Alice Sit-By-The-Fire | Page 6

echoes wofully, 'even--even baby?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
The poor mother, who had entered the house like a whirlwind, subsides into a chair. Her arms fall empty by her side: a moment ago she had six of them, a pair for each child. She cries a little, and when Alice cries, which is not often for she is more given to laughter, her face screws up like Molly's rather than like Amy's. She is very unlike the sketch of her lately made by the united fancies of her son and daughter; and she will dance them round the room many times before they know her better. Amy will never be so pretty as her mother, Cosmo will never be so gay, and it will be years before either of them is as young. But it is quite a minute before we suspect this; we must look the other way while the Colonel dries her tears. He is quite a grizzled veteran, and is trying hard to pretend that having done without his children for so many years, a few minutes more is no great matter. His adorable Alice is this man's one joke. Some of those furrows in his brow have come from trying to understand her, he owes the agility of his mind to trying to keep up with her; the humorous twist in his mouth is the result of chuckling over her.
She flutters across the room. 'Robert,' she says, thrilling. 'I daresay my Amy painted that table.'
'Yes, ma'am, she did,' says Fanny.
'Robert, Amy's table.'
'Yes, but keep cool, memsahib.'
'I suppose, ma'am, I'm to take my orders from you now,' the hard-hearted Fanny inquires.
'I suppose so,' Alice says, so timidly that Fanny is encouraged to be bold.
'The poor miss, it will be a bit trying for her just at first.'
Alice is taken aback.
'I hadn't thought of that, Robert.'
Robert thinks it time to take command.
'Fiddle-de-dee. Bring your mistress a cup of tea, my girl.'
'Yes, sir. Here is the tea-caddy, ma'am. I can't take the responsibility; but this is the key.'
'Robert,' Alice says falteringly. 'I daren't break into Amy's caddy. She mightn't like it. I can wait.'
'Rubbish. Give me the key.' Even Fanny cannot but admire the Colonel as he breaks into the caddy.
'That makes me feel I'm master of my own house already. Don't stare at me, girl, as if I was a housebreaker.'
'I feel that is just what we both are,' his wife says; but as soon as they are alone she cries, 'It's home, home! India done, home begun.'
He is as glad as she.
'Home, memsahib. And we Ve never had a real one before. Thank God, I'm able to give it you at last.'
She darts impulsively from one object in the room to another.
'Look, these pictures. I'm sure they are all Amy's work. They are splendid.' With perhaps a moment's misgiving, 'Aren't they?'
'I couldn't have done them,' the Colonel says guardedly. He considers the hand-painted curtains. 'She seems to have stopped everything in the middle. Still I couldn't have done them. I expect this is what is called a cosy corner.'
But Alice has found something more precious. She utters little cries of rapture.
'What is it?'
'Oh, Robert, a baby's shoe. My baby.' She presses it to her as if it were a dove. Then she is appalled. 'Robert, if I had met my baby coming along the street I shouldn't have known her from other people's babies.'
'Yes, you would,' the Colonel says hurriedly. 'Don't break down now. Just think, Alice; after to-day, you will know your baby anywhere.'
'Oh joy, joy, joy.'
Then the expression of her face changes to 'Oh woe, woe, woe.'
'What is it now, Alice?'
'Perhaps she won't like me.' 'Impossible.'
'Perhaps none of them will like me.'
'My dear Alice, children always love their mother, whether they see much of her or not. It's an instinct.'
'Who told you that?'
'You goose. It was yourself.'
'I've lost faith in it.'
He thinks it wise to sound a warning note. 'Of course you must give them a little time.'
'Robert, Robert. Not another minute. That's not the way people ever love me. They mustn't think me over first or anything of that sort. If they do I'm lost; they must love me at once.'
'A good many have done that,' Robert says, surveying her quizzically as if she were one of Amy's incompleted works.
'You are not implying, Robert, that I ever--. If I ever did I always told you about it afterwards, didn't I? And I certainly never did it until I was sure you were comfortable.'
'You always wrapped me up first,' he admits.
'They were only boys, Robert--poor lonely boys. What are you looking so solemn about, Robert?'
'I was trying to picture you as you will be when you settle down.'
She is properly abashed. 'Not settled down yet--with a girl nearly grown up. And yet it's true; it's the tragedy of Alice