Transcribed from 1893 Macmillan and Co. edition by DavidPrice, . Proofed by Nina Hall, MohuaSen, Bridie, Francine Smith and David.
An old lady, in a highdrawing-room, had had her chair moved close to the fire, whereshe sat knitting and warming her knees. She was dressed indeep mourning; her face had a faded nobleness, tempered, however,by the somewhat illiberal compression assumed by her lips inobedience to something that was passing in her mind. Shewas far from the lamp, but though her eyes were fixed upon heractive needles she was not looking at them. What she reallysaw was quite another train of affairs. The room wasspacious and dim; the thick London fog had oozed into it eventhrough its superior defences. It was full of dusky,massive, valuable things. The old lady sat motionless savefor the regularity of her clicking needles, which seemed aspersonal to her and as expressive as prolonged fingers. Ifshe was thinking something out, she was thinking itthoroughly.
When she looked up, on the entrance of a girl of twenty, itmight have been guessed that the appearance of this young ladywas not an interruption of her meditation, but rather acontribution to it. The young lady, who was charming tobehold, was also in deep mourning, which had a freshness, ifmourning can be fresh, an air of having been lately put on. She went straight to the bell beside the chimney-piece and pulledit, while in her other hand she held a sealed and directedletter. Her companion glanced in silence at the letter;then she looked still harder at her work. The girl hoverednear the fireplace, without speaking, and after a due, adignified interval the butler appeared in response to thebell. The time had been sufficient to make the silencebetween the ladies seem long. The younger one asked thebutler to see that her letter should be posted; and after he hadgone out she moved vaguely about the room, as if to give hergrandmother—for such was the elder personage—a chanceto begin a colloquy of which she herself preferred not to strikethe first note. As equally with herself her companion wason the face of it capable of holding out, the tension, though itwas already late in the evening, might have lasted long. But the old lady after a little appeared to recognise, a trifleungraciously, the girl’s superior resources.
“Have you written to your mother?”
“Yes, but only a few lines, to tell her I shall come andsee her in the morning.”
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” asked thegrandmother.
“I don’t quite know what you want me tosay.”
“I want you to say that you’ve made up yourmind.”
“Yes, I’ve done that, granny.”
“You intend to respect your father’swishes?”
“It depends upon what you mean by respecting them. I do justice to the feelings by which they weredictated.”
“What do you mean by justice?” the old ladyretorted.
The girl was silent a moment; then she said:“You’ll see my idea of it.”
“I see it already! You’ll go and live withher.”
“I shall talk the situation over with her to-morrow andtell her that I think that will be best.”
“Best for her, no doubt!”
“What’s best for her is best for me.”
“And for your brother and sister?” As thegirl made no reply to this her grandmother went on:“What’s best for them is that you should acknowledgesome responsibility in regard to them and, considering how youngthey are, try and do something for them.”
“They must do as I’ve done—they must act forthemselves. They have their means now, and they’refree.”
“Free? They’re mere children.”
“Let me remind you that Eric is older than I.”
“He doesn’t like his mother,” said the oldlady, as if that were an answer.
“I never