[CHAPTER XIV.]
RUPERT'S RETURN.
No; mother wasn't her old self altogether; I soon found that. The great blow of father's death had left a weakness. She was busy and contented, and didn't murmur; but there was just a touch of weakness. Most likely there always would be, the doctors said.
She took to calling me "Kittenkins" after I came back, and we couldn't cure her of it; so soon we left off trying. It didn't matter, so long as she was pleased.
There was always a sort of petting manner too, as if I was a little child again; and I didn't wish to cure that. Sometimes we fancied she was remembering how bitter she'd been against me, and was trying to make up for it. Any way, I felt I had deserved the bitterness, and I didn't deserve all this love.
Mother would often speak of father, but never of the way he was killed, nor of my wrong behaviour before. Often she called me "Poor little Kitten-kins!" in such a grieved voice, I thought she was pitying me for having put him to pain; but one could not be sure.
We soon settled to live in Redland. The surroundings of Claxton would be bad for mother, everybody said, bringing back her great trouble. Besides, Mary could get any amount of work near Bristol, and in Claxton it would be hard to keep ourselves afloat. Mother had a small annuity, but not enough to live on in any comfort.
So I took to dressmaking with Mary, and grew to like it. Redland air suited me, and I got stronger, and was able to sit many hours a day at my needle without suffering. Mother was a help too, only we couldn't let her do very much.
For some months Mary heard almost nothing of Walter or his wife. Then he began to write again, and we soon found out why. He wanted money.
I think our being with Mary was a great protection for her. He couldn't be always running in to screw money out of her, for he didn't care to meet me; and he wouldn't have seen mother on any account, or so we thought.