It was an absurd little incident, forgotten until now, when it awoke in
her memory to wring the mother's heart without almost intolerable pain.
Banished! Not good enough to sit at the table with Bessie--her Franky, her
baby, her angel boy! In her heart she knew the boy had not cared, that, a
few tears shed, his meal was as welcome to him in one part of the room as
the other. Yet that picture of him, sitting lonely, munching in his
corner, beset her with pain too deep for tears; the little uncomplaining
figure bitterly accused her, she was reproached by the reproachless eyes.
So she sat by the river and cried there, unable to turn her mind to the
living children; to Bessie, so hard at times, but only because she was
unawakened, did not understand; to pretty, pretty Deleah with her innocent
allurements, her winning ways; to Bernard, who had written in his last
miserable letter from India that he loved her best in the world. Of these
she thought not at all; but only of the child eating his radishes in the
corner, looking solemnly at her out of his big dark eyes.
He called her from his grave, and presently she got up and went there.
Deleah, dropped by the Forcus carriage at the private door in Bridge
Street, went running up the stairs, and into the sitting-room.
Pages:
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358