Amidst much muttering, and with many frowns and short sharp shakes of the head, while her lips were pressed closely together, the woman, after much fumbling in her pocket, drew forth a partly-knitted stocking; when, sitting down, she began furiously clicking her needles, watching the while, with half-closed eyes, the curate and her son.
“So, then, you will not sell your lark, Jean?” said Mr Sterne.
The cripple knit his brow slightly, shook his head, and then drawing a long, delicate, girlish finger over the bars of his favourite’s cage, the lark set up its crest, twittered, fluttered its wings, and again pecked at the finger.
“No, no, no,” he said softly; “why does she complain? I would work if I could; but I sell and make money of these, though it seems cruel to keep them shut up, and they beat themselves against their prison-bars to get out into the free air and the green woods. And I’m sorry for them when the little breasts grow bare, and the feathers lie in the bottom of the cage; and she says—ma mère there—that I am bête.”
The woman seemed to compress every feature, as she shook her head fiercely, and went on with her knitting.
“Look!” continued Jean softly, as he smiled and pointed rapidly from cage to cage, “canaries, linnets, redpoles, goldfinches, and a blackbird. The thrush broke his heart with singing, they said—the birdcatchers—but it was not that: I know why. I have sold four birds this week; but I keep the lark; he is a favourite.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the mother softly; “but he is bête;” when, as the curate turned, she was bending over her knitting, shaking her head and frowning, while she stabbed fiercely again and again at the worsted ball till it was transfixed by her needle, when she replaced the ball in her pocket, where the first drag she gave at the thread drew the ball from its place and it rolled on the floor. “Ah! good dog, bon chien!” she cried, as one of the poodles ran forward, caught the errant ball, and bore it to his mistress, returning immediately to his corner; but not to be unrewarded, for the woman rose, and forcing up the sliding socket, caused a little scrap of tallow-candle end to shoot out of a tin-candlestick as from a gun, when, receiving permission, the dog snatched it from the floor, and devoured the savoury morsel in its corner.
“But he should sell the lark, monsieur,” said the woman.
“Hush, ma mère,” said the cripple angrily; “the bird is not to sell.”
The mother shrugged her shoulders, and clicked her needles furiously.