“Well, I ain’t enjoyed it,” said Mrs. Browne, with a sigh; “they worrit my life out, these parties, and unsettle the servints, and make all the house rumpled up, and then no one says thank you or likes you a bit better for it all.”
She felt she might ease her poor old heart a little to this young girl, whose dress was not fine enough to make her haughty, and whose face was sweetly sympathetic.
“Oh, I’m sure every one has enjoyed it very much, and thinks it is very kind of you to give such a nice party,” Nellie said, touched by the tired quaver in the speaker’s voice.
“Me!” the old lady replied, with a touch of bitterness. “I’m only their mother, I don’t give it, bless your soul!—all the good mothers is nowadays, is to mind the servints and take blame when things go wrong. Me! All I ’ave to do is to order dinner and stay up till every one’s gone.”
She rocked herself to and fro unhappily; her state of bondage was beginning to tell upon her.
[204]
]“Ha’ you got a mother?” she asked, turning sharply on her young guest.
And Nellie’s reply was very low and sad: “She died nine years ago.”
The poor child was in the mood to-night to long inexpressibly for the soft arms and breast of a mother. There was silence for a few minutes.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Browne, and her voice also was very low, and a little unsteady with tears, “she was fortunit, mothers had oughter die when their childers is little and loves them. When childers is growed up mothers is only in the way.”
Nellie stretched out her young hand and stroked the poor old fat one that was tremblingly smoothing imaginary creases out of the sofa seat. “Why, I would give all the world if my mother were alive,” she said, with eager hurrying lips, “and Meg and Pip would,—all of us, dear Mrs. Browne. I think it is just when we are grown up we love mothers best, and want them most.”