But whether Isabel were herself perplexed, or whether she understood, and thought it better to shut our mouths, that cannot I tell to this day.
Well, after that things were quiet again for a while: a very long while, it seemed to me. I believe it was really about six months. During that time, we saw much more of our mother than we used to do; she would come often into the nursery, and take one of the little ones on her lap—it was oftenest Blanche—and sit there with her. Sometimes she would talk with Dame Hilda; but more frequently she was silent and sad, at times looking long from the casement as if she saw somewhat that none other eyes could see. Jack said one day—
“Whither go Mother’s eyes when she looks out of the window?”
“For shame, Damsel (Note 3) John!” cried Dame Hilda. “‘Mother,’ indeed! Only common children use such a word. Say ‘my Lady’ if you please.”
“She is my mother, isn’t she?” said Jack stubbornly. “Why shouldn’t I call her so, I should like to know? But you haven’t answered me, Dame.”
“I know not what you mean, Damsel.”
“Why, when she sits down in that chair, and takes Blanchette on her knee,—her eyes go running out of the window first thing. Whither wend they?”
“Children like you cannot understand,” replied Dame Hilda, with one of those superior smiles which used to make me feel so very naughty. It seemed to say, “My poor, little, despicable insect, how could you dream of supposing that your intellect was even with Mine?” (There, I have writ that a capital M in red ink. To have answered to Dame Hilda’s tone when she put that smile on, it should have been in vermilion and gold leaf.) Howbeit, Jack never cared for all the airs she put on.
“Then why don’t you make us understand it?” said he.
I do not remember what Dame Hilda said to that, but I dare say she boxed Jack’s ears.