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.