“Are you not, mother?” said Thomas, sitting up suddenly in great surprise. “Then I don't care. I couldn't make it out well.”
“Never you mind, Thomas, it will be well,” and she leaned over him and kissed him. Thomas felt her face wet with tears, and his stolid reserve broke down.
“Oh, mother, mother, I don't care now,” he cried, his breath coming in great sobs. “I don't care at all.” And he put his arms round his mother, clinging to her as if he had been a child.
“I know, laddie, I know,” whispered his mother. “Never you fear, never fear.” And then, as if to herself, she added, “Thank the Lord you are not a coward, whatever.”
Thomas found himself again without words, but he held his mother fast, his big body shaking with his sobs.
“And, Thomas,” she continued, after a pause, “your father—we must just be patient.” All her life long this had been her struggle. “And—and—he is a good man.” Her tears were now flowing fast, and her voice had quite lost its calm.
Thomas was alarmed and distressed. He had never in all his life seen his mother weep, and rarely had heard her voice break.
“Don't, mother,” he said, growing suddenly quiet himself. “Don't you mind, mother. It'll be all right, and I'm not afraid.”
“Yes,” she said, rising and regaining her self-control, “it will be all right, Thomas. You go to sleep.” And there were such evident reserves of strength behind her voice that Thomas lay down, certain that all would be well. His mother had never failed him.
The mother went downstairs with the purpose in her heart of having a talk with her husband, but Donald Finch knew her ways well, and had resolved that he would have no speech with her upon the matter, for he knew that it would be impossible for him to persevere in his intention to “deal with” Thomas, if he allowed his wife to have any talk with him.