ON the last day of February, Mrs. Dabney was surprised if not exhilarated by a visit from her two children in the little book-shop.
"It's the last day in the world that I should have thought you'd 'a' come out on," she told them, in salutation--and for comment they all glanced along the dark narrow alley of shelves to the street window.
A gloomy spectacle it was indeed, with a cold rain slanting through the discredited remnants of a fog, which the east wind had broken up, but could not drive away, and with only now and again a passer-by moving across the dim vista, masked beneath an umbrella, or bent forward with chin buried in turned-up collar. In the doorway outside the sulky boy stamped his feet and slapped his sides with his arms in pantomimic mutiny against the task of guarding the book-stalls' dripping covers, which nobody would be mad enough to pause over, much less to lift.
"I don't know but I'd ought to let the boy bring in the books and go home," she said, as their vague gaze was attracted by his gestures. "But it isn't three yet--it seems ridiculous to close up. Still, if you'd be more comfortable upstairs""Why, mamma! The idea of making strangers of us, "protested Julia. She strove to make her tone cheerful, but its effect of rebuke was unmistakable.
The mother, leaning against the tall desk, looked blankly at her daughter. The pallid flicker of the gas-jet overhead made her long, listless face seem more devoid of colour than ever.
"But you are as good as strangers, aren't you?"she observed, coldly. "You've been back in town ten days and more, and I've scarcely laid eyes upon either of you.
But don't you want to sit down? You can put those parcels on the floor anywhere. Or shall I do it for you?"Alfred had been lounging in the shadowed corner against a heap of old magazines tied in bundles. He sprang up now and cleared the chair, but his sister declined it with a gesture. Her small figure had straightened itself into a kind of haughty rigidity.
"There has been so much to do, mamma," she explained, in a clear, cool voice. "We have had hundreds of things to buy and to arrange about. All the responsibility for the housekeeping rests upon me--and Alfred has his studio to do.
But of course we should have looked in upon you sooner--and much oftener--if we had thought you wanted us. But really, when we came to you, the very day after our return, it was impossible for us to pretend that you were glad to see us.""Oh, I was glad enough," Mrs. Dabney made answer, mechanically. "Why shouldn't I be glad? And why should you think I wasn't glad? Did you expect me to shout and dance?""But you said you wouldn't come to see us in Ovington Square,"Alfred reminded her.
"That's different," she declared. "What would I be doing in Ovington Square? It's all right for you to be there.
I hope you'll be happy there. But it wouldn't add anything to your happiness to have me there; it would be quite the other way about. I know that, if you DON'T. This is my place, here, and I intend to stick to it!"Julia's bright eyes, scanning the apathetic, stubborn maternal countenance, hardened beyond their wont.
"You talk as if there had been some class war declared, "she said, with obvious annoyance. "You know that Uncle Stormont would like nothing better than to be as nice to you as he is to us.""Uncle Stormont!" Mrs. Dabney's repetition of the words was surcharged with hostile sarcasm. "But his name was Stormont as much as it was Joel, "broke in Alfred, from his dark corner. "He has a perfect right to use the one he likes best.""Oh, I don't dispute his right," she replied, once more in her passionless monotone. "Everybody can call themselves whatever they please. It's no affair of mine. You and your sister spell your father's name in a way to suit yourselves: I never interfered, did I? You have your own ideas and your own tastes.
They are quite beyond me--but they're all right for you.
I don't criticize them at all. What I say is that it is a great mercy your uncle came along, with his pockets full of money to enable you to make the most of them.
If I were religious I should call that providential.""And that's what we DO call it," put in Julia, with vivacity.
"And why should you shut your doors against this Providence, mamma? Just think of it! We don't insist upon your coming to live at Ovington Square at all. Probably, as you say, you would be happier by yourself--at least for the present.
But when Uncle St--when uncle says there's more than enough money for us all, and is only too anxious for you to let him do things for you--why, he's your own brother!
It's as if I should refuse to allow Alfred to do things for me.""That you never did," interposed the young man, gayly.
"I'll say that for you, Jule."
"And never will," she assured him, with cheerful decision.
"But no--mamma--can't you see what we mean? We have done what you wanted us to do. You sent us both to much better schools than you could afford, from the time we were of no age at all--and when uncle's money came you sent us to Cheltenham. We did you no discredit.
We worked very well; we behaved ourselves properly.
We came back to you at last with fair reason to suppose that you would be--I won't say proud, but at least well satisfied with us--and then it turned out that you didn't like us at all.""I never said anything of the sort," the mother declared, with a touch of animation.
"Oh no--you never said it," Julia admitted, "but what else can we think you mean? Our uncle sends for us to go abroad with him, and you busy yourself getting me ready, and having new frocks made and all that--and I never hear a suggestion that you don't want me to go----""But I did want you to go," Mrs. Dabney affirmed.
"Well, then, when I come back--when we come back, and tell you what splendid and generous plans uncle has made for us, and how he has taken a beautiful furnished house and made it our home, and so on,--why, you won't even come and look at the house!""But I don't want to see it," the mother retorted; obstinately.
"Well, then, you needn't!" said Alfred, rising.
