The Pool in the Desert | Page 4

fight for my husband's
life, without ice or proper food, or sickroom comforts of any sort. Ah!
Fort Samila, with the sun glaring up from the sand!-- however, it is a
long time ago now. I trusted the baby willingly to Mrs. Berry and to
Providence, and did not fret; my capacity for worry, I suppose, was
completely absorbed. Mrs. Berry's letter, describing the child's
improvement on the voyage and safe arrival came, I remember, the day
on which John was allowed his first solid mouthful; it had been a long
siege. 'Poor little wretch!' he said when I read it aloud; and after that
Cecily became an episode.
She had gone to my husband's people; it was the best arrangement. We
were lucky that it was possible; so many children had to be sent to
strangers and hirelings. Since an unfortunate infant must be brought
into the world and set adrift, the haven of its grandmother and its Aunt
Emma and its Aunt Alice certainly seemed providential. I had
absolutely no cause for anxiety, as I often told people, wondering that I

did not feel a little all the same. Nothing, I knew, could exceed the
conscientious devotion of all three Farnham ladies to the child. She
would appear upon their somewhat barren horizon as a new and
interesting duty, and the small additional income she also represented
would be almost nominal compensation for the care she would receive.
They were excellent persons of the kind that talk about matins and
vespers, and attend both. They helped little charities and gave little teas,
and wrote little notes, and made deprecating allowance for the
eccentricities of their titled or moneyed acquaintances. They were the
subdued, smiling, unimaginatively dressed women on a small definite
income that you meet at every rectory garden-party in the country, a
little snobbish, a little priggish, wholly conventional, but apart from
these weaknesses, sound and simple and dignified, managing their two
small servants with a display of the most exact traditions, and keeping a
somewhat vague and belated but constant eye upon the doings of their
country as chronicled in a bi-weekly paper. They were all immensely
interested in royalty, and would read paragraphs aloud to each other
about how the Princess Beatrice or the Princess Maud had opened a
fancy bazaar, looking remarkably well in plain grey poplin trimmed
with Irish lace--an industry which, as is well known, the Royal Family
has set its heart on rehabilitating. Upon which Mrs. Farnham's
comment invariably would be, 'How thoughtful of them, dear!' and
Alice would usually say, 'Well, if I were a princess, I should like
something nicer than plain grey poplin.' Alice, being the youngest, was
not always expected to think before she spoke. Alice painted in
water-colours, but Emma was supposed to have the most common
sense.
They took turns in writing to us with the greatest regularity about
Cecily; only once, I think, did they miss the weekly mail, and that was
when she threatened diphtheria and they thought we had better be kept
in ignorance. The kind and affectionate terms of these letters never
altered except with the facts they described--teething, creeping, measles,
cheeks growing round and rosy, all were conveyed in the same smooth,
pat, and proper phrases, so absolutely empty of any glimpse of the
child's personality that after the first few months it was like reading
about a somewhat uninteresting infant in a book. I was sure Cecily was

not uninteresting, but her chroniclers were. We used to wade through
the long, thin sheets and saw how much more satisfactory it would be
when Cecily could write to us herself. Meanwhile we noted her weekly
progress with much the feeling one would have about a far-away little
bit of property that was giving no trouble and coming on exceedingly
well. We would take possession of Cecily at our convenience; till then,
it was gratifying to hear of our unearned increment in dear little
dimples and sweet little curls.
She was nearly four when I saw her again. We were home on three
months' leave; John had just got his first brevet for doing something
which he does not allow me to talk about in the Black Mountain
country; and we were fearfully pleased with ourselves. I remember that
excitement lasted well up to Port Said. As far as the Canal, Cecily was
only one of the pleasures and interests we were going home to: John's
majority was the thing that really gave savour to life. But the first faint
line of Europe brought my child to my horizon; and all the rest of the
way she kept her place, holding out her little arms to me, beckoning me
on. Her four motherless years brought compunction to my heart and
tears to my