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The last verse, which should have been the climax, went rather flat. Jane felt like a candle-flame blown out, though the applause was hearty and prolonged, and Miss Semple behind the scenes whispered, “Excellent, Victoria, excellent.”

But there were no compliments on the road home. Not a word was said … that was the dreadful part of it. Mother seemed too frightened to speak and grandmother preserved a stony silence. But when they got home she said:

“Who put you up to that, Victoria?”

“Put me up to what?” said Jane in honest bewilderment.

“Please don’t repeat my questions, Victoria. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Is it my recitation? No one. Miss Semple asked me to recite, and I picked the recitation myself because I liked it,” said Jane. It might even be said she retorted it. She was hurt … angry … a little “pepped up” because of her success. “I thought it would please you. But you are never pleased with anything I do.”

“Don’t be cheaply theatrical, please,” said grandmother. “And in future if you HAVE to recite,” very much as she might have said, “if you have to have smallpox” … “please choose poems in decent English. I do not care for patois.”

Jane didn’t know what patois was, but it was all too evident that she had made a mess of things somehow.

“Why was grandmother so angry, mummy?” she asked piteously, when mother came in to kiss her good night, cool, slim and fragrant, in a dress of rose crępe with little wisps of lace over the shoulders. Mother’s blue eyes seemed to mist a little.

“Someone she … did not like … used to be … very good at reading habitant poetry. Never mind, heart’s delight. You did splendidly. I was proud of you.”

She bent down and took Jane’s face in her hands. Mother had such a dear way of doing that.

So, in spite of everything, Jane went very happily through the gates of sleep. After all, it does not take much to make a child happy.

The letter was a bolt from the blue. It came one dull morning in early April … but such a bitter, peevish, unlovely April … more like March in its disposition than April. It was Saturday, so there would be no St Agatha’s and when Jane wakened in her big black walnut bed she wondered just how she would put in the day because mother was going to a bridge and Jody was sick with a cold.

Jane lay a little while, looking through the window, where she could see only dull grey sky and old tree tops having a fight with the wind. She knew that in the yard below the window on the north there was still a lingering bank of dirty grey snow. Jane thought dirty snow must be the dreariest thing in the world. She hated this shabby end of winter. And she hated the bedroom where she had to sleep alone. She wished she and mother could sleep together. They could have such lovely times talking to each other with no one else to hear, after they went to bed or early in the morning. And how lovely it would be when you woke up in the night to hear mother’s soft breathing beside you and cuddle to her just a wee bit, carefully, so as not to disturb her.

But grandmother would not let mother sleep with her.

“It is unhealthy for two people to sleep in the same bed,” grandmother had said with her chill, unsmiling smile. “Surely in a house of this size everybody can have a room to herself. There are many people in the world who would be grateful for such a privilege.”

Jane thought she might have liked the room better if it had been smaller. She always felt lost in it. Nothing in it seemed to be related to her. It always seemed hostile, watchful, vindictive. And yet Jane always felt that if she were allowed to do things for it … sweep it, dust it, put flowers in it … she would begin to love it, huge as it was. Everything in it was huge … a huge black walnut wardrobe like a prison, a huge chest of drawers, a huge walnut bedstead, a huge mirror over the massive black marble mantelpiece … except a tiny cradle which was always kept in the alcove by the fireplace … a cradle that grandmother had been rocked in. Fancy grandmother a baby! Jane just couldn’t.

Jane got out of bed and dressed herself under the stare of several old dead grands and greats hung on the walls. Below on the lawn robins were hopping about. Robins always made Jane laugh … they were so saucy, so sleek, so important, strutting over the grounds of 60 Gay just as if it were any common yard. Much they cared for grandmothers!

Jane slipped down the hall to mother’s room at the far end. She was not supposed to do this. It was understood at 60 Gay that mother must not be disturbed in the mornings. But mother, for a wonder, had not been out the night before and Jane knew she would be awake. Not only was she awake but Mary was just bringing in her breakfast tray. Jane would have loved to do this for mother but she was never allowed.

Mother was sitting up in bed wearing the daintiest breakfast jacket of tea-rose crępe de Chine edged with cobwebby beige lace. Her cheeks were just the colour of her jacket and her eyes were fresh and dewy. Mother, Jane reflected proudly, looked as lovely when she got up in the mornings as she did before she went to bed.

Mother had chilled melon balls in orange juice instead of cereal, and she shared them with Jane. She offered half of her toast, too, but Jane knew she must save some appetite for her own breakfast and refused it. They had a lovely time, laughing and talking beautiful nonsense, very quietly, so as not to be overheard. Not that either of them ever put this into words; but both knew.

“I wish it could be like this every morning,” thought Jane. But she did not say so. She had learned that whenever she said anything like that mother’s eyes darkened with pain and she would not hurt mother for the world. She could never forget the time she had heard mother crying in the night.

She had wakened up with toothache and had crept down to mother’s room to see if mother had any toothache drops. And, as she opened the door ever so softly, she heard mother crying in a dreadful smothered sort of way. Then grandmother had come along the hall with her candle.

“Victoria, what are you doing here?”

“I have toothache,” said Jane.

“Come with me and I will get you some drops,” said grandmother coldly.

Jane went … but she no longer minded the toothache. Why was mother crying? It couldn’t be possible she was unhappy … pretty, laughing mother. The next morning at breakfast mother looked as if she had never shed a tear in her life. Sometimes Jane wondered if she had dreamed it.

Jane put the lemon verbena salts into the bath water for mother and got a pair of new stockings, thin as dew gossamers, out of the drawer for her. She loved to do things for mother and there was so little she could do.

She had breakfast alone with grandmother, Aunt Gertrude having had hers already. It is not pleasant to eat a meal alone with a person you do not like. And Mary had forgotten to put salt in the oatmeal.

“Your shoe-lace is untied, Victoria.”

That was the only thing grandmother said during the meal. The house was dark. It was a sulky day that now and then brightened up a little and then turned sulkier than ever. The mail came at ten. Jane was not interested in it. There was never anything for her. Sometimes she thought it would be nice and exciting to get a letter from somebody. Mother always got no end of letters … invitations and advertisements. This morning Jane carried the mail into the library where grandmother and Aunt Gertrude and mother were sitting. Jane noticed among the letters one addressed to her mother in a black spiky handwriting which Jane was sure she had never seen before. She hadn’t the least idea that that letter was going to change her whole life.

Grandmother took the letters from her and looked them over as she always did.

“Did you close the vestibule door, Victoria?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, grandmother.”

“You left it open yesterday. Robin, here is a letter from Mrs Kirby … likely about that bazaar. Remember it is my wish that you have nothing to do with it. I do not approve of Sarah Kirby. Gertrude, here is one for you from Cousin Mary in Winnipeg. If it is about that silver service she avers my mother left her, tell her I consider the matter closed. Robin, here is …”

Grandmother stopped abruptly. She had picked up the black-handed letter and was looking at it as if she had picked up a snake. Then she looked at her daughter.

“This is from … him,” she said.

Mother dropped Mrs Kirby’s letter and turned so white that Jane involuntarily sprang towards her but was barred by grandmother’s outstretched arm.

“Do you wish me to read it for you, Robin?”

Mother trembled piteously but she said, “No … no … let me …”

Grandmother handed the letter over with an offended air and mother opened it with shaking hands. It did not seem as if her face could turn whiter than it was, but it did as she read it.

“Well?” said grandmother.

“He says,” gasped mother, “that I must send Jane Victoria to him for the summer … that he has a right to her sometimes… .”

“Who says?” cried Jane.

“Do not interrupt, Victoria,” said grandmother. “Let me see that letter, Robin.”

They waited while grandmother read it. Aunt Gertrude stared unwinkingly ahead of her with her cold grey eyes in her long white face. Mother had dropped her head in her hands. It was only three minutes since Jane had brought the letters in and in those three minutes the world had turned upside down. Jane felt as if a gulf had opened between her and all humankind. She knew now without being told who had written the letter.

“So!” said grandmother. She folded the letter up, put it in its envelope, laid it on her table and carefully wiped her hands with her fine lace handkerchief.

“You won’t let her go, of course, Robin.”

For the first time in her life Jane felt at one with grandmother. She looked imploringly at mother with a curious feeling of seeing her for the first time … not as a loving mother or affectionate daughter but as a woman … a woman in the grip of some terrible emotion. Jane’s heart was torn by another pang in seeing mother suffer so.

“If I don’t,” she said, “he may take her from me altogether. He could, you know. He says …”

“I have read what he says,” said grandmother, “and I still tell you to ignore that letter. He is doing this simply to annoy you. He cares nothing for her … he never cared for anything but his scribbling.”

“I’m afraid …” began mother again.

“We’d better consult William,” said Aunt Gertrude suddenly. “This needs a man’s advice.”

“A man!” snapped grandmother. Then she seemed to pull herself up. “You may be right, Gertrude. I shall lay the matter before William when he comes to supper to-morrow. In the meantime we shall not discuss it. We shall not allow it to disturb us in the least.”

Jane felt as if she were in a nightmare the rest of the day. Surely it must be a dream … surely her father could not have written her mother that she must spend the summer with him, a thousand miles away in that horrible Prince Edward Island which looked on the map to be a desolate little fragment in the jaws of Gaspé and Cape Breton … with a father who didn’t love her and whom she didn’t love.

She had no chance to say anything about it to mother … grandmother saw to that. They all went to Aunt Sylvia’s luncheon … mother did not look as if she wanted to go anywhere … and Jane had lunch alone. She couldn’t eat anything.

“Does your head ache, Miss Victoria?” Mary asked sympathetically.

Something was aching terribly but it did not seem to be her head. It ached all the afternoon and evening and far on into the night. It was still aching when Jane woke the next morning with a sickening rush of remembrance. Jane felt that it might help the ache a little if she could only have a talk with mother, but when she tried mother’s door it was locked. Jane felt that mother didn’t want to talk to her about this and that hurt worse than anything else.

They all went to church … an old and big and gloomy church on a downtown street where the Kennedys had always gone. Jane was rather fond of going to church for the not very commendable reason that she had some peace there. She could be silent without someone asking her accusingly what she was thinking of. Grandmother had to let her alone in church. And if you couldn’t be loved, the next best thing was to be let alone.

Apart from that Jane did not care for St Barnabas’s. The sermon was beyond her. She liked the music and some of the hymns. Occasionally there was a line that gave her a thrill. There was something fascinating about coral strands and icy mountains, tides that moving seemed asleep, islands that lifted their fronded palms in air, reapers that bore harvest treasures home and years like shadows on sunny hills that lie.

But nothing gave Jane any pleasure to-day. She hated the pale sunshine that sifted down between the chilly, grudging clouds. What business had the sun even to try to shine while her fate hung in the balance like this? The sermon seemed endless, the prayers dreary, there was not even a hymn line she liked. But Jane put up a desperate prayer on her own behalf.

“Please, dear God,” she whispered, “make Uncle William say I needn’t be sent to him.”

Jane had to live in suspense as to what Uncle William would say until the Sunday supper was over. She ate little. She sat looking at Uncle William with fear in her eyes, wondering if God really could have much influence over him. They were all there … Uncle William and Aunt Minnie, Uncle David and Aunt Sylvia, and Phyllis; and after supper they all went to the library and sat in a stiff circle while Uncle William put on his glasses and read the letter. Jane thought every one must hear the beating of her heart.

Uncle William read the letter … turned back and read a certain paragraph twice … pursed his lips … folded up the letter and fitted it into its envelope … took off his glasses … put them into their case and laid it down … cleared his throat and reflected. Jane felt that she was going to scream.

“I suppose,” said Uncle William at last, “that you had better let her go.”

There was a good deal more said, though Jane said nothing. Grandmother was very angry.

But Uncle William said, “Andrew Stuart could take her altogether if he had a mind to. And, knowing him for what he is, I think he very likely would if you angered him. I agree with you, mother, that he is only doing this to annoy us, and when he sees that it has not annoyed us and that we are taking it quite calmly he will probably never bother about her again.”