MRS. Granger lingered all through that night, but she scarcely said
anything more, and in the cold dawn of the morning her spirit passed
very quietly away. The two little boys opened the room door noisily at
midnight, but they too were impressed, as Bet had been, by the unusual
order and appearance of comfort of the room. Perhaps they were also
startled by the girl's still figure crouching by the bedside, and by
the look on their mother's face as she lay with her eyes closed,
breathing hard and fast. They ceased to talk noisily, and crept over to
a straw mattress on the floor which they shared together. When they
next opened their eyes they were motherless.
Mrs. Granger died between five and six in the morning; and when the
breath had quite left her body Bet arose, stretched herself,--for she
was quite stiff from sitting so long in one position,--and going
downstairs, woke a neighbor who occupied a room on the next floor.
"Mrs. Bennett, my mother is dead; can you take care of the Cap'n and
the Gen'ral this morning? I'll pay you for it when I sell my papers
to-night."
Mrs. Bennett was a wrinkled old woman of about sixty-five. She was
deeply interested in tales of death and calamity, and instantly offered
not only to do what she could for the boys, but to go upstairs and
assist in the laying out of the dead woman.
"No, no; I'll do what's wanted myself," replied Bet; "ef you'll take
the boys I'll bring them down asleep as they are, and I'll be ever so
much obligated. No, don't come upstairs, please. Father'll be in
presently, and then him and me and mother must be alone; for I've a
word to say to father, and no one must hear me."
Bet went back to the room where her mother had died. She was very
tired, and her limbs were stiff and ached badly after the long night's
vigil she had gone through. No particular or overwhelming grief
oppressed her. On the whole, she had loved her mother better than any
other human being; but the time for grief, and the awful sense of not
having her to turn to, had not yet arrived; she was only conscious of a
very solemn promise made, and of an overpowering sense of weariness.
She lay down on the bed beside the dead woman, and fell into a sound
and dreamless slumber.
In about an hour's time noisy steps were heard ascending the stairs.
The little boys, cuddling close to one another in Mrs. Bennett's bed,
heard them, and clasped each other's hands in alarm; but Bet sound,
very sound, asleep did not know when her father reeled into the room.
He had been out all night--a common practice of his--and he ought to
have been fairly sober now, for the public-houses had been shut for
many hours, but a boon companion had taken him home for a private
carouse. He was more tipsy than he had ever been known to be at that
hour of the morning, and consequently more savage. He entered the room
where his dead wife and his young daughter lay, cursing and
muttering,--a bad man every inch of him--terrible just then in his
savage imbecility.
"Bet," he said, "Bet, get up. Martha, I want my cup of tea. Get it for
me at once--I say, at once! I'm an hour late now for the docks, and Jim
Targent will get my job. I must have my tea,--my head's reeling! Get
up, Martha, or I'll kick you!"
"I'll get you the tea, father," said Bet.
She had risen instantly at the sound of his voice. "Set down in that
chair and keep still; keep still, I say--you'd better."
She pushed him on to a hard wooden chair, shaking him not a little as
she did so.
"There, I'll put the kettle on and make the tea for you--not that I'll
ever do it again--no, never, as long as I live. There, you'd better set
quiet, or not one drop shall pass your lips."
"Why don't the woman get it for me?" growled Granger. "I didn't mean
you to be awoke, Bet. Young gels must have their slumber out. Why don't
the woman see to her duty?"
"She has done her duty, father. You set still, and you shall have the
tea presently."
The man glared at his daughter with his bloodshot eyes. She had been up
all night, and her hair was tossed, and her eyes smarted; but beside
him she looked so fresh, so upright, so brave and strong, that he
himself in some undefinable way felt the contrast, and shrank from her.
He turned his uneasy gaze towards the bed; he would vent his spite on
that weak wife of his--Martha should know what it was to keep a man
with a splitting headache waiting for his tea. He made an effort to
rise, and to approach the bed, but Bet forestalled him.
"Set you there, or you'll drink no tea in this house," she said; and
then, taking a shawl, she threw it over an old clothes-screen, and
placed it between Granger and his dead wife.
The kettle boiled at last, the tea was made strong ang good, and Bet
took a cup to her father. He drained it off at one long draught, and
held out his shaking hand to have the cup refilled. Bet supplied him
with a second draught, then she placed her hand with the air of a
professional nurse on his wrist.
"You're better now, father."
"That I am, gel, and thank you. You're by no means a bad sort,
Bet--worth twenty of her, I can tell you."
"Leave her out of the question, if you please, father, or you'll get no
help from me. You'd like to wash your face, mebbe?"
"Yes, yes, with cold water. Give me your hand, child, and I'll get up."
"Set you still--I'll fetch the water."
She brought it in a tin pail, with a piece of flannel and soap and a
coarse towel.
"Now, wash--wash and make yourself as clean as you can--for you has got
to see summut--leastways you can take the outside dirt away; there,
make yourself clean while I lets the daylight in."
The man washed and laved himself. He was becoming gradually sober, and
Bet's words had a subduing effect; he looked after her with a certain
maudlin admiration, as she drew up the blind, and let the uncertain
daylight into the poor little room. Then she went behind the screen,
and he heard her for a moment or two moving about. He dried his face
and hands and hair and was standing up, looking comparatively fresh and
another man, when she returned to him.
"You're not a bad sort of a gel," he said, attempting to chuck her
under the chin, only she drew away from him. "You know what a man
wants, and you get it for him and don't hurl no ugly words in his face.
Well, I'm off to the docks now. I'll let the old 'ooman sleep on, this
once, and tell her what I think on her, and how much more I set store
by that daughter of hers, tonight."
"You'll let her sleep on, will you?" said Bet.
Her tone was queer and constrained; even her father noticed it.
"She is asleep now; come and look at her; you may wake her if you can."
"No, no, gel; let me get off--Jim Targent will get my berth unless I
look sharp. Let me be, Bet--your mother can sleep her fill this
morning."
"Come and look at her, father; come--you must."
She took his hand--she was very strong--stronger than him at that
moment, for his legs were not steady, and even now he was scarcely
sober.
"I don't want to see an old 'ooman asleep," he muttered, but he let the
strong hand lead him forward. Bet pushed back the screen, and drew him
close to the bed.
"Wake her if you can," she said, and her eyes blazed into his.
Granger looked. There was no mistaking what he saw.
"My God!" he murmured. "Bet, you shouldn't have done it--you shouldn't
have broke it to me like this!"
He trembled all over.
"Martha dead! Let me get away. I _hate_ dead people."
"Put your hand on her forehead, father. See, she couldn't have got your
tea for you. It were no fault of her'n--you beat her, and you kicked
her, and you made life awful for her; but you couldn't hurt her this
morning; she's above you now, you can't touch her now."
"Let me go, Bet--you're an awful girl--you had no call to give me a
turn like this. No, I won't touch her, and you can't force me. I'm
going out--I won't stay in this room. I'm going down to the docks--I
mustn't lose my work. What do you say--that I shan't go? Where will you
all be if I don't arn your bread for you?"
"Set down there on the side of the bed, father. I'll keep you five
minutes and no more. You needn't be all in a tremble--you needn't be
showing of the white feather. Bless you, she never could hurt you less
than she does now. Set there, and look at her face. I've a word or two
to say, and I can only say it with you looking at her dead face. Then
you can go down to the docks, and stay there for always as far as it
matters to me."
She pushed the man on to the bed. He could see the white, still face of
his dead wife. The tired look had left it; the wrinkles had almost
disappeared. Martha Granger looked twenty years younger than she had
done yesterday.
Around the closed eyelids, around the softly smiling mouth, lay an
awful peace and grandeur. The drunken husband looked at the wife whom
he had abused, whose days he had rendered one long misery, and a lump
arose in his throat; a queer new sensation, which he could not
recognize as either remorse or repentance, filled his breast. He no
longer opposed Bet; he gazed fixedly, with a stricken stare, at the
dead woman.
"Speak, gel; say what you have to say," he muttered.
"It's only a word or two, father--It's just this. Mother's dead, and in
a day or two she'll be buried. You worn't there to bid her good-bye,
and it ain't likely you'll ever meet her again, unless that's true
about the Judgment Day. Maybe it is true, and maybe mother will tell
God some ugly things about you then, father. Maybe you'll see her then
for a minute or two--I can't say."
"Don't," said Granger. "You're awful when you likes, Bet. You has me
down, and you tramples on me. You're a cruel gel, and no mistake."
A derisive smile came to Bet's face.
"Mother's dead and she'll be buried," she continued, in a dry,
monotonous voice. "The money is in the burying club for her, and she
can be laid in the grave decent like. Then me and the boys, Nat and
Thady, we're going away. I wanted to say that--I wanted to say that
your ways aren't our ways, and so we'd best part company; and I wanted
to say here, with you looking at mother's dead face, and her smiling
back at you so awful and still, and the good God, if there is a God,
listening, that I has promised mother that the boys Nat and Thady--the
Cap'n and Gen'ral, as they're called here--shan't larn your ways, which
are bad past belief; so when mother's buried, we're going away. That's
all. You can go to the docks, now."
As Bet spoke she took a little white soft handkerchief, and laid it
gently over her mother's face.
"You can go now," she repeated, and she opened the door for the man,
who slunk out of the room. He was half-sober, half-stupefied. A burning
rage, which was neither remorse nor repentance, and yet was a mixture
of both, surged up in his heart. He said to himself, that he was sorry
for Martha, who was dead, and quite beyond his reach any more; but he
hated Bet, for she had humbled him and dared to defy him.