The world had not gone very well with Mrs. Dr. Barrett since her husband’s death. Her house was too small to admit of many lodgers, and as those who came were mostly Americans, they did not stop long, and required so much of her that she was glad when they left, hoping to do better the next time. A pain under her left shoulder made it hard for her to sew, and but for Edith’s generosity she would have been badly off. Edith was very kind to her, and gave her the larger part of her salary, and Mrs. Barrett was very proud of her daughter, even though that daughter had sorely disappointed her in not having married or shown any disposition to do so, nor, so far as Mrs. Barrett knew, had she received but one offer, and that from so questionable a quarter that a refusal was the only alternative. She had been away from home when Edith called upon her the day following her return from the Continent, but she found the card which Edith left, and when her maid glowingly described the carriage, and the beautiful young lady who came in it, she said, with a great deal of pride, “That was my daughter.”
“And sure she walked as if the ground wasn’t good enough for her to step on,” was Kitty’s mental comment, as she wondered at the difference between mother and child.
After that day Mrs. Barrett was constantly expecting Edith, and once she thought of going to Oakwood to see her, but on the occasion of her first and only visit there, Mrs. Sinclair, whose likes and dislikes were very strong, had conceived a great aversion for her, and had intimated to Edith that though she was at liberty to visit her mother when she pleased, it was not desirable that the latter should come often to Oakwood. Knowing this, Mrs. Barrett did not like to venture, and she remained at home, waiting impatiently for Edith until the morning when she saw at last the well-known carriage at the gate, and Edith coming up the walk.
How beautiful she was, and how like a princess she looked even in her simple muslin dress and straw hat, with a lace scarf around her graceful shoulders. Everything which Edith wore became her well, and now with a faint flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, she had never seemed fairer to the proud mother than when she swept into the house with a grace and dignity peculiarly her own, and put up her lips to be kissed. Mrs. Barrett was glad to see her, and asked her many questions concerning her journey, and admired her dress, and scarf, and boots, and gloves, and asked what they cost, and told about herself, how she had but one lodger now, and that he found fault with everything, and that the day before she had received application for rooms from a respectable looking woman, who seemed to belong to the middle or lower class. “Indeed, she said, she had been out to service before her marriage, but that her husband had left her a few shares in the —— Bank, so that she was quite comfortable now.
“I never thought I would take any one who was not first-class,” Mrs. Barrett said, “but my purse is so low that I should have made an exception in favor of Mrs. Rogers if she had not told me her cousin was waiting-maid at Oakwood.”
“Oh, that is Norah Long,” Edith answered indifferently, and her mother continued:
“It seemed like coming down, to lodge and serve a cousin of Mrs. Sinclair’s maid, and when she said she had a little girl about eleven years old, and that she wished her to have a room by herself, I made that an excuse for refusing her. I could not give up my best room to a child, I said, and I did not care to take children, anyway.”
“I think you were very foolish, mother; if this Mrs. Rogers would pay well, and is respectable, why not take her as soon as another? The child is certainly no objection, and it might be pleasant to have it in the house.”
“Perhaps so, but I did not like the woman’s manner. When she asked for the extra room I told her it belonged to my daughter, Miss Lyle, who was travelling with Mrs. Sinclair, of Oakwood. ‘Oh, Miss Lyle,’ she said, ‘I have heard my cousin speak of her. She is very beautiful, I believe.’ I thought her impertinent, and answered, ‘People call her so. Can I do anything more for you?’ Even then she did not go, but offered me a shilling more than my price for the rooms. Indeed, she seemed resolved to have them, and only a positive refusal on the ground of not liking to have the child availed to send her away. I never thought I should be reduced so low that the cousin of a servant would insist upon lodging with me,” and Mrs. Barrett began to break down a little; then rousing herself, she said, suddenly, “Edith, will you never marry and raise me out of this? Did you find no one abroad?”