"Mother dear!"
The double welcome was her daily reward, the handsome payment that made her think the long day's toil so light.
A certain pomp was maintained in their manner of living: meals were served with adequate ceremony; butler and footmen instead of parlourmaids waited at table; the family wore rich dresses of an evening;—but all this was to please Enid. Everything that Enid once had seemed to care for must be provided now—the stateliness of liveried men, the grandeur of formal dinner-parties, the small or big extravagances that come with complete immunity from any thought of cost. And on the little girl's account, too. It was essential that Enid should be able to bring up her child in the midst of fitting, proper, even fashionable surroundings.
Enid took all these benefits placidly and naturally: very much as of old, when she had been an unmarried girl receiving benefits from the same source in St. Saviour's Court. Indeed she had insensibly dropped back into her old way. Except for the one great permanent change that sprang from a dual cause—her deepened affection for her mother and her idolizing devotion to her daughter,—she was strikingly similar to the graceful long-nosed Miss Thompson who went with a smile to meet her fate at Mr. Young's riding-school.
She looked scarcely a day older. She was neither thinner nor fatter; her face, after being pinched by misfortune, had exactly filled out again to the elegant oval of careless youth. The bad time with all its hard lessons was almost obliterated by present ease and comfort: certainly it did not seem to have left indelible marks. She could speak of it—did often speak of it—without wincing, and in the even, unemotional tone that she habitually used.
Only when Jane was ill, she altogether burst through the smooth outer surface of calm propriety, and showed that, if they could be reached, there were some really strong feelings underneath. When Jane was ill, no matter how slightly, Mrs. Kenion became almost demented.
To some juvenile ailments the most jealously guarded child must submit sooner or later. Jane has a sore throat and a cold in the head; Jane slept badly last night; and, oh—merciful powers,—Jane exhibits red spots on her little white chest.
Dr. Eldridge says—now, don't be frightened by a word;—Dr. Eldridge says he believes that, well, ah, yes—it is measles. But there is nothing in that to distress or alarm; rather one might say it is a very good thing. One cannot reasonably hope that Miss Jane will escape measles all her life; and one may be glad that she has this propitious chance to do her measling under practically ideal conditions.
Yet, late in the afternoon, when wise Eldridge has gone, here is Enid with fear-distended eyes and grief-stricken face, white, shaking, absolutely frantic, as she clings to her mother's arm.
"Mother, don't let her die. Oh, don't let her die."