Volume VII - Modernist Magazines Project

By Mrs. Murray Hickson 279It was June weather in the heart of Surrey—that still Juneweather which is the essence of an English summer. The laneswere sweet with dog-roses ; the vines on Martha's cottage homewere already covered with many small bunches of quaint greenfruit. The air was soft and full of perfume ; the tiny garden wasablaze with old-fashioned flowers.Martha's mother was at home—a tall, frail woman, aged prematurelyby poverty and the stress of early motherhood. Shereceived me, wondering ; but, when I explained my errand, sheburst into sudden tears. I do not know whether grief or angerheld the uppermost place in her heart; certainly it never occurredto her that she was to blame for sending her girl, unprepared, intoa world of danger and temptation.She could give me no news of her daughter—there was nonews to give. Martha had never come home ; her mother evidentlydid not expect her to do so. She had stepped over thethreshold of 127 Underwood Terrace, and had disappeared intothat outside world which, to such as she, shows little of mercy,and even less of sympathy and comprehension.Her mother hardly desires to see her again ; and I—though. Ido not forget her—I recall her only as a pathetic memory which,each year, grows less and less distinct.