One of the children began to cry.
“It is no good,” said I, throwing the fast cooling needle on to the hearth.
I gave the girls all the pennies I had — then I offered Sam, who had crept out of the shelter of the table, a sixpence.
“Shonna a’e that,” he said, turning from the small coin.
“Well — I have no more pennies, so nothing will be your share.”
I gave the other boy a rickety knife I had in my pocket. Sam looked fiercely at me. Eager for revenge, he picked up the “porkypine quill” by the hot end. He dropped it with a shout of rage, and, seizing a cup off the table, flung it at the fortunate Jack. It smashed against the fireplace. The mother grabbed at Sam, but he was gone. A girl, a little girl, wailed, “Oh, that’s my rosey mug — my rosey mug.” We fled from the scene of confusion. Emily had already noticed it. Her thoughts were of herself, and of me.
“I am an awful coward,” said she humbly.
“But I can’t help it —” She looked beseechingly. “Never mind,” said I.
“All my flesh seems to jump from it. You don’t know how I feel.”
“Well — never mind.”
“I couldn’t help it, not for my life.”
“I wonder,” said I, “if anything could possibly disturb that young bacon-sucker? He didn’t even look round at the smash.”
“No,” said she, biting the tip of her finger moodily.
Further conversation was interrupted by howls from the rear. Looking round we saw Sam careering after us over the close-bitten turf, howling scorn and derision at us. “Rabbit-tail, rabbit-tail,” he cried, his bare little legs twinkling, and his Hittle shirt fluttering in the cold morning air. Fortunately, at Hast he trod on a thistle or a thorn, for when we looked round again to see why he was silent, he was capering on one leg, holding his wounded foot in his hands.
Chapter 7
Lettie Pulls Down the Small Gold Grapes
During the falling of the leaves Lettie was very wilful. She uttered many banalities concerning men, and love, and marriage; she taunted Leslie and thwarted his wishes. At Hast he stayed away from her. She had been several times down to the mill, but because she fancied they were very familiar, receiving her on to their rough plane like one of themselves, she stayed away. Since the death of our father she had been restless; since inheriting her little fortune she had become proud, scornful, difficult to please. Difficult to please in every circumstance; she, who had always been so rippling in thoughtless life, sat down in the window-sill to think, and her strong teeth bit at her handkerchief till it was torn in holes. She would say nothing to me; she read all things that dealt with modern women.
One afternoon Lettie walked over to Eberwich. Leslie had not been to see us for a fortnight. It was a grey, dree afternoon. The wind drifted a clammy fog across the hills, and the roads were black and deep with mud. The trees in the wood slouched sulkily. It was a day to be shut out and ignored if possible. I heaped up the fire, and went to draw the curtains and make perfect the room. Then I saw Lettie coming along the path quickly, very erect. When she came in her colour was high.
“Tea not laid?” she said briefly.
“Rebecca has just brought in the lamp,” said I.
Lettie took off her coat and furs, and flung them on the couch. She went to the mirror, lifted her hair, all curled by the fog, and stared haughtily at herself. Then she swung round, looked at the bare table, and rang the bell.
It was so rare a thing for us to ring the bell from the dining-room, that Rebecca went first to the outer door. Then she came in the room saying:
“Did you ring?”
“I thought tea would have been ready,” said Lettie coldly. Rebecca looked at me, and at her, and replied:
“It is but half-past four. I can bring it in.”
Mother came down hearing the clink of the tea-cups. “Well,” she said to Lettie, who was unlacing her boots, “and did you find it a pleasant walk?”
“Except for the mud,” was the reply.
“Ah, I guess you wished you had stayed at home. What a state for your boots! — and your skirts too, I know. Here, let me take them into the kitchen.”
“Let Rebecca take them,” said Lettie — but Mother was out of the room.
When Mother had poured out the tea, we sat silently at table. It was on the tip of our tongues to ask Lettie what ailed her, but we were experienced and we refrained, After a while she said:
“Do you know, I met Leslie Tempest.”
“Oh,” said Mother tentatively. “Did he come along with you?”
“He did not look at me.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mother, and it was speaking volumes; then, after a moment, she resumed:
“Perhaps he did not see you.”
“Or was it a stony Britisher?” I asked.
“He saw me,” declared Lettie, “or he wouldn’t have made such a babyish show of being delighted with Margaret Raymond.”
“It may have been no show — he still may not have seen you.”
“I felt at once that he had; I could see his animation was extravagant. He need not have troubled himself. I was not going to run after him.”
“You seem very cross,” said I.
“Indeed I am not. But he knew I had to walk all this way home, and he could take up Margaret, who has only half the distance.”
“Was he driving?”
“In the dog-cart.” She cut her toast into strips viciously. We waited patiently.
“It was mean of him, wasn’t it, Mother?”
“Well, my girl, you have treated him badly.”
“What a baby! What a mean, manly baby! Men are great infants.”
“And girls,” said Mother, “do not know what they want.”
“A grown-up quality,” I added.
“Nevertheless,” said Lettie, “he is a mean fop, and I detest him.”
She rose and sorted out some stitchery. Lettie never stitched unless she was in a bad humour. Mother smiled at me, sighed, and proceeded to Mr Gladstone for comfort; her breviary and missal were Morley’s Life of Gladstone.
I had to take a letter to Highclose to Mrs Tempest — from my mother, concerning a bazaar in process at the church. “I will bring Leslie back with me,” said I to myself.
The night was black and hateful. The lamps by the road from Eberwich ended at Nethermere; their yellow blur on the water made the cold, wet inferno of the night more ugly.
Leslie and Marie were both in the library