replied. She was buttoning, or pretending to button, the band of the little brown holland apron1 I wore, so that I could not see her face, but something in the tone of her voice told me that my instinct was not mistaken.
"Mamma," I repeated, "may I say something? I have a feeling that—that you are—that there is something the matter."
Mamma did not answer at once. Then she said very gently, but quite kindly2,
"Geraldine, my dear, you know that I tell you as much as I think it right to tell any one as young as you—I tell you more, of our plans and private matters and such things, than most mothers tell their little daughters. This has come about partly through your being so much alone with me. But[Pg 35] when I don't tell you anything, even though you may suspect there is something to tell, you should trust me that there is good reason for my not doing so."
"Yes," I said, but I could not stifle3 a little sigh. "Would you just tell me one thing, mamma," I went on; "it isn't anything that you're really unhappy about, is it?"
Again mamma hesitated.
"Dear child," she said, "try to put it out of your mind. I can only say this much to you, I am anxious more than troubled. There is nothing the matter that should really be called a trouble. But your father and I have a question of great importance to decide just now, and we are very—I may say really terribly—anxious to decide for the best. That is all I can tell you. Kiss me, my darling, and try to be your own bright little self. That will be a comfort and help to me."
I kissed her and I promised I would try to do as she wished. But it was with rather a heavy heart that I went to my practising. What could it be? I did try not to think of it, but it would keep coming back into my mind. And I was only a child. I had no experience of trouble or anxiety. After a[Pg 36] time my spirits began to rise again—there was a sort of excitement in the wondering what this great matter could be. I am afraid I did not succeed in putting it out of my mind as mamma wished me to do.
But the days went on without anything particular happening. I did not speak of what mamma had said to me to my brother. I knew she did not wish me to do so. And by degrees other things began to make me forget about it a little. It was just at that time, I remember, that some friend—an aunt on father's side, I think—sent me a present of The Wide, Wide World, and while I was reading it I seemed actually to live in the story. It was curious that I should have got it just then. If mamma had read it herself I am not sure that she would have given it to me. But after all, perhaps it served the purpose of preparing me a little—a very little—for what was before me in my own life.
It was nearly three weeks after the time I have described rather minutely that the blow fell, that Haddie and I were told the whole. I think, however, I will not go on telling how we were told, for I am afraid of making my story too long.
And of course, however good my memory is, I[Pg 37] cannot pretend that the conversations I relate took place exactly as I give them. I think I give the spirit of them correctly, but now that I have come to the telling of distinct facts, perhaps it will be better simply to narrate4 them.
You will remember my saying that my father had lost money very unexpectedly, and that this was what had obliged him to come to live at Mexington and work so hard. He had got the post he held there—it was in a bank—greatly through the influence of Mrs. Selwood, mamma's godmother, who lived in the country at some hours' distance from the town, and whose name was well known there, as she owned a great many houses and other property in the immediate5 neighbourhood.
Father was very glad to get this post, and very grateful to Mrs. Selwood. She took great interest in us all—that is to say, she was interested in Haddie and me because we were mamma's children, though she did not care for or understand children as a rule. But she was a faithful friend, and anxious to help father still more.
Just about the time I have got to in my story, the manager of a bank in South America, in some way connected with the one at Great Mexington,[Pg 38] became ill, and was told by the doctors that he must return to England and have a complete rest for two years. Mrs. Selwood had money connection with this bank too, and got to hear of what had happened. Knowing that father could speak both French and Spanish well, for he had been in the diplomatic service as a younger man, she at once applied6 for the appointment for him, and after some little delay she was told that he should have the offer of it for the two years.
Two years are not a very long time, even though the pay was high, but the great advantage of the offer was that the heads of the bank at Mexington promised, if all went well for that time, that some permanent post should be given to father in England on his return. This was what made him more anxious to accept the proposal than even the high pay. For Mrs. Selwood found out that he would not be able to save much of his salary, as he would have a large house to keep up, and would be expected to receive many visitors. On this account the post was never given to an unmarried man.
"If he accepts it," Mrs. Selwood wrote to mamma, "you, my dear Blanche, must go with him, and[Pg 39] some arrangement would have to be made about the children for the time. I would advise your sending them to school."
Now I think my readers will not be at a loss to understand why our dear mother had looked so troubled, even though on one side this event promised to be for our good in the end.
Father was allowed two or three weeks in which to make up his mind. The heads of the Mexington bank liked and respected him very much, and they quite saw that there were two sides to the question of his accepting the offer. The climate of the place was not very good—at least it was injurious to English people if they stayed there for long—and it was perfectly7 certain that it would be madness to take growing children like Haddie and me there.
This was the dark spot in it all to mamma, and indeed to father too. They were not afraid for themselves. They were both strong and still young, but they could not for a moment entertain the idea of taking us. And the thought of separation was terrible.
You see, being a small family, and living in a place like Great Mexington, where my parents had not many congenial friends, and being poor were[Pg 40] obliged to live carefully, home was everything to us all. We four were the whole world to each other, and knew no happiness apart.
I do not mean to say that I felt or saw all this at once, but looking back upon it from the outside, as it were, I see all that made it a peculiarly hard case, especially—at the beginning, that is to say—for mamma.
It seems strange that I did not take it all in—all the misery8 of it, I mean—at first, nor indeed for some time, not till I had actual experience of it. Even Haddie realised it more in anticipation9 than I did. He was two years older, and though he had never been at a boarding-school, still he knew something of school life. There were boarders at his school, and he had often seen and heard how, till they got accustomed to it at any rate, they suffered from home-sickness, and counted the days to the holidays.
And for us there were not to be any holidays! No certain prospect10 of them at best, though Mrs. Selwood said something vaguely11 about perhaps having us at Fernley for a visit in the summer. But it was very vague. And we had no near relations on mamma's side except Aunty Etta, who was in[Pg 41] India, and on father's no one who could possibly have us regularly for our holidays.
All this mamma grasped at once, and her grief was sometimes so extreme that, but for Mrs. Selwood, I doubt if father would have had the resolution to accept. But Mrs. Selwood was what is called "very sensible," perhaps just a little hard, and certainly not sensitive. And she put things before our parents in such a way that mamma felt it her duty to urge father to accept the offer, and father felt it his duty to put feelings aside and do so.
They went to stay at Fernley from a Saturday to a Monday to talk it well over, and it was when they came back on the Monday that we were told.
Before then I think we had both come to have a strong feeling that something was going to happen. I, of course, had some reason for this in what mamma had said to me, though I had forgotten about it a good deal, till this visit to Fernley brought back the idea of something unusual. For it was very seldom that we were left by ourselves.
We did not mind it much. After all, it was only two nights and one whole day, and that a Sunday, when my brother was at home, so we[Pg 42] stood at the door cheerfully enough, looking at our father and mother driving off in the clumsy, dingy12 old four-wheeler—though that is a modern word—which was the best kind of cab known at Mexington.
But when they were fairly off Haddie turned to me, and I saw that he was very grave. I was rather surprised.
"Why, Haddie," I said, "do you mind so much? They'll be back on Monday."
"No, of course I don't mind that," he said. "But I wonder why mamma looks so—so awfully13 trying-not-to-cry, you know."
"Oh," I said, "I don't think she's quite well. And she hates leaving us."
"No," said my brother, "there's something more."
And when he said that, I remembered the feeling I had had myself. I felt rather cross with Haddie; I wanted to forget it quite.
"You needn't try to frighten me like that," I said. "I meant to be quite happy while they were away—to please mamma, you know, by telling her so when she comes back."
Then Haddie, who really was a very good-natured, kind boy, looked sorry.
[Pg 43]
"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said; "perhaps it was my fancy. I don't want to be unhappy while they're away, I'm sure. I'm only too glad that to-day's Saturday and to-morrow Sunday."
And he did his very best to amuse me. We went out a walk that afternoon with the housemaid—quite a long walk, though it was winter. We went as far out of the town as we could get, to where there were fields, which in spring and summer still looked green, and through the remains14 of a little wood, pleasant even in the dullest season. It was our favourite walk, and the only pretty one near the town. There was a brook15 at the edge of the wood, which still did its best to sing merrily, and to forget how dingy and grimy its clear waters became a mile or two farther on; there were still a few treasures in the shape of ivy16 sprays and autumn-tinted leaves to gather and take home with us to deck our nursery.
I remember the look of it all so well. It was the favourite walk of many besides ourselves, especially on a Saturday, when the hard-worked Mexington folk were once free to ramble17 about—boys and girls not much older than ourselves among them, for in those days children were allowed to work in factories[Pg 44] much younger than they do now. We did not mind meeting some of our townsfellows. On the contrary, we felt a good deal of interest in them and liked to hear their queer way of talking, though we could scarcely understand anything they said. And we were very much interested indeed in some of the stories Lydia, who belonged to this part of the country, told us of her own life, in a village a few miles away, where there were two or three great factories, at which all the people about worked—men, women, and children too, so that sometimes, except for babies and very old people, the houses seemed quite deserted18.
"And long ago before that," said Lydia, "when mother was a little lass, it was such a pretty village—cottages all over with creepers and honeysuckle—not ugly rows of houses as like each other as peas. The people worked at home on their own hand-looms then."
Lydia had a sense of the beautiful!
On our way home, of course, we called at Miss Fryer's—this time we had a whole shilling to spend, for there was Sunday's tea to think of as well as to-day's. We had never had so much at a time, and our consultation19 took a good while. We decided20 at[Pg 45] last on seven crumpets and seven Bath buns as usual, and in addition to these, three large currant tea-cakes, which our friend Susan told us would be all the better for toasting if not too fresh. And the remaining threepence we invested in a slice of sweet sandwich, which she told us would be perfectly good if kept in a tin tightly closed. The old Quakeress for once, I have always suspected, departed on this occasion from her rule of exact payment for all purchases, for it certainly seemed a very large slice of sweet sandwich for threepence.
We were rather tired with our walk that evening and went to bed early. Nothing more was said by Haddie about his misgivings21. I think he hoped I had forgotten what had passed, but I had not. It had all come back again, the strange feeling of change and trouble in the air which had made me question mamma that morning two or three weeks ago.
But I did not as yet really believe it. I had never known what sorrow and trouble actually are. It is not many children who reach even the age I was then with so sunny and peaceful an experience of life. That anything could happen to us—to me—like what happened to "Ellen" in The Wide,[Pg 46] Wide World, I simply could not believe; even though if any one had talked to me about it and said that troubles must come and do come to all, and to some much more than to others, and that they might be coming to us, I should have agreed at once and said yes, of course I knew that was true.
The next day, Sunday, was very rainy. It made us feel dull, I think, though we did not really mind a wet Sunday as much as another day, for we never went a walk on Sunday. It was not thought right, and as we had no garden the day would have been a very dreary22 one to us, except for mamma.
She managed to make it pleasant. We went to church in the morning, and in the evening too sometimes. I think all children like going to church in the evening; there is something grown-up about it. And the rest of the day mamma managed to find interesting things for us to do. She generally had some book which she kept for reading aloud on Sunday—Dr. Adams's Allegories, "The Dark River" and others, were great favourites, and so were Bishop23 Wilberforce's Agathos. Some of them frightened me a little, but it was rather a pleasant sort of fright, there was something grand and solemn about it.
Then we sang hymns24 sometimes, and we always had a very nice tea, and mamma, and father too now and then, told us stories about when they were children and what they did on Sundays. It was much stricter for them than for us, though even for us many things were forbidden on Sundays which are now thought not only harmless but right.
Still, I never look back to the quiet Sundays in the dingy Mexington street with anything but a feeling of peace and gentle pleasure.
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1
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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2
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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4
narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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6
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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7
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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8
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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9
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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10
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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11
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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12
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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13
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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14
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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15
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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16
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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23
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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24
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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