MOTHER AND CHILD
Ida Starr, dismissed by the schoolmistress, ran quickly
homewards. She was unusually late, and her mother
would be anxious. Still, when she came within
sight of the door, she stopped and stood panting.
How should she tell of her disgrace? It was not
fear that made her shrink from repeating Miss Rutherford’s
message; nor yet shame, though she would gladly have
hidden herself away somewhere in the dark from every
eye; her overwhelming concern was for the pain she
knew she was going to cause one who had always cherished
her with faultless tenderness,—tenderness
which it had become her nature to repay with a child’s
unreflecting devotion.
Her home was in Milton Street. On the front-door
was a brass-plate which bore the inscription:
“Mrs. Ledward, Dressmaker;” in the window
of the ground-floor was a large card announcing that
“Apartments” were vacant. The only
light was one which appeared in the top storey, and
there Ida knew that her mother was waiting for her,
with tea ready on the table as usual. Mrs. Starr
was seldom at home during the child’s dinner-hour,
and Ida had not seen her at all to-day. For it
was only occasionally that she shared her mother’s
bedroom; it was the rule for her to sleep with Mrs.
Ledward, the landlady, who was a widow and without
children. The arrangement had held ever since
Ida could remember; when she had become old enough
to ask for an explanation of this, among other singularities
in their mode of life, she was told that her mother
slept badly, and must have the bed to herself.
But the night had come on, and every moment of delay
doubtless increased the anxiety she was causing.
Ida went up to the door, stood on tiptoe to reach
the knocker, and gave her usual two distinct raps.
Mrs. Ledward opened the door to her in person; a large
woman, with pressed lips and eyes that squinted very
badly; attired, however, neatly, and looking as good-natured
as a woman who was at once landlady and dressmaker
could be expected to look.
“How ’s ’t you’re so late?”
she asked, without looking at the child; her eyes,
as far as one could guess, fixed upon the houses opposite,
her hands in the little pocket on each side of her
apron. “Your mother’s poorly.”
“Oh, then I shall sleep with her to-night?”
exclaimed Ida, forgetting her trouble for the moment
in this happy foresight
“Dessay,” returned Mrs. Ledward laconically.
Ida left her still standing in the doorway, and ran
stairs. The chamber she went into—after
knocking and receiving permission to enter, according
to the rule which had been impressed upon her—
was a tolerably-furnished bedroom, which, with its
bright fire, tasteful little lamp, white coverlets
and general air of fresh orderliness, made a comfortable
appearance. The air was scented, too, with some
pleasant odour of a not too pungent kind. But
the table lacked one customary feature; no tea was
laid as it was wont to be at this hour. The child
gazed round in surprise. Her mother was in bed,
lying back on raised pillows, and with a restless,
half-pettish look on her face.
