Лето
XVII
Butshecouldnotevenmakeoutwhatrelationshipthesepeopleboretoeachother,ortoherdeadmother;theyseemedtobeherdedtogetherinasortofpassivepromiscuityinwhichtheircommonmiserywasthestrongestlink.ShetriedtopicturetoherselfwhatherlifewouldhavebeenifshehadgrownupontheMountain,runningwildinrags,sleepingonthefloorcurledupagainsthermother,likethepale-facedchildrenhuddledagainstoldMrs.Hyatt,andturningintoafiercebewilderedcreaturelikethegirlwhohadapostrophizedherinsuchstrangewords.Shewasfrightenedbythesecretaffinityshehadfeltwiththisgirl,andbythelightitthrewonherownbeginnings.ThensherememberedwhatMr.RoyallhadsaidintellingherstorytoLuciusHarney:“Yes,therewasamother;butshewasgladtohavethechildgo.She’dhavegivenhertoanybody....”
Well!afterall,washermothersomuchtoblame?Charity,sincethatday,hadalwaysthoughtofherasdestituteofallhumanfeeling;nowsheseemedmerelypitiful.Whatmotherwouldnotwanttosaveherchildfromsuchalife?Charitythoughtofthefutureofherownchild,andtearswelledintoherachingeyes,andrandownoverherface.Ifshehadbeenlessexhausted,lessburdenedwithhisweight,shewouldhavesprungupthenandthereandfledaway....
Thegrimhoursofthenightdraggedthemselvesslowlyby,andatlasttheskypaledanddawnthrewacoldbluebeamintotheroom.
