CHAPTER XXVIII
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.