“Nothing definite, darling,” he said; “an infinite variety of things indefinite! Love me, and remember me sometimes among the new distractions—that’s about the best you can do;” and I laughed, and pinched him again.
“You silly old dear! As if I could ever forget!” and just at that moment we drove up to the porch.
If it had been another girl’s mother, she would have been waiting at the door to receive me. I’ve been home with friends, so I know; but my mother is different. I don’t think I should like it if she did come! It doesn’t fit into my idea of her, some way. Mother is like a queen—everyone waits upon her, and goes up to her presence like a throne-room. I peeped into the mirror in the hall as I passed, and tucked back some ends of hair, and straightened my tie, and then the door opened, and there she stood—the darling!—holding out her arms to welcome me, with her eyes all soft and tender, as they used to be when she came to say “good night.” Mother is not demonstrative as a rule, so you simply love it when she is. She looks quite young, and she was the beauty of the county when she was a girl, and I never did see in all my life anybody so immaculately perfect in appearance! Her dresses fit as if she had been melted into them; her skirts stand out, and go crinkling in and out into folds just exactly like the fashion-plates; her hair looks as if it had been done a minute before—I don’t believe she would have a single loose end if she were out in a tornado. It’s the same, morning, noon and night; if she were wrecked on a desert island she would be a vision of elegance. It’s the way she was born. I can’t think how I came to be her daughter, and I know I’m a trial to her with my untidiness.
We hugged each other, and she put her hands on each side of my face, and we kissed and kissed again. She is taller than I am, and very dark, with beautiful aquiline features, and deep brown eyes. She is very slight—I’m sure my waist is about twice as big—and her hands look so pretty with the flashing rings. I’m awfully proud of my mother!
“My darling girl! How rejoiced I am to have you back. Sit down here and let me see you. How well you look, dear—not any thinner yet, I see! It will be delightful to have you at home for good, for Vere is away so much that I have felt quite bereft. Sit up, darling—don’t stoop! It will be so interesting to have another girl to bring out! There are plenty of young people about here now, so you need not be dull, and I hope we shall be great companions. You were a sad little hoyden in the old days, but now that you have passed eighteen you will be glad to settle down, won’t you, dear, and behave like the woman you are. Have you no little brooch, darling, to keep that collar straight at the neck? It is all adrift, and looks so untidy. Those little things are of such importance. I had such a charming letter from Miss Martin, full of nice speeches about you. She says you sing so sweetly. You must have some good lessons, for nothing is more taking than a young voice properly trained, and I hope you have no foolish nervousness about singing in public. You must get over it, if you have, for I rely on you to help me when we have visitors.”
“I want to help you, mother. I will truly try,” I said wistfully. I don’t know why exactly, but I felt depressed all of a sudden. I wanted her to be so pleased at my return that she didn’t notice anything but just me, and it hurt to be called to order so soon. I looked across the room, and caught a glimpse of our two figures reflected in a glass—such a big, fair, tousled creature as I looked beside her, and my heart went down lower then ever. I shall disappoint her, I know I shall! She expects me to be an elegant, accomplished young lady like Vere, and I feel a hoyden still, and not a bit a grown-up woman; besides, father said I was to keep young. How am I to please them both, and have time left over to remember Miss Martin’s lessons? It strikes me, Una Sackville, you have got your work cut out.
Mother brought me up to see my room. She has looked after it all herself, and taken no end of trouble making the shades. It looked sweet in the sunshine, and I shall love sitting in the little round window writing my adventures in this book; but now that it’s dark I miss the girls: I wonder what Lorna and Florence are doing now? Talking of me, I expect, and crying into their pillows. It seems years since we parted, and already I feel such miles apart. It seems almost impossible to believe that last night I was eating thick bread-and-butter for supper and lying down in the middle bed in the bare old dormitory. Now already I feel quite grown up and responsible. Oh, if I live to be a hundred years old, I shall never, never be at school again! I’ve been so happy. I wonder, I wonder shall I ever be as happy again?