Part 20 (2/2)

she said.

”But I don't understand,” said my mother; ”you told me when you came to me that you were going to be married in a few weeks.”

”Oh, that one!” Her tone suggested that an unfair strain was being put upon her memory. ”I didn't feel I wanted him as much as I thought I did when it came to the point.”

”You had meantime met the other one?” suggested my mother, with a smile.

”Well, we can't help our feelings, can we, mum?” admitted Amy, frankly, ”and what I always say is”--she spoke as one with experience even then--”better change your mind before it's too late afterwards.”

Amiable, sweet-faced, broad-hearted Amy! most faithful of friends, but oh! most faithless of lovers. Age has not withered nor custom staled her liking for infinite variety. Butchers, bakers, soldiers, sailors, Jacks of all trades! Does the sighing procession never pa.s.s before you, Amy, pointing ghostly fingers of reproach! Still Amy is engaged. To whom at the particular moment I cannot say, but I fancy to an early one who has lately become a widower. After more exact knowledge I do not care to enquire; for to confess ignorance on the subject, implying that one has treated as a triviality and has forgotten the most important detail of a matter that to her is of vital importance, is to hurt her feelings; while to angle for information is but to entangle oneself. To speak of Him as ”Tom,” when Tom has belonged for weeks to the dead and buried past, to hastily correct oneself to ”d.i.c.k” when there hasn't been a d.i.c.k for years, clearly not to know that he is now Harry, annoys her even more. In my mother's time we always referred to him as ”Dearest.” It was the t.i.tle with which she herself distinguished them all, and it avoided confusion.

”Well, and how's Dearest?” my mother would enquire, opening the door to Amy on the Sunday evening.

”Oh, very well indeed, mum, thank you, and he sends you his respects,”

or, ”Well, not so nicely as I could wish. I'm a little anxious about him, poor dear!”

”When you are married you will be able to take good care of him.”

”That's really what he wants--some one to take care of him. It's what they all want, the poor dears.”

”And when is it coming off?”

”In the spring, mum.” She always chose the spring when possible.

Amy was nice to all men, and to Amy all men were nice. Could she have married a dozen, she might have settled down, with only occasional regrets concerning those left without in the cold. But to ask her to select only one out of so many ”poor dears” was to suggest shameful waste of affection.

We had meant to keep our grim secret to ourselves; but to hide one's troubles long from Amy was like keeping cold hands from the fire. Very soon she knew everything that was to be known, drawing it all from my mother as from some overburdened child. Then she put my mother down into a chair and stood over her.

”Now you leave the house and everything connected with it to me, mum,”

commanded Amy; ”you've got something else to do.”

And from that day we were in the hands of Amy, and had nothing else to do but praise the Lord for His goodness.

Barbara also found out (from Washburn, I expect), though she said nothing, but came often. Old Hasluck would have come himself, I am sure, had he thought he would be welcome. As it was, he always sent kind messages and presents of fruit and flowers by Barbara, and always welcomed me most heartily whenever she allowed me to see her home.

She brought, as ever, suns.h.i.+ne with her, making all trouble seem far off and shadowy. My mother tended to the fire of love, but Barbara lit the cheerful lamp of laughter.

And with the lessening days my father seemed to grow younger, life lying lighter on him.

One summer's night he and I were walking with Barbara to Poplar station, for sometimes, when he was not looking tired, she would order him to fetch his hat and stick, explaining to him with a caress, ”I like them tall and slight and full grown. The young ones, they don't know how to flirt! We will take the boy with us as gooseberry;” and he, pretending to be anxious that my mother did not see, would kiss her hand, and slip out quietly with her arm linked under his. It was admirable the way he would enter into the spirit of the thing.

The last cloud faded from before the moon as we turned the corner, and even the East India Dock Road lay restful in front of us.

”I have always regarded myself,” said my father, ”as a failure in life, and it has troubled me.” I felt him pulled the slightest little bit away from me, as though Barbara, who held his other arm, had drawn him towards her with a swift pressure. ”But do you know the idea that has come to me within the last few months? That on the whole I have been successful. I am like a man,” continued my father, ”who in some deep wood has been frightened, thinking he has lost his way, and suddenly coming to the end of it, finds that by some lucky chance he has been guided to the right point after all. I cannot tell you what a comfort it is to me.

”What is the right point?” asked Barbara.

”Ah, that I cannot tell you,” answered my father, with a laugh. ”I only know that for me it is here where I am. All the time I thought I was wandering away from it I was drawing nearer to it. It is very wonderful.

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