Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-01-18


when she said good-by to me at the door, as if
she saw something long way off, some horri-
bic thing that froze her blood and made her
dumb.
lean understand what she felt now, and how
in her grief she was hardly conscious of my ex-
istence, and that she did not really care whet
/ went or stayed. / can sympathize with her
now. She has told me how she hardly missed
me in those days of agony-only awaking some-
times as II out OF dream to wonder that my
place was empty. We had been 40 much to-
gether, running after her everywhere like lap
dog, she never tired of me. or became inpatient
with me; and yet i'll that overwhelming sorrow
she almost forgot that she had daughter She
has owned as much to me, and / have never
felt wounded or angry that it should have been
80 with her. since l have been able to under
stand the nature of such grief as hers But at
the time | was heart broken bv her coldness
Aunt Emily took me to London and gave me
over to the nurses and governesses In her house
IN Harley street. 1t is very large house. the
largest in the street, believe. and il was built
Tor a rich nobleman when Harley street was
new, ana there was nothing but fields and
country villages to the north-no Regents Park,
no squares and terraces, and never-ending
streets as there are now. 1t is fine old house.
with paneled walls and decorated ceilings and
large rooms at the back; but it seemed, oh! such
a dreary house to ME after our garden by the
river and our bright, gay rooms.
Father is dead and mother doesn't love me
any more" said to myself again and again, as
sobbed myself to sleep in the strange bed
ROOM where the very curtains of the bed were
an agony to me because of their stranseness
had never been parted from my mother be-
fore. Wherever she and my father went they
had taken me with them.
My cousins were all older than me and they
had TO work very hard under French and a
German goyerDess. Fraulein taught them
music and painting, and Mademoiselle taught
them French, attended to their wardrobes,
| with a useful maid under her, and superin-
tended their calisthenic exercises and dancing
lessons, and was responsible Tor their figures
cannot help putting that phrase in nv book,
for heard my aunt use it very often Her
great desire was that her daughters should be
accomplished and elegant in all their attitudes
and movements
Il expect them to be statuesuue in repose
and graceful in notion" she said and it gave
( her almost nervous attack when she saw
Clementlna sitting with her toes turned to each
other, or her feet and ankles twisted into a
knot under her chair.
There is no malice i'll saying that Aunt Emily's
idea OF education was the very opposite to that
OF Uncle Ambrose's. He laugh and trained me
! to be happy IN solitude. as he is. to be good
company for myself and to tind new interests
every day in books. Aunt Emily wished her
daughters to shine in society. to talk French
and German and to play and sing better than
any other girls in her circle, and above all TO
make the most of their personal advantages
she is perfectly candid in the expression of her
education, SO there is no harm in nv recorelno
them IN this Journal which nobody is ever TO
read, so l might be az malevolent as like
without injurlng anybody.
Mother says that | am very uncharitab!e
sometimes IN my ideas and judgments and that
large hearted charity is a virtue of age rather
than youth. l know that l am quick TO see
the weak points in the characters of nv friends
and acquaintance and dareSay | am lust AS
blind to my own defects.
1t il a lucky thine for Amt Uni +bot r.
nve daughters are good looking and two of
them decidedly handsome pain daughter
would have been an actual affection to her. All
the ugilness OF the family has concentrated
Itself III her only son, my cousin Horace a very
PLAN boy. But fortunately he is scientific and
promises to be shining liSht in the medical
professions; at least that is what his father and
mother say of him. He has made a profound
study Of sanitation, and he can hardly talk to
any one hye minutes without mentioning sewage
gas. He Is always altering the lighting or the
drainage or the ventilation in Harley street
and his father complains that his experiments
are equivalent to a rent.
Horace was eighteen when nv father died.
and while was at Westgate with my cousins
and The two governesses he used to come down
on Saturday and stop till Monday, ana | must
own to my diary, which is a kind of lions
mouth into which l can drop any accusations l
like, that he gave himself great airs to his
sisters and the governes5es, and was altogether
very disagreeable.
Those summer weeks at Westgate were the
unhappiest period OF my life. l look back at
them, now am grown up. and wonder that
ever lived through them. Ny cousins were
KIND to me IN condescendlng way, as was
natural from big girls to little girl, and the
governesses were very sorry for me and tried
to comfort me, but there was no comfort for
me on the face OF the earth without my mother,
and night after night l dreamt of my dead
father and woke to the agony of knowing that
1 should never see his beloved face or hear his
dear voice again. except in dreams. | think
grown-np people forget how keenly they
grieved and suffered when they were children
and that they never quite understand q chlld's
grief. know that when either OF the govern
esses tried to console me she always made me
just little more miserable than / was before
she took me on her lap and talked to me about
heaven and my father.
1 heard by accident. as | was not intended to
hear 1t, that my mother was very ill, danger
ously Ill. and was so unhappy about her that
after entreatlng again and again with passion
ate tears to be taken to her made up my mind
to walk to London and from London to River
Lawn. l had looked at the map of England
sometimes when my cousins had their aliases
out and knew that to reach Lamford | must
go through London. l lay awake all night
thinking OF how was to get away when the !
governess and the maids were engaged and | |
could creep out Of the house without being
seen. l believe should really have started on |
this journey but for the arrival of my Uncle |
Ambrose, who came upon me suddenly on the /
day after l had heard of my mothers illness
and who found Inc sitting crying alone on the |
sands.
His was the first voice that brought me COM
fort; it was upon his breast that 1 sobbed out
my grief. until the burden seemed lightened
somehow. He told me that my mother was out |
OF danger now and that she would soon get we'll |
or at least well enough for me to go home and |
be with her again, and he said must try and |
be a comfort and consolation to her in the |
days to come.
told him was afraid my mother had left |
OH loving me since fathers death. She had not |
seemed TO mind my going away. while | was |
heart broken at leaving her. And then he tried |
to make me understand how in a great grief |
like my mothers all things seem blotted out !
except that one overpowerng sense of loss |
he told me that a dark curtain had fallen over |
my mothers mind and that | should find her |
changed from the happy woman l had known |
Ill the happy days that were gone.
But the curtain will be lifted by-and-by, |
Daisy" he said, land you will see your mothers
joyous nature return to her. No grief lasts |
forever. year is long time even for a great !
sorrow, and IN year your mother will begin to |
forget"
He meant this for consolation, but my tears |
broke out afresh at the thought that my father |
could be forgotten.
Il shall never forget him." said
No, my darling, he viii live i'll your memory |
and your mothers, but your memory of him |
will be sweet and sad, instead of bitter and
crupl He wi hay ak ,,Io