save. It is difficult to explain, but you must trust Mamma.”
“Yes,” I said, “yes, Mamma.” But I did not trust her. I loved her. But I could see that she had been tripped by the snare of being grown-up, she lay bound and struggling and helpless.
The tram car rocked up the Mound with the free, camelish motion of trolley cars, swung round the curve at the top, and shambled over George the Fourth Bridge, the bridge that fascinated us children because it crossed no river but canyons of slums. Cordelia and Mary and I would be sorry to leave Edinburgh. The castle on its rock made us feel we were living in a fairy tale, we liked climbing the slopes of Arthur’s Seat, which was so like a couchant lion that it seemed quite unscientific to suppose it could be a natural mountain, and it had to be admitted that it was probably wizard’s work. Also these dark slums below the bridge ran under the open, stately city to Holyrood Palace, where darkness and light met, and the white star of Mary Queen of Scots was forever in opposition to the black star of John Knox. My heart swelled at the thought that we must presently leave all this, simply because it was our doom always to leave. I could have wept. I stroked Mamma’s hand and smiled up at her as grown-ups like children to smile, and I knew from her face that she was thinking, Rose is a contented child. We got out at the head of Meadow Walk, and as we went down it we saw the dark blocks of the infirmary among the reddening trees. We knew a woman medical student who talked of it with awe, as a cathedral of healing. Cordelia sometimes wanted to be a nurse and train there, and when she thought of that her face grew noble and stupid, but stupid in a nicer way than it was when she played the violin. Cordelia would mind leaving Edinburgh more than any of us. All her teachers admired her, they did at every school she went to, they made plans for her, they told her she had only to go on in a straight line and she would be where they wanted her to be, which was where she, with her intense desire for approval, would want to be. Our doom was hardest on her.
I turned to Mamma and said, “Next winter we will not be as cold as we were here last Christmas!”
Delighted, she said, “Why, I believe you are eager to go to London!”
“We all are,” I said. It was strange, Mamma was said to have second sight. A Scottish nurse we had in South Africa had said so; on the beach at Durban Mamma had once lifted up her voice because on a blank sea she had seen a small steamer go up in flames and boats row out towards the shore, and it had all happened as she had seen, twenty-four hours later. But we children could always deceive her. Had it not been so, we could not have provided for her happiness half as well as we did.
We came to the grey terrace where we lived, and walked past the house where we had a flat, because we had to make some purchases in the shops round the corner. “It is odd to pass our own front door without going in,” I said, and Mamma said, “I feel like that about leaving the city where I was born.” But she went on, “How happy I am. Your pain is over and the dentist said that all your other teeth were good, and I am doing something I dreaded, I did not want to come in from the Pentlands all alone and do this sad thing about going away from our flat, but now it does not seem sad at all.” She was happy in the shops, too. She liked the act of spending in itself; and although we bought very little that day, just enough to give us something of a midday meal, the smallest tin of cocoa for me, a quarter of a pound of tea for her, a quarter of a pound of sugar, some milk which our dairy gave us in a little metal can with a hoop handle—even so there were parcels, there was a sense that there was more on our side of the line than there had been before, and there were civilities with the shopkeepers. “I do not owe a penny anywhere,” she said proudly as we came out of the
“Yes,” I said, “yes, Mamma.” But I did not trust her. I loved her. But I could see that she had been tripped by the snare of being grown-up, she lay bound and struggling and helpless.
The tram car rocked up the Mound with the free, camelish motion of trolley cars, swung round the curve at the top, and shambled over George the Fourth Bridge, the bridge that fascinated us children because it crossed no river but canyons of slums. Cordelia and Mary and I would be sorry to leave Edinburgh. The castle on its rock made us feel we were living in a fairy tale, we liked climbing the slopes of Arthur’s Seat, which was so like a couchant lion that it seemed quite unscientific to suppose it could be a natural mountain, and it had to be admitted that it was probably wizard’s work. Also these dark slums below the bridge ran under the open, stately city to Holyrood Palace, where darkness and light met, and the white star of Mary Queen of Scots was forever in opposition to the black star of John Knox. My heart swelled at the thought that we must presently leave all this, simply because it was our doom always to leave. I could have wept. I stroked Mamma’s hand and smiled up at her as grown-ups like children to smile, and I knew from her face that she was thinking, Rose is a contented child. We got out at the head of Meadow Walk, and as we went down it we saw the dark blocks of the infirmary among the reddening trees. We knew a woman medical student who talked of it with awe, as a cathedral of healing. Cordelia sometimes wanted to be a nurse and train there, and when she thought of that her face grew noble and stupid, but stupid in a nicer way than it was when she played the violin. Cordelia would mind leaving Edinburgh more than any of us. All her teachers admired her, they did at every school she went to, they made plans for her, they told her she had only to go on in a straight line and she would be where they wanted her to be, which was where she, with her intense desire for approval, would want to be. Our doom was hardest on her.
I turned to Mamma and said, “Next winter we will not be as cold as we were here last Christmas!”
Delighted, she said, “Why, I believe you are eager to go to London!”
“We all are,” I said. It was strange, Mamma was said to have second sight. A Scottish nurse we had in South Africa had said so; on the beach at Durban Mamma had once lifted up her voice because on a blank sea she had seen a small steamer go up in flames and boats row out towards the shore, and it had all happened as she had seen, twenty-four hours later. But we children could always deceive her. Had it not been so, we could not have provided for her happiness half as well as we did.
We came to the grey terrace where we lived, and walked past the house where we had a flat, because we had to make some purchases in the shops round the corner. “It is odd to pass our own front door without going in,” I said, and Mamma said, “I feel like that about leaving the city where I was born.” But she went on, “How happy I am. Your pain is over and the dentist said that all your other teeth were good, and I am doing something I dreaded, I did not want to come in from the Pentlands all alone and do this sad thing about going away from our flat, but now it does not seem sad at all.” She was happy in the shops, too. She liked the act of spending in itself; and although we bought very little that day, just enough to give us something of a midday meal, the smallest tin of cocoa for me, a quarter of a pound of tea for her, a quarter of a pound of sugar, some milk which our dairy gave us in a little metal can with a hoop handle—even so there were parcels, there was a sense that there was more on our side of the line than there had been before, and there were civilities with the shopkeepers. “I do not owe a penny anywhere,” she said proudly as we came out of the
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