A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM
‘OH, mother, I’m glad you’ve come,’ Annie’s voice was crying to
her--she could hear her child’s voice, though she could not see her
face--‘I want you to send away all these women as is keepin’ me, that I
may get ready for my wedding-day. I’ve took my hair down so as to be
ready for t’ flowers, but they will hold my hands so as I can’t put it
up; an’ t’ clergyman an’ ladies is all gone to t’ church, an’ I shan’t
be there, an’ they willent wait for me. I’ve waited for ye. I didn’t
think ye’d be so long. I’ve waited for ye to help make me nice to go.’
She attempted to rise, but was held down by two women, who seemed to
have been assuming some guardianship over her; Jenny slowly recognised
the portly Mrs Robson, and the more blooming matronliness of Mrs Jones.
Through all the trials that had pressed on her since her marriage the
poor mother had never known such a sight as this before--her cottage
full of lights and the staring eyes of friends, her daughter delirious,
and her son crouching and ashamed.
Annie was on a chair, with her dress loose and disordered, her arms
held by the two women, and her hair hanging free; she made every now
and then a convulsive effort to get up, which could be scarcely checked
even by those who held her arms. The light on her face showed that it
had a fearful beauty; her eyes were wide, brilliant, her lips hot and
dry, her convulsive efforts at breathing seemed to be more than she
could endure as they heaved through her frame and tossed her shining
hair. The women who held her were not gentle in their movements, but
then her struggles were almost too strong for them.
‘Ah, it’s a poor tale,’ cried Mrs Jones, with due severity--‘a poor
tale when young ’omen behaves theirsens like this.’
‘I haven’t done wrong--I haven’t’--Annie cried in piercing shrieks,
aware even through her delirium of the implied reproach--‘I married him
honest, I did.... I say, I married .... I wouldn’t have gone with him
unless he’d married me. An’ he brought me, he did, to a village nigh to
here; an’ he began talkin’ to me when as t’ night had come; an’ I got
up fro’ bed, and dressed, an’ ran away, ’cause I said I wouldn’t stay
near him if he were ’shamed o’ me. An’ he wants me to be silent .... he
wants me to be silent ....’ her voice died away into low, gasping sobs;
and then, with a cry; ‘I am a wicked girl, I can’t keep fro’ talkin’,
t’ fever burns me so.’
‘I hope ye see now what she’ve come to, Jenny Salter,’--Mrs Robson
felt that it was her turn to give advice--‘with her pride an’ her
obstinacy, an’ her evil way, as set hersel’ up above t’ village lasses.
Ah, it’s a good tale if she doesn’t break thy heart; there isn’t a
mother in t’ village as ’ouldn’t be ashamed to own her now.’ With
unconscious dexterity she had touched the only chord of pride that
could vibrate even yet through poor Jenny’s misery.
‘Get out wi’ ye, all of ye,’ cried Jenny, starting forward, her thin,
Madonna face glowing with wrath; ‘what call have any of ye to get into
my house, to look in at my daughter, an’ say hard words to her? There
isn’t a mother as won’t be proud to own her yet, she’s better nor any
of yours, or ye’d not be hard on her. If Nat had t’ spirit of a man, or
even of a lad, he’d not ’a let ye in to say such things to me.’
‘An’ for what shouldn’t the boy call for help,’ cried Mrs Robson, ‘when
ye wasn’t yersel’ in a hurry to get back fro’ t’ town? He’s not so
proud as his mother is, maybe, an’ he hasn’t no call to be so, if all’s
true as I’ve seen and heard. I was just a-speakin’ to him as ye come
in, Mrs Salter, an’ a-tellin’ of him as I ’ud tell ye all; I think it’s
as well ye should know about your chil’en, as seem mighty well able to
keep what they do from ye. No, I won’t stand no whisperin’, Alice, I
intend to speak this once; it’s not for t’ lad’s good as I’ve kept
still so long. I’ve seen him mysel’ in his goings on wi’ Miss
Gillan, an’ if t’ Squire knew he’d lose his place for it. I’d ’a spoken
afore, but Alice begged an’ prayed; I’m too good a mother, that’s t’
long an’ short of it.’
‘So you’ve had your secrets,’ cried Jenny, sharply, suddenly, turning
round upon Nat, who crouched in his corner still; ‘it’s not for nothing
then as ye’ve been so idle lately, a-worretin’ about as ye couldn’t eat
y’ food. Ye’ll be like the father; ye’ll be my misery; but one house
sha’n’t hold us both, if ye don’t submit to me.’ In the heat of her
bitterness she had no sense of injustice; her anger was perhaps a
relief to her misery.
But Nat sprang from his corner with the sudden, violent anger into
which his impatience could be kindled by reproach, his cheeks flushed
into feverish beauty, and his lips shaking with the emotion that
quivered through his young frame like starts of pain. ‘It’s allays the
way--it’s been allays so,’ he said; ‘ye care for my sister, but ye
willent care for me. It’s nothin’ to ye as she’s the talk of all t’
village, as she’s shamed an’ disgraced you till she’s well-nigh mad
with it. So long as it isn’t me ye can forgive, though I’ve done no
harm, I’ve been allays good to ye. T’ Squire’ll do me justice; he don’t
think harm on me; he’ll give me money so as I can get away from you. I
won’t be your son nor care for ye no longer, ye doesn’t deserve to have
a son like me.’
He had spoken so fiercely that he was quite past hearing that during
his words there had been a knock at the door; but now, with a start, he
realised that it was open, and that dark figures were standing in the
winter night beyond it. A sudden silence fell upon all within the
place; even Annie’s struggling and chattering were hushed. For it was
Tim Nicol who stepped into the cottage, with a face as dark with
anxiety as a night before a storm.
‘I’m come for ye, Nat; t’ Squire has sent his servants; but they asked
me if I’d be the one to say t’ word. They thought as I knew ye, and
your mother an’ your sister, as it might happen to come more light from
me. T’ Squire has sent; he wants to ask ye a question; there’s a five
poun’ note lost, an’ he wants to ask of it. I trust, for the sake of
Heaven, as ye’ll contrive to clear yoursel’; but come quickly now, for
there’s no escape for ye.’
For one dreadful instant Nat felt the cottage reel, and lights,
darkness, people, were hidden from his sight; and then through that
blindness he heard the sound of a fall, and knew that his mother was
lying upon the floor near him. He could not speak .... could not answer
his accusers .... could only catch hold of Tim to support himself on
his feet; and speechless, staggering, without a word to defend himself,
was half-supported, half-dragged into the night. The door was closed
.... there was silence in the cottage .... Jenny lay on the ground,
without strength to raise herself. The accumulating misery that
had been gathering so long had risen at length like a flood and
she had sunk....
‘Oh, dear Mrs Salter,’ whispered Alice in her ear, as she sat on the
floor and held Jenny in her arms--‘do raise your head now, I’ve sent
’em all away; there isn’t any one here besides my mother and me.
Annie’s lyin’ upstairs; she seems to be quieter now; an’ my mother’s
with her, an’ I’m alone wi’ ye .... an’ oh, do tell me if there’s aught
I can do for ye, whilst ye are waitin’ to have more news o’ Nat. T’
Lord is good,’ Alice murmured with streaming eyes, ‘He gives a blessing
to them as wait for Him.’
‘Ye’re a good girl, Alice,’ Jenny thanked her quietly, as, having
risen, she began to move about the room--‘I’m glad to think ye’ll be in
the house with Annie to take care on her whilst I am away. My bonnet
an’ shawl are on a chair there, will ye give ’em to me? My head’s a bit
tired still, but I’ve a deal to do. No, don’t stop me, I must go out of
t’ house. I’m goin’ to them as has robbed me of my children, they shall
give me to-night an account of all they’ve done.’
No words would restrain her, her pale face was resolute; with trembling
fingers she fastened her bonnet and shawl, allowed Alice an instant in
which to cling to her, and then turned to the door, and went out into
the darkness. Some mechanical impulse appeared to be her guide--or
perhaps some sense of an effort that should be final and supreme--if
there were those who had done harm to her children they should give
account to the mother of the things that they had done. With steady
fingers she closed the door behind her; and, weak yet resolute, went
out into the night.