They took turns in writing to us with the greatest regularity about Cecily; only once, I think, did they miss the weekly mail, and that was when she threatened diphtheria and they thought we had better be kept in ignorance.The kind and affectionate terms of these letters never altered except with the facts they described--teething, creeping, measles, cheeks growing round and rosy, all were conveyed in the same smooth, pat, and proper phrases, so absolutely empty of any glimpse of the child's personality that after the first few months it was like reading about a somewhat uninteresting infant in a book.I was sure Cecily was not uninteresting, but her chroniclers were.We used to wade through the long, thin sheets and saw how much more satisfactory it would be when Cecily could write to us herself.Meanwhile we noted her weekly progress with much the feeling one would have about a far-away little bit of property that was giving no trouble and coming on exceedingly well.We would take possession of Cecily at our convenience; till then, it was gratifying to hear of our unearned increment in dear little dimples and sweet little curls.
She was nearly four when I saw her again.We were home on three months' leave; John had just got his first brevet for doing something which he does not allow me to talk about in the Black Mountain country; and we were fearfully pleased with ourselves.Iremember that excitement lasted well up to Port Said.As far as the Canal, Cecily was only one of the pleasures and interests we were going home to: John's majority was the thing that really gave savour to life.But the first faint line of Europe brought my child to my horizon; and all the rest of the way she kept her place, holding out her little arms to me, beckoning me on.Her four motherless years brought compunction to my heart and tears to my eyes; she should have all the compensation that could be.Isuddenly realized how ready I was--how ready!--to have her back.Irebelled fiercely against John's decision that we must not take her with us on our return to the frontier; privately, I resolved to dispute it, and, if necessary, I saw myself abducting the child--my own child.My days and nights as the ship crept on were full of a long ache to possess her; the defrauded tenderness of the last four years rose up in me and sometimes caught at my throat.I could think and talk and dream of nothing else.John indulged me as much as was reasonable, and only once betrayed by a yawn that the subject was not for him endlessly absorbing.Then I cried and he apologized.'You know,' he said, 'it isn't exactly the same thing.
I'm not her mother.' At which I dried my tears and expanded, proud and pacified.I was her mother!
Then the rainy little station and Alice, all-embracing in a damp waterproof, and the drive in the fly, and John's mother at the gate and a necessary pause while I kissed John's mother.Dear thing, she wanted to hold our hands and look into our faces and tell us how little we had changed for all our hardships; and on the way to the house she actually stopped to point out some alterations in the flower-borders.At last the drawing-room door and the smiling housemaid turning the handle and the unforgettable picture of a little girl, a little girl unlike anything we had imagined, starting bravely to trot across the room with the little speech that had been taught her.Half-way she came; I suppose our regards were too fixed, too absorbed, for there she stopped with a wail of terror at the strange faces, and ran straight back to the outstretched arms of her Aunt Emma.The most natural thing in the world, no doubt.Iwalked over to a chair opposite with my hand-bag and umbrella and sat down--a spectator, aloof and silent.Aunt Emma fondled and quieted the child, apologizing for her to me, coaxing her to look up, but the little figure still shook with sobs, hiding its face in the bosom that it knew.I smiled politely, like any other stranger, at Emma's deprecations, and sat impassive, looking at my alleged baby breaking her heart at the sight of her mother.It is not amusing even now to remember the anger that I felt.I did not touch her or speak to her; I simply sat observing my alien possession, in the frock I had not made and the sash I had not chosen, being coaxed and kissed and protected and petted by its Aunt Emma.Presently Iasked to be taken to my room, and there I locked myself in for two atrocious hours.Just once my heart beat high, when a tiny knock came and a timid, docile little voice said that tea was ready.But I heard the rustle of a skirt, and guessed the directing angel in Aunt Emma, and responded, 'Thank you, dear, run away and say that Iam coming,' with a pleasant visitor's inflection which I was able to sustain for the rest of afternoon.
'She goes to bed at seven,' said Emma.
'Oh, does she?' said I.'A very good hour, I should think.'
'She sleeps in my room,' said Mrs.Farnham.
'We give her mutton broth very often, but seldom stock soup,' said Aunt Emma.'Mamma thinks it is too stimulating.'
'Indeed?' said I, to all of it.
They took me up to see her in her crib, and pointed out, as she lay asleep, that though she had 'a general look' of me, her features were distinctively Farnham.
