“Lil’ missy—”
Alexina looked around. It was Celeste, tall, brown, regarding her with covert eyes as of old. Celeste had never loved her, the child had known that; her love belonged to the mother, her first charge, her Southern born, all her own. The father’s blood in this second child was alien; Celeste had resented it as she had resented that father and all his kind. She had been jealous for the mother against the father and child from the first.
Alexina, drawing a hand from her mother’s, gave it to Celeste. The old woman took it loosely, then let it drop. Things were to be as of old, then, between them.
The girl turned back to her mother. “But, Molly,” the name came naturally, she had known her mother by no other, “your health, you know; tell me about that.”
What did this dilation in Molly’s eyes mean? And she glanced sidewise, secretly, as if at fear of some dreaded thing, lurking.
“Did I write about that? Oh, well, perhaps I was, then, but not now; not at all now.”
The haste to disclaim was feverish, and the look directed by Celeste at Alexina was sullen, even while the old woman’s strong, resistless brown hand was pushing her mistress back onto the pillows.
“Got to res’ lil’ while, p’tite; got to min’ Celeste an’ lay back an’ res’ now.”
Then to her daughter, who suddenly felt herself a little compelled creature again, so was she carried into the past by the old woman’s soft, Creole slurring: “’Tain’, lil’ missy, ’tain’ like Madame Garnier she aire seeck actual, but jus’ she taire, easy like.”
Madame Garnier! That meant Molly! The illusions were all gone. The girl backed from the couch. Twelve years rolled between Molly and herself, years full of resentment. A slow red came up and over the daughter’s face.