THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED
IN that home the lamp had been lighted for the evening, and the mother
and daughter sat in silence at their work, for the timid efforts of
poor Jenny at conversation had been negatived by the determined silence
of her child. Yet, though Annie had been quiet, it had not been the
quietness of resignation, she had trembled and quivered like a
frightened animal; and during the uproar that had been three times
repeated had been scarcely able to keep herself in her seat. It had not
been terror by which she was moved, but rage; a rage that glowed in her
eyes and worked in her troubled lips, a condition of feeling that was
no doubt assisted by her physical weakness, but which was yet such
shattering agitation as only the sensitive can feel. Her face had
inherited much beauty from her mother, but it was a more vivid beauty,
more easily seen and felt; and in its best moments had never the look
of patience that had belonged to her mother in her girlish days. Yet,
as I have said, the eyes of any stranger would, no doubt, have
proclaimed her the more beautiful of the two.
Jenny sat by the lamp and threaded her needle quietly, her delicate
features distinct against the light, the outline of her cheek a little
marred by the hollow which had been wrought slowly by age, and care,
and time. Her daughter reclined in Rob’s great, red-cushioned chair,
her unbound hair lying loosely round her face, to which it served as a
more radiant background, for her dark eyes were weary and her cheeks
were pale. She always suffered from her own impatience, poor Annie, she
had the constitution that vibrates too easily.
But, indeed, both mother and daughter were suffering to-night, and the
same trouble weighed on the hearts of both, to an extent that would
have surprised those who are ignorant how keenly even the scantily
educated can feel. A delicate fastidiousness is not at all uncommon
amongst those who shelter beneath cottage roofs; and these two women
both felt disgraced and branded by the public ceremony that had rattled
out their woes. Jenny bent to this new trial as she always did to
trial, with no thought of protesting against her calamities; but Annie
opposed to it the fierce impatience which her physical weakness left
her scarce able to express. She kept turning from side to side on her
red cushions, with the restlessness that is not able to be still.
‘Where’s Nat,’ she asked suddenly when, weary at last of movement, she
lay still, perforce, for a moment in her seat; and, as if the
question roused a sudden anxiety, Jenny let her work fall in her lap.
Indeed, through all the excitement of the evening she had had no
leisure in which to think of her son.
‘I can’t think,’ she replied tremulously, in a voice which had her
father’s gentleness to lend its soft utterance to the accent of her
mother’s ‘folk;’ ‘I haven’t set eyes on him sin’ twelve o’clock, when
he came in, an’ took his meal, and went again. Ah! I’m sorry to think
he’ll be comin’ through the village; it’s a bad night for him to be out
in all the fuss.’
‘He won’t care about that,’ muttered Annie with a toss, for Annie and
Nat were very rarely friends; ‘it’s like as he’ll on’y think it a bit
o’ fun; he’s no sense to see into things, boys never have! It’s full
time he should be findin’ work to do, and not be a-loiterin’ an’
dawdlin’ here; sin’ he’s so proud o’ the notice that the Squire takes
o’ him, the Squire had best get him a place, an’ send him off. Here he
is.’
For, as she had been speaking, the door had opened; and, as she broke
off, Nat came into the room; he came in softly and with a shamefaced
expression, as one who is conscious that he is very late. And, indeed,
as Jenny laid down her work on her knees, there was something of
severity in her eyes as she looked at him.
‘An’ where ha’ ye been, Nat, all this while?’ she asked, ‘a-leavin’ of
Annie, as might ha’ wanted ye--I doubt ye’ve not worked on the
allotment ground, or done any good wi’ yoursel’ through all the
day! There isn’t much use in ye when ye’re out o’ work, ye go off an’
play, an’ there’s an end of all!’
‘Why, mother, I haven’t played up till noon to-day,’ said Nat, ‘and I’m
goin’ at the hay to-morrow, ye know I am; there isn’t a lad in all the
village as doesn’t like to have a bit o’ game sometimes. I’ve been
lookin’ at them to-night,’ and his eyes sparkled; ‘I had a fine sight
of ’em, though they didn’t know I was near.’
‘Ye’ve been an’ looked at ’em,’ cried Jenny, rising, with a wrath most
unusual glowing in her face; ‘ye’ve been an’ took part in all their
wicked ways as bring shame on the father, an’ me, an’ all on us! I
didn’t think it of thee, Nat, not e’en o’ thee; ye’re a wicked boy, an’
I’ll not forget thy work.’
‘I told ye so, mother,’ cried Annie from her cushions; ‘I told ye he
wouldn’t care, and ’ud think it fun. Ye’ll believe me, perhaps, next
time when I speak of him, though ye always take his part whatever comes
to us.’
‘I did but hide by the stone-pit,’ muttered Nat, dismayed at the storms
that were rushing on his head; ‘there wasn’t an eye of ’em all as saw
me, but of course ye find fault wi’ me, ye always do.’
He pulled out a chair, and threw himself down upon it, an expression of
sullen resistance on his face, thrusting out his legs in a most
determined manner, and screwing his mouth as if he were whistling
silently. The eyes of his mother and sister rested on him meanwhile,
with the silent opposition that is most hard to bear.
‘I want some tea,’ muttered Nat, with his hands in his pockets,
resolved to make the best of his position.
‘The things is locked up,’ his mother replied, ‘and I can’t be troubled
to get ’em out for ye. I don’t care to give ye tea when ye do such
tricks as them.’
‘All right, I’m not hungry,’ the boy said, with a gulp, as if he were
exercising some control upon himself; he had seen, no doubt, the tears
in his mother’s eyes, and did not wish to continue the dispute. But
Jenny received the remark as an expression of indifference, and her
unwonted anger could no longer be restrained.
‘I wish ye would go to bed,’ she cried out to him; ‘I can’t bear the
look of ye, indeed I can’t.’ The boy got up in a sulky, slouching way,
as if he were delaying the operation as long as possible; an expression
which almost served to conceal the fact that, after all, he was doing
as he was told. Unlike his sister, who did not practise obedience, Nat
generally yielded, although defiantly; his mother, poor soul, was
scarce conscious of the fact, she only observed the defiance, as
mothers often do. Her daughter was always consistently imperious, but
to her daughter she was accustomed to submit; it was the imperfect
obedience of her son that, far more often, was able to rouse her
wrath. To-night she was sore with anxiety, shame, and pain; and, in
their own fashion, the gentle take revenge.
‘Ay, go off,’ she said; ‘that’ll be some comfort at least. If father
was here he’d hasten thy steps for thee.’
‘Look here, mother,’ cried Nat, stopping short, and with a gasp, for
his nature was as emotional as it was passionate, ‘ye’ve no call to say
all these things to me, as if I’d been settin’ on to do ye harm.....
What do it matter what t’ village says o’ father? I’m sure he merits
the worst as they can say..... But I doubt if I’d stuck to him i’sted
o’ ye he’d not send me hungered to bed as ye do now.’ His words were
caught suddenly with a sob, and, turning hastily, he ran out of the
room. The sound of the door he banged made echoes there, but the two
women did not disturb them by their words.
Annie turned round upon her cushions, glad of the absence of her
brother, because it left her able to shed a few tears unperceived;
whilst her mother bent over the sewing in her hand, with trembling
fingers that could scarce guide her thread. With the reaction of a
timid and conscientious nature, she was now being seized with terror,
uneasy about her boy, and sure that he might be ill if he went for so
many hours without a meal. Although quite certain that he would reject
any food, she longed to go to his room, and entreat him to come and
eat; at the same time being not at all ready to forgive him, for
her anger was enduring, although it was not strong. She would have
stolen up the stairs to his bedside, but she dared not move with her
daughter so near to her.
It is probable that her son would not have received her well; but the
attempt at reconciliation might have produced some result; it might, at
any rate, have averted an adventure that was to produce enduring
consequences. For when poor Jenny, about an hour afterwards, went up to
her room to put away her work, she found that the window of the room
was open, that the boy’s bed was empty, and that Nat was gone.