Part 12 (1/2)

So Suzanna in a short time descended. How restful the house was; no insistent voices of children, no clattering of dishes.

”It's so quiet and nice here, Mrs. Reynolds,” said Suzanna, as she entered the kitchen. ”At home there's lots of talking and sometimes the baby cries.”

”Do you like quiet, Suzanna?”

”Ye-es,” Suzanna stammered. A recurrent attack of homesickness was upon her; that dreadful pulling of the heartstrings; that sinking feeling that she had cut herself loose from all to whom she belonged rightfully.

She stood still watching Mrs. Reynolds who was busy at the stove. She admired the deftness with which an egg was broken and dropped into boiling water, and in a few seconds brought to the top intact, to be placed upon the awaiting toast.

”You're awful quick, Mrs. Reynolds,” she started to say when a knock sounded upon the door.

The door slowly opened and, alone, Suzanna's mother entered.

She stood just looking in. She was pale, her eyes wide, languid, shadows beneath them as though she had not slept. But those same tired eyes lightened as they fell upon Suzanna.

”Mother-eyes,” the phrase grew in Suzanna's heart. She should never in all her life forget that look of longing, of love.

And somehow another impression, new, almost unbelievable, came to Suzanna. Her mother was _young_, for wasn't that yearning note in her voice; that tentative little gesture; her whole questioning att.i.tude, all her seekings, but expressions of her youngness? She wasn't after all far removed from her little daughter, not for this minute, anyway. A delicious sense of comrades.h.i.+p with this mother flooded the child.

And the mother stood and looked at her child, almost as for the first time, at least with a sense of newness, as though Suzanna had been born anew to her.

In the night a far reaching understanding had come to her. It came out of her conclusion to strike a blow at the child's oversensitiveness by a full dose of ridicule; by accusing her of affectation, a clever playing to the gallery; this when the night was early, and the mother still aching with weariness from the day's many tasks. And then as the hours wore on, and the quiet soothed her weary nerves, the knowledge came, flas.h.i.+ng out of the ether, as often it does for serious mothers, that the gift of keen sensibility, of intense desire was too valuable to be quenched.

What if Suzanna began to question her own motives; what if she should lose belief in her own spiritual integrity; learn in time to look in on herself with a spirit of morbid a.n.a.lysis instead of living out her natural qualities beautifully and spontaneously!

All these truths stirred her again as she looked at her child.

While Suzanna didn't move from her place, she wanted to stay at some distance that she might look her soul's full at her mother--_her mother_!

At length she spoke: ”Mother--I want to be your little girl again. Will you take me back?”

Would she take her back? Mrs. Procter's arms opened wide. Into them Suzanna flew.

Mrs. Reynolds regarded the cold poached egg, the second one spoiled that morning. Furtively she wiped the tears from her eyes. At last she cleared her voice and spoke:

”I'll go upstairs and pack your bag, Suzanna,” she said.

CHAPTER VIII

SUZANNA MEETS A CHARACTER

That summer was a happy one, filled to the brim, as Suzanna often said, with joyful times. In her pink lawn dress with the petticoat after all showing through the lace, she recited ”The Little Martyr of Smyrna” and brought much applause to herself.

And then following close upon that happy occasion, Miss Ma.s.sey invited her pupils to a ”lawn party.” Once again the pink dress was to see the day.

”I'll be very careful with the dress, mother,” Suzanna promised on the day of the lawn party. ”Perhaps it'll wear just as long if I take extra care of it as though the goods weren't cut away.”

”Enjoy your dress,” said Mrs. Procter. She had learned another truth which had sprung from the episode of the pink lawn. Economy might, indeed must dwell in a little home like hers, but sometimes, recklessly, the stern G.o.ddess must be usurped from her place. For the child love of beauty, the child's capacity for fine imaginings, could not be killed at the nod of economy.