Having written the letter, Clara herself went out to post it. The servants had gone to bed. She wrapped a shawl round her head and walked quickly down Harley Street. She slipped the letter into the pillar box and returned home. Her mind was comparatively at rest. She had just reached her hall door when a hand was laid on her arm. She turned round quickly.
“Well, Clara, well! And so you were about to cut your own mother.”
“Mother,” cried Clara with a start, “What have you come to town for? What is the matter? Anything wrong?”
“Nothing, Clara, nothing. I’ve only come to talk to you. I am coming into your house, into your grand house. I don’t care about your grandeur, but I’m coming in to see you, for I’ve got something to say.”
“Come in, of course, mother. I shall be delighted to welcome you. Come up-stairs to the drawing-room.”
Clara closed the hall door, and walked up the grand staircase accompanied by her mother. They entered the drawing-room, the little woman immediately dropping a curtsey.
“A mercy me!” she cried. “A deal of rugs and curtains and fine furniture all over the place, but the air smothering to the breathing all the same. Clara, I came to say that the child——”
“If you want to talk on private matters, mother, we had better go to my bedroom. You will sleep here, of course.”
“No, I have a lodging outside. I couldn’t have a wink of sleep in a grand sort o’ place like this, but I have come to say——”
Clara took her mother to her bedroom. A bright fire glowed in the grate, the bed was turned down, and everything looked soft, luxurious, and the very height of luxury.
“A deary me!” said the old woman again—she dropped two curtseys—one to the bed and another to the fire. “I never held with grandeur. It’s all very well for them as was born to it, but folks like you and me, Clary, we ain’t meant to have it, and it don’t agree with us. Why, you’re the color of a duck’s egg in complexion now, and your freckles seem to have spread.”
“Oh, mother, what do you want?” said Clara. “What have you come about?”
“Aye, aye, that’s the mystery,” said little Mrs. Ives, her small eyes dancing.
“Is there anything wrong with the child?”
“You’ll hear in a minute, my deary dear. Oh, I’ll sit near you if you wish, but not close to the fire—it shrivels up the complexion, and it’s making you as green as can be.”