Part 20 (1/2)

The child was trying to get used to changed ideas. If her mother was glad and happy, now that they were again united, why should she be sorry? It seemed selfish to her as if she grudged them the joy. And Cousin Chilian was trying every way to entertain her, to help her on to perfect recovery. Sometimes, when she sat alone in the study, the soft eyes would overflow and the tears course silently down her cheeks. She never cried in the tempestuous way of some children. But she knew now she had counted a good deal on their having a home together. Rachel would keep the house and she and her father would take walks and have a garden, where she could cut flowers and have them in the house. Cousin Elizabeth said they made a litter. And now she should never go down to the wharf and see him standing on the deck, and wave her hand to him, as she used when he went on short journeys in India. They would have a low carry-all and ride around, as she would tell him all she had learned about Salem. And they would have people in to drink tea and have pretty dishes on the table. Perhaps he would give her a party. But she didn't know any children, except the Uphams. It might be better to go to school so that she could get acquainted.

Chilian was a good deal startled about the black garments.

”She is so little and thin,” he objected. ”I never did like children in black; it seems as if you weighted them down with woe. And he has been dead so many months now.”

”But one ought to pay decent respect to a custom sanctioned by all civilized people. There will be a talk about it. Folks may think it our fault.”

”I do not believe half a dozen people would notice it. It's only a custom after all. I never did like it. We will see how she feels about it.”

”Chilian, you make that child of as much importance as if she was a woman grown. You will have your hands full by and by. She will think every one must bow down to her and consult her whims and fancies.”

”We will see;” nodding indifferently.

He didn't want her around in garments of woe. Very gently he mentioned the subject.

She glanced up out of sweet, entreating eyes. She had been standing by him, looking over a very choice book of engravings.

”Yes,” she returned. ”Rachel spoke of it. And you know there are some people who wear white, and some who put on yellow. Black isn't a nice color. Do you like it?”

He shook his head.

”It is the inside of me that aches now and then, when I think I shall never see him come sailing back, that I must be a long while without him until I go to their land. But he must be very happy with mother, and that is what I think of when I feel how hard it is;” and the tears stole softly down her cheeks. ”I have Rachel and you, and he said you would always love me and care for me. But I try not to feel sorry, and if I had on a black frock I couldn't help but think of it all the time. Then I should be sorry inside and outside both, and is it right to make yourself unhappy when you believe people have gone to heaven?”

She said it so simply that he was deeply moved. She had been alone with her sorrow all this time, when they had thought her indifferent.

”You need not wear black--I wish you would not. I want you to get real well and happy. And you are a brave little girl to think of them and refrain from grief.”

She wiped away the tears lest they should fall on the book.

”At first it was quite dreadful to me. I couldn't say anything. Then I remembered how we used to talk of mother, as if she was only in the next room. And then I sit here and think, when the sky is such a splendid blue and there come little white rifts in it, as if somewhere it opened, I can almost see them. Can't people come back for a few moments?”

”Only in dreams, I imagine.”

”I can _almost_ see them. And they are so glad to be together. And I know father says, 'Cynthia will come by and by.' But twenty years, or thirty years, is a long while to wait.”

Perhaps she wouldn't need to wait so long, he thought, as he noted the transparent face.

”And now I should be sorry to go away from you,” she said, with grave sweetness.

”I think your father meant you should stay a long while with me when he gave you to me;” and he pressed her closer to his heart.

So she did not wear mourning, to Elizabeth's very real displeasure.

There was no further talk about the school, but she did try to sew a little and began the sampler. Cousin Eunice was her guide here. She brought out hers that was over fifty years old, and all the colors were fading.

”I wonder if I shall live fifty years,” she mused.

Driving about was her great entertainment. You could go to Marblehead, which was a peninsula. There were the fishery huts and the men curing and drying fish. Sometimes they took pa.s.sage in one of the numerous sailing vessels and went in and out the irregular sh.o.r.e, and saw Boston from the bay. It seemed in those times as if it might get drowned out, there was so much water around it.

”And if it should float off out to sea, some day,” she half inquired, laughingly.