CHAPTER XIV
Phœbe knew a great deal about death. Had she not seen it thousands of times on the screen, and in nearly every conceivable form?—by fire and water, by famine, by the knife of the assassin, the cup of the poisoner, the burglar’s automatic, the soldier’s bayonet. Comfortably seated beside her mother or Sally, before a great curtain that sprang into life as the theatre darkened, she had even watched the waging of the Great War!
So it was easy for her, with her imagination thus trained and stimulated, to call up—once she knew of her mother’s death—such pictures in her mind as could augment to the point of torture the natural grief of her fourteen years. She saw her mother die alone, weeping out her last moments; or she saw a nurse and a priest watching beside that distant bed. She saw other things that made her shudder, and cover her eyes, or cling to whomever was nearest for the comfort and sympathy that could drive away such terrible visions.
That first week was a week of poignant suffering. She was not left alone one moment. By day she was passed, as it were, from hand to hand in the household, taking her turn with Sophie in the kitchen of a morning, spending the early afternoon with Grandma, the later hours with Uncle Bob. By night she slept only if someone sat beside her, in her high, big room, and held her hand. Sometimes Grandma stayed the first half of the night, or Sophie. After midnight it was Uncle Bob who took his place at her pillow.
There was something particularly sweet and comforting to Phœbe about that companionship through the night. If she started from troubled dreams, and cried out, always there was an answering voice, low and loving, to soothe her; and there were tender kisses, and in the dark a hand would caress her cheek or smooth her hair. Then she would murmur a little, brokenly, and sleep again.
She found that a bereavement was not without its compensations! For one thing, the local newspapers had short, but kind, notices of the death, in the Far West, of Mrs. James Blair. And there were references to “the little daughter, Phœbe, now residing with her grandmother, Mrs. John G. Blair”. Never before had Phœbe seen her own name in print. She liked the notices. They made her cry, but they also interested her strangely.
Then there were the black bands which Grandma sewed on the left sleeves of Phœbe’s Sunday and second-best dresses. Uncle John had opposed the bands strongly, and in Phœbe’s presence. He did not approve of the wearing of mourning by children. But Uncle Bob thought otherwise. “It’s the least we can do,” he said firmly. Grandma agreed. Sophie thought a black band was “awful swell”. And as for Phœbe, a band on her sleeve seemed to set her apart, somehow, to single her out particularly. And she liked to wear it. She was almost proud of it!
There were other compensations. People sent her flowers, and candy, and Miss Simpson wrote her a note of condolence—a most polite note, which Phœbe tore up! And there was another letter, a “Round Robin” from eight of the girls at Miss Simpson’s. Phœbe was so happy when it came—happy in a triumphant way. This letter she also destroyed. And she refused to answer either.
“They didn’t like me when my mother was alive,” she declared. “And they said things about Mother.”
“Good for you, old dumpling!” commended Uncle Bob. “There’s spunk for you!”