“They’re Stephen’s barns an’ all——” Emma began on a heightened note, and then checked herself as before. “Ay, well, they do seem to belong more to your lass,” she went on, with suspicious meekness, “especially since my poor lad went down in t’ War.... But somebody’ll have to take and do for ’em, you’ll think on.”
“I’ll be fetching ’em here, of course!” Mrs. Clapham announced arrogantly, defying her with her eyes, her whole soul bent on concealing the fact that she had forgotten the children’s existence. It was incredible, of course, so incredible that it frightened her, but it had happened, nevertheless. Also it made her ashamed, convicting her of selfish preoccupation in another’s need. That, however, could be atoned for, later. The one thing that mattered at the moment was that Emma should guess nothing.
“They’re Tibbie’s barns, right enough, Emma Catterall!” she continued fiercely, glaring at her across the table. “Don’t you make no mistake about that! She always said as they was to come to me if by any chance she was took—not that we either on us thought as she ever would. But I’ve letters upstairs as is plain enough evidence what the poor thing wished. No lawyer’d go past ’em, and that’s flat. And if it’s plain speaking you’re happen wanting as well, she couldn’t abide you, nor the children, neither!”
Emma quivered again like a tightened fiddle-string, and then quietened.
“That’s not very kind, Ann Clapham,” she responded patiently, “and me with my poor lad gone down in t’ War!... Seems as if you and me ought to draw a bit nearer together at a time like this.” She paused a moment, as if to allow her time to wince at the accusation of lack of feeling.... “So you’ll be bringing the poor things back here, will you?” she concluded gently. “Ay, well, of course you know your own business best....”
“Ay, I do that!” Mrs. Clapham eyed her hardly, refusing to be intimidated.
“That’ll do well enough at first, likely, but what about later on? What’ll become of ’em when you move to your new spot?”
It was out now—the thing to which Emma had been working ever since she came in, and in fear and defiance of which the dead had been clamouring in her mother’s ear. Here again the incredible had happened which was yet so perfectly natural in the overwrought state of the charwoman’s brain. It was hardly surprising that it should have ceased to link cause with effect, half-paralysed as it was by shock, and bewildered in any case by the events of the day. Those last words, however, clarified it as a landscape is clarified by lightning, while at the same time they extinguished her temporary vitality like a blown candle. There was no sense now in trying to conceal the position from Emma, no use now in trying to hide this last hiatus of a mother’s mind. Slowly her body sank down upon itself, as before, her head dropped, her hands numbed. Her eyes returned to their vacant staring at the floor. “Nay, I’d clean forgotten about t’ house,” she muttered at last, in a voice that, along with the rest of her, had grown terribly old....
Nevertheless, in spite of her collapse, she was calling upon her mind to make one further effort, that weary, outraged mind which, during the last few hours, had been torn so often from one point of view to another. Given her own way, she would have sunk back into black woe, but neither Tibbie nor Emma meant to allow that. One on each side of her they seemed to stand, fighting across her, besieging her dull ear. Tibbie, at least, had a claim that she couldn’t deny, and least of all on her dying day. Emma, too, knew what she was about, to come tempting her at her weakest hour, even though she would go back with her head in her hands and some searching criticism for her pains.
For, after all, the decision was already made, and it was sheer waste of time to ask her even to state it. As if it was possible even to think of letting those poor children go to Emma! Even in her grief she could have laughed aloud at the every suggestion. It was true that they still seemed a long way off—the poor little pale mites who were so like Stephen—and so like Emma! It was true, too, that at that moment the tie that bound her was not of love or even of blood; nothing more noble, indeed, than jealous pride of possession. But no matter what the motive that constrained her, there could be no difference in the result. Never in any circumstances could she hand the children over to Emma.