“Oh, I can’t stand it!” she said bitterly. “I shall go mad! And Em taking it all in, and ready to have Alf’s foot on her neck for life. And Alf ready to have Em chained to his foot for life. The fools! Why, I wouldn’t ... not even to Keith.... No, I wouldn’t.... Fancy being boxed up and pretending I liked it—just because other people say they like it. Do as you’re told. Do like other people. All be the same—a sticky mass of silly fools doing as they’re told! All for a bit of bread, because somebody’s bagged the flour for ever! And what’s the good of it? If it was any good—but it’s no good at all! And they go on doing it because they’re cowards! Cowards, that’s what they all are. Well, I’m not like that!”
Exhausted, Jenny sat down again; but she could not keep still. Her feet would not remain quietly in the place she, as the governing intelligence, commanded. They too were rebels, nervous rebels, controlled by forces still stronger than the governing intelligence. She felt trapped, impotent, as though her hands were tied; as though only her whirling thoughts were unfettered. Again she took up the hat, but her hands so trembled that she could not hold the needle steady. It made fierce jabs into the hat. Stormily unhappy, she once more threw the work down. Her lips trembled. She burst into bitter tears, sobbing as though her heart were breaking. Her whole body was shaken with the deep and passionate sobs that echoed her despair.
iv
Presently, when she grew calmer, Jenny wiped her eyes, her face quite pale and her hands still convulsively trembling. She was worn out by the stress of the evening, by the vehemence of her rebellious feelings. When she again spoke to herself it was in a shamed, giggling way that nobody but Emmy had heard from her since the days of childhood. She gave a long sigh, looking through the blur at that clear glow from beneath the iron door of the kitchen grate. Miserably she refused to think again. She was half sick of thoughts that tore at her nerves and lacerated her heart. To herself Jenny felt that it was no good—crying was no good, thinking was no good, loving and sympathising and giving kindness—all these things were in this mood as useless as one another. There was nothing in life but the endless sacrifice of human spirit.
“Oh!” she groaned passionately. “If only something would happen. I don’t care what! But something ... something new ... exciting. Something with a bite in it!”
She stared at the kicking clock, which every now and again seemed to have a spasm of distaste for its steady record of the fleeting seconds. “Wound up to go all day!” she thought, comparing the clock with herself in an angry impatience.
And then, as if it came in answer to her poignant wish for some untoward happening, there was a quick double knock at the front door of the Blanchard’s dwelling, and a sharp whirring ring at the push-bell below the knocker. The sounds seemed to go violently through and through the little house in rapid waves of vibrant noise.