LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

it aside, and began to eat the vegetables. Her brother re-charged his plate and continued to eat.

      “Well, our George, I do think you might pass a body that gravy,” said Mollie, the younger sister, in injured tones.

      “Certainly,” he replied. “Won’t you have the joint as well?”

      “No!” retorted the young lady of twelve, “I don’t expect you’ve done with it yet.”

      “Clever!” he exclaimed across a mouthful.

      “Do you think so?” said the elder sister, Emily, sarcastically.

      “Yes,” he replied complacently, “you’ve made her as sharp as yourself, I see, since you’ve had her in Standard Six. I’ll try a potato, Mother, if you can find one that’s done.”

      “Well, George, they seem mixed, I’m sure that was done that I tried. There — they are mixed — look at this one, it’s soft enough. I’m sure they were boiling long enough.”

      “Don’t explain and apologise to him,” said Emily irritably. “Perhaps the kids were too much for her this morning,” he said calmly, to nobody in particular.

      “No,” chimed in Mollie, “she knocked a lad across his nose and made it bleed.”

      “Little wretch,” said Emily, swallowing with difficulty. “I’m glad I did! Some of my lads belong to — to —”

      “To the devil,” suggested George, but she would not accept it from him.

      Her father sat laughing; her mother, with distress in her eyes, looked at her daughter, who hung her head and made patterns on the table-cloth with her finger.

      “Are they worse than the last lot?” asked the mother, softly, fearfully.

      “No — nothing extra,” was the curt answer.

      “She merely felt like bashing ’em,” said George, calling, as he looked at the sugar-bowl and at his pudding:

      “Fetch some more sugar, Annie.”

      The maid rose from her little table in the corner, and the mother also hurried to the cupboard. Emily trifled with her dinner and said bitterly to him:

      “I only wish you had a taste of teaching, it would cure your self-satisfaction.”

      “Pf!” he replied contemptuously, “I could easily bleed the noses of a handful of kids.”

      “You wouldn’t sit there bleating like a fatted calf,” she continued.

      This speech so tickled Mollie that she went off into a burst of laughter, much to the terror of her mother, who stood up in trembling apprehension lest she should choke.

      “You made a joke, Emily,” he said, looking at his younger sister’s contortions.

      Emily was too impatient to speak to him further, and left the table. Soon the two men went back to the fallow to the turnips, and I walked along the path with the girls as they were going to school.

      “He irritates me in everything he does and says,” burst out Emily with much heat.

      “He’s a pig sometimes,” said I.

      “He is!” she insisted. “He irritates me past bearing, with his grand know-all way, and his heavy smartness — I can’t bear it. And the way Mother humbles herself to him —!”

      “It makes you wild,” said I.

      “Wild!” she echoed, her voice vibrating with nervous passion. We walked on in silence, till she asked:

      “Have you brought me those verses of yours?”

      “No — I’m so sorry — I’ve forgotten them again. As a matter of fact, I’ve sent them away.”

      “But you promised me.”

      “You know what my promises are. I’m as irresponsible as a puff of wind.”

      She frowned with impatience and her disappointment was greater than necessary. When I left her at the corner of the lane I felt a string of her deep reproach in my mind. I always felt the reproach when she had gone.

      I ran over the little bright brook that came from the weedy, bottom pond. The stepping-stones were white in the sun, and the water slid sleepily among them. One or two butterflies, indistinguishable against the blue sky, trifled from flower to flower and led me up the hill, across the field where the hot sunshine stood as in a bowl, and I was entering the caverns of the wood, where the oaks bowed over and saved us a grateful shade. Within, everything was so still and cool that my steps hung heavily along the path. The bracken held out arms to me, and the bosom of the wood was full of sweetness, but I journeyed on, spurred by the attacks of an army of flies which kept up a guerrilla warfare round my head till I had passed the black rhododendron bushes in the garden, where they left me, scenting no doubt Rebecca’s pots of vinegar and sugar.

      The low red house, with it roof discoloured and sunken, dozed in sunlight, and slept profoundly in the shade thrown by the massive maples encroaching from the wood.

      There was no one in the dining-room, but I could hear the whirr of a sewing-machine coming from the little study, a sound as of some great, vindictive insect buzzing about, now louder, now softer, now settling. Then came a jingling of four or five keys at the bottom of the keyboard of the drawing-room piano, continuing till the whole range had been covered in little leaps, as if some very fat frog had jumped from end to end.

      “That must be mother dusting the drawing-room,” I thought. The unaccustomed sound of the old piano startled me. The vocal chords behind the green-silk bosom — you only discovered it was not a bronze-silk bosom by poking a fold aside — had become as thin and tuneless as a dried old woman’s. Age had yellowed the teeth of my mother’s little piano, and shrunken its spindle legs. Poor old thing, it could but screech in answer to Lettie’s fingers flying across it in scorn, so the prim, brown lips were always closed save to admit the duster.

      Now, however, the little old-maidish piano began to sing a tinkling Victorian melody, and I fancied it must be some demure little woman, with curls like bunches of hops on either side of her face, who was touching it. The coy little tune teased me with old sensations, but my memory would give me no assistance. As I stood trying to fix my vague feelings, Rebecca came in to remove the cloth from the table.

      “Who is playing, Beck?” I asked.

      “Your mother, Cyril.”

      “But she never plays. I thought she couldn’t.”

      “Ah,” replied Rebecca, “you forget when you was a little thing sitting playing against her frock with the prayer-book, and she singing to you. You can’t remember her when her curls was long like a piece of brown silk. You can’t remember her when she used to play and sing, before Lettie came and your father was —”

      Rebecca turned and left the room. I went and peeped in the drawing-room. Mother sat before the little brown piano, with her plump, rather stiff fingers moving across the keys, a faint smile on her lips. At that moment Lettie came flying past me, and flung her arms round mother’s neck, kissing her and saying:

      “Oh, my Dear, fancy my Dear playing the piano! Oh, Little Woman, we never knew you could!”

      “Nor can I,” replied Mother laughing, disengaging herself. “I only wondered if I could just strum out this old tune; I learned it when I was quite a girl, on this piano. It was a cracked one then; the only one I had.”

      “But play again, dearie, do play again. It was like the clinking of lustre glasses, and you look so quaint at the piano. Do play, my dear!” pleaded Lettie.

      “Nay,” said my mother, “the touch of the old keys on my fingers is making me sentimental — you wouldn’t like to see me reduced to the tears of old age?”

      “Old age!” scolded Lettie, kissing her again. “You are young enough to play

Скачать книгу