Her mother’s sisters had written after the funeral
inviting her to come to them in England “while
she looked about her.” She could recall
every sentence of that letter. It had burned.
Each word, each comma was fresh before her eyes as
the cab jolted on to Palace Gardens.
“It would have been our pleasure constantly
to have entertained you during your mother’s
life-time,” they had written, “but she
wilfully flouted our desires at her marriage and thereafter
utterly ignored us. The fault for the rift between
us was of her making, not ours; we sent her an Easter
card one year, and had no reply; though we have no
doubt that your father, not that we would say a word
against him now, influenced her against her better
judgment. However....”
She had written back a hysterical letter.
“Your letter came just after I had returned
from burying my dear, dear father, who worshipped
my darling mother. If I were begging in the street,
starving, dying, I would not touch a crumb or a penny
of yours. You are wicked—yes, you
are wicked to write to me as you have written....”
She could not stay in Ireland. Her only friends
there lived about the dear home that was now no longer
a home but a “desirable residence with some
acres of garden and paddock.” Her only friends
there were friends who had been shared with Mother
and Dad—whose presence now would be constant
reminder of that happy participation now lost.
One and all offered her hospitality, but she must
refuse. “No, no silly idea of being a burden
to you, dear, dear Mrs. Sullivan—only I
can’t, can’t live anywhere near where
we used to live.”
Years before a great friend of hers had married an
English clergyman; had written often to her from London
of the numerous activities in which she was engaged—principal
among them a kind of agency and home for gentlewomen.
“Governesses, dear, and all that kind of thing
... poor girls, many of them, who have suddenly had
to earn a living.”
The correspondence had died, as do so many, from the
effects of undue urgency at the outset; but she had
the address, and was certain there of welcome and
of aid. “Poor girls who have suddenly had
to earn a living.” The words took on a
new meaning: she was of these.
From Euston she drove to the address. Her friend
had gone. Yes, the present occupant remembered
the name. The present occupant had been there
two years; had taken over the lease from the former
tenant because the lady was ill and had been ordered
abroad. That was all the present occupant knew;
saw her to the door; closed it behind her.
Alone in London. “Alone in London”—it
had been one of Dad’s jokes; he had written
a burlesque on it, and they had played it one Christmas
to roars of fun. O God! what a thing at which
to laugh now that the realisation struck and one stood
on the pavement in the dark with this great city roaring
at one!
