Part 21 (2/2)

An instant later, when she pa.s.sed on into Bolingbroke Street, there was a smile on her face which made it almost pretty.

The front door was open, and as she entered the house her mother came groping toward her out of the close-smelling dusk of the hall.

”I thought you'd never get back, Susan. I've had such a funny feeling.”

”What kind of feeling, mother? It must be just nervousness. Here are some beautiful grapes I've brought you.”

”I wish you wouldn't leave me alone. I don't like to be left alone.”

”Well, I don't leave you any more than I'm obliged to, but if I stay shut up here I feel as if I'd smother. I've asked Miss w.i.l.l.y to come and sit with you this evening while I run up to welcome Virginia.”

”Is she coming back? n.o.body told me. n.o.body tells me anything.”

”But I did tell you. Why, we've been talking about it for weeks. You must have forgotten.”

”I shouldn't have forgotten it. I'm sure I shouldn't have forgotten it if you had told me. But you keep everything from me. You are just like your father. You and James are both just like your father.” Her voice had grown peevish, and an expression of fury distorted her usually pa.s.sive features.

”Why, mother, what in the world is the matter?” asked Susan, startled by her manner. ”Come upstairs and lie down. I don't believe you are well.

You didn't eat a morsel of breakfast, so I'm going to fix you a nice little lunch. I got you a beautiful sweetbread from Mr. Dewlap.”

Putting her arm about her, she led her up the long flight of steps to her room, where Mrs. Treadwell, pacified by the attention, began immediately to doze on the chintz-covered couch by the window.

”I don't see what on earth ever made me marry your father, Susan,” she said, starting up half an hour later, when her daughter appeared with the tray. ”Everybody knew the Treadwells couldn't hold a candle to my family.”

”I wouldn't worry about that now, mother,” replied Susan briskly, while she placed the tray on a little table at the head of the couch. ”Sit up and eat these oysters.”

”I'm obliged to worry over it,” returned Mrs. Treadwell irritably, while she watched her daughter arrange her plate and pour out the green tea from the little Rebecca-at-the-well teapot. ”I don't see what got into my head and made me do it. Why, his branch of the Treadwells had petered out until they were as common as dirt.”

”Well, it's too late to mend matters, so we'd better turn in and try to make the best of them.” She held out an oyster on the end of a fork, and her mother received and ate it obediently.

”If I could only once understand why I did it, I think I could rest easier, Susan.”

”Perhaps you were in love with each other. I've heard of such a thing.”

”Well, if I was going to fall in love, I reckon I could have found somebody better to fall in love with,” retorted Mrs. Treadwell with the same strange excitement in her manner. Then she took up her knife and fork and began to eat her luncheon with relish.

At five o'clock that afternoon, when Susan reached the house in Prince Street, Virginia, with her youngest child in her arms, was just stepping out of a dilapidated ”hack,” from which a grinning negro driver handed a collection of lunch baskets into the eager hands of the rector and Mrs.

Pendleton, who stood on the pavement.

”Here's Susan!” called Mrs. Pendleton in her cheerful voice, rather as if she feared her daughter would overlook her friend in the excitement of homecoming.

”Oh, you darling Susan!” exclaimed Virginia, kissing her over the head of a sleeping child in her arms. ”This is Jenny--poor little thing, she hasn't been able to keep her eyes open. Don't you think she is the living image of our Saint Memin portrait of great-grandmamma?”

”She's a cherub,” said Susan. ”Let me look at you first, Jinny. I want to see if you've changed.”

”Well, you can't expect me to look exactly as I did before I had four babies!” returned Virginia with a happy laugh. She was thinner, and there were dark circles of fatigue from the long journey under her eyes, but the Madonna-like possibilities in her face were fulfilled, and it seemed to Susan that she was, if anything, lovelier than before. The loss of her girlish bloom was forgotten in the expression of love and goodness which irradiated her features. She wore a black cloth skirt, and a blouse of some ugly blue figured silk finished at the neck with the lace scarf Susan had sent her at Christmas. Her hat was a characterless black straw trimmed with a bunch of yellow daisies; and by its shape alone, Susan discerned that Virginia had ceased to consider whether or not her clothes were becoming. But she shone with an air of calm and radiant happiness in which all trivial details were transfigured as by a flood of light.

”This is Lucy. She is six years old, and to think that she has never seen her dear Aunt Susan,” said Virginia, while she pulled forward the little girl who was shyly clinging to her skirt. ”And the other is Harry. Marthy, bring Harry here and let him speak to Miss Susan. He is nearly four, and so big for his age. Where is Harry, Marthy?”

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