She opened her mother's door. A candle was burning on the table by the
bedside. A sheet covered the bed. Underneath it she could trace the
outline of her mother's body. As she came across the room, walking
softly, as she always did, to avoid the loose board that had so often
jerked her mother back to wakefulness and pain, it seemed to her that
all the loving kindness of the world had gone from her. From then until
her mother was buried she never left her.
CHAPTER II
After his wife's death Andrew Lashcairn was harder, colder. Fits of
glowering depression took the place of rage, and he never went behind
the green baize door, though the barrel stayed there. He seemed to have
conceived the idea of making Marcella strong; perhaps he was afraid that
she would be frail as her mother had been; perhaps he tried to persuade
himself that her mother's illness and death were constitutional frailty
rather than traumatic, and in pursuance of this self-deception he tried
to suggest that Marcella had inherited her delicacy and must be
hardened. Divorced from his den and his barrel by his own will-power he
had to find something to do. And he undertook Marcella as an interest in
life.
Things were going a little better at the farm because of Rose
Lashcairn's money: more cows came, and sacks of meal and corn
replenished the empty coffers in the granary.
Pages:
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31