University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
SHRIFT AND ABSOLUTION.

Margery Rawle stood leaning over the back of
a chair at her kitchen window, and gazed anxiously,
through her spectacles, down the road. “O, there he
comes!” she said to herself at last, and drew a sigh
of relief, this sigh of relief being as near to an indication
of joy as poor Margery ever attained, and the best
approach to a welcome which George could consequently
anticipate. Her reception of him not being of so cheerful
a nature as to call for much response, it was not
strange that the “dearie me!” with which she met him,
and a disparaging remark about the weather, as she
watched him beat the snow off his feet, were only replied
to on George's part by the words, “Yes, a great
storm;” and that then the mother subsided into a knitting-machine,
and the son sat down in silence by the fire.

George loved his mother better than any one in the
world except Angie; and he was the sun and centre of
her life's orbit; but there was very little demonstration
of affection between them. He always treated her with

respect, and when about home, performed for her all
those offices which demanded strength or involved exposure;
and she spent the greater part of her time and
thoughts in motherly cares for his comfort; but as to
any more sentimental indication of their relationship it
was unthought of, and unmissed on either side.

Nor, on the other hand, were they guilty of mutual reproaches
and recriminations. Margery viewed George's
long absences from home, his neglect of the farm, and
his general want of prosperity, as so many features of
that ill luck which had attended her from childhood, and
forbearing any thing like accusation or censure, she
suffered all her regrets and all her fears to take the form
of gentle moanings, self-pitying ejaculations, and suppressed
groans, compared to which her sigh of relief
was positively cheerful and exhilarating.

George was so accustomed to this chronic depression
of spirits, which had characterized his mother ever since
his earliest recollection, that he never dreamed of expostulating
against it, or inquiring into its cause. Its
hopelessness served, no doubt, to rob him of that impetus
to exertion which his home might otherwise have
afforded. Still it would little have become him to complain
of any symptoms of a distress which he was doing
nothing to alleviate.

So, deep and sincere as was their love for each other,
there was a certain want of sympathy and confidence between
them which gave an air of restraint to their most
familiar intercourse.

He sat and watched her fingers awhile as they plied
the knitting-needles, now and then stealing glances at
her face; but finding that he was continually catching
her eye, as it turned anxiously upon him, he rose hastily
and went out.

He soon returned, bringing with him an armful of
wood, and continued to go and come until he had filled
the kitchen wood-box and built up a little wood-pile in
the adjoining pantry. His mother had risen at the same
time to prepare tea, and thus they passed and repassed
each other, both active in the fulfilment of household
tasks. Then came a lull in-doors. Margery stood watching
the teakettle, which refused to boil; George was plying
his hatchet in the shed outside. At last, when every
thing was ready for supper, and George still kept at
work, the old woman was obliged to go to the shed door
and call him. “Come, George,” she said, “the toast
is coolin', and I've put the tea to steep. Come! have a
dish o' tea, — it's so restin'.”

George looked up at the sound of her voice, and stood
leaning on his hatchet.

“Tea ready, mother?”

“Yes! and there's no need to be choppin' any more
wood. I'm purty well on't for kindlins.”

“Better to have enough,” murmured George, as he
came in, hung his cap on a nail, and sat down at the
table.

It was a brief meal. George had no appetite, and
Margery's emaciated frame never seemed to require

more nourishment than a bird's. George gulped down
his tea, and resuming his cap, went out again. Margery
did not miss him until she had put every thing
to rights in her department. Then the flashing of his
lantern outside the window attracted her notice.

“Law's sakes!” she ejaculated, “if that 'ere boy
ain't a shovellin' out paths this time o' night, and
'fore the storm's half over. Why, what possesses you,
George?” she cried, opening the house door just enough
to thrust her head out, and speaking in a shrill, cracked
tone, “the snow 'll all be driven in agin 'fore mornin'.
What's the use?”

“I've only been clearing a great heap away from the
door,” answered George, “and opening a track out to
the road. I shall be through in a few minutes. Don't
stand there, mother, you'll catch cold.”

The widow retreated from the door-way, but hovered
round the window until her son came in, heated and wet,
when she renewed her remonstrances.

“It 'll drift in some more, I dare say,” replied the
young man, “but what I've done to-night 'll make
an easier job for somebody in the morning. I don't
like the idea of the house's getting banked up.”

He now sat down quietly for a while by the fireside,
but either he was uncommonly restless or oppressed with
nervous apprehensions, for he soon started up abruptly,
and saying, “It 'll be bad getting to the well in the
morning. I think I'll draw a few buckets of water tonight,”
he once more sallied out for the fulfilment of

this task. And even when this, and one or two similar
employments were exhausted, he could not settle into his
wonted composure. Three several times he ascended to
his little bed-room above stairs, and was absent some
minutes — these excursions being rendered more observable
from the necessity he was under of each time lighting
a lamp; a process which, in this comparatively
primitive age, involved the selection of a red-hot coal, the
elevation of it between the tongs, and the application of a
puff of breath at the same instant that it was brought
into collision with the lamp-wick.

“Seems to me you've got great works goin' on overhead,”
said Margery, peering at him over her spectacles
as he blew his lamp out for the third time, and set it on
the mantel-piece.

He made no reply, but took a seat astride a chair, his
face towards the back of it, his chin just resting on the
upper bar. It was now nearly the widow's bed time,
and George followed her with his eye while she raked
up the coals, closed the window shutters, put the dust-brush
and house-broom, which had been used about the
hearth, into the oven as a precaution against their setting
any thing on fire, and made other little preparations for
retiring to her bed-room, which adjoined the kitchen.

“Mother!” said he, at length, as he saw that she
was really going.

She stopped short and looked at him.

“Mother — I — I —”

“Why, what's the matter, George?” said she anxiously,

for there was an unnatural hesitancy to his voice
which alarmed her. “Don't you feel well? What's the
matter?”

“O, yes, I'm all right; but I — I was thinking —
mother, I've never been much comfort to you, have I?”

“All I've had since your father died. But it's a poor
world — there ain't much comfort in it, after all,” and
the widow ended with an “O dear!” and her accustomed
sigh.

“Perhaps I might have been more to you, mother,”
said George, meditatively. “I suppose I might; but as
it is, I doubt whether you wouldn't have been better off
if I'd never been born. I've been more plague than
profit.”

“Mothers don't reckon that way, George, nor it ain't
like you neither to be so down at the heel. I'm afraid
you've caught cold. Hadn't I better bile the kettle, and
make you some ginger tea?”

“O, no,” replied George, with a forced laugh at the
suggestion; “I'm well enough. It's bed time, is it?”
He rose to once more light his lamp, and as the fire was
raked up, he applied the wick to that of the lighted
candle which his mother held, but his usually steady
hand shook so that his efforts were unsuccessful.

“Why, George,” remarked his mother, “you've got
an agur fit on you. You're as bad as the dominie's wife
when she first had the shakin' palsy. I do believe
you're goin' to be took sick, this awful night, too —
dearie me!” and she groaned outright.

Again George had recourse to the mock laugh, at the
same time supporting both lamps on the table, and with
his back turned to his mother, making another and more
successful experiment with them.

“Don't you be worried mother,” said he. “Don't
you worry about me ever, let what will come — promise
me that.”

He spoke the last words so earnestly that, although
his face was turned from her, she scanned his figure
inquiringly as she answered, —

“Law, George, its no use makin' such promises as
that. It's in the natur' o' mothers to be always a
worryin' about their chil'en.”

“Then they're better off without 'em,” said George,
“just as I said. If I was out of the way now, and you
could only forget you ever had a son why, it would be
the best thing that could happen to you, wouldn't it?”

“O, if we were all dead and gone, there'd be an end
to our troubles,” said Margery, despairingly. “I sometimes
wish we were, for my part.”

“It seems as if things couldn't be much worse than
they are,” was George's comment on this wholesale outburst.
“That's the only comfort I have in looking
ahead. But, some how, I — I — ” and here George
stammered badly.

“You what, George?”

“Why, I feel as if I should like, before I go any
further, to make a clean breast of the past. Mother,” —
and the quivering of his voice was even more perceptible

than the shaking of his hand had been a moment before,
— “I've been a poor, good-for-nothing fellow, and every
body's turned against me. I've treated you worse than
the rest because you had more claim on me; but you —
you've always been a — a — mother to me.”

“Of course I have, Geordie,” said she; “other folks
may be what they please, but mothers are mothers to
their dyin' day.”

“I know,” responded George, his words half choking
him; “and that's why, when I don't care for the rest, I
do care for you. Let them say what they will — and
I'll warrant it 'll be the worst. You won't say much,
but you'll think all the more, and I want you to think
the best you can, and hope the best you can, in spite of
any body.”

“Of course I will, George,” said she; “haven't I
always?”

“Yes; but let the worst come to the worst, you
must believe that I stood it as long as I could, and
fought even after they had me down.”

There was anger in his voice and fire in his eye as
he finished speaking.

“Who had you down?” cried Margery, in a fresh
alarm; “why, George, have you been fightin'?”

“No, O, no,” he replied, recollecting himself, and instantly
moderating his tone. “I didn't mean any thing.
I was only thinking how I'd struggled against all sorts
of injuries, and didn't know as I should hold out forever.
Folks have been too hard on me, mother. My uncle

Baultie is my greatest enemy. It's he that has pushed
me on to destruction. That old man and I have got to
come to a reckoning yet. I don't know how it 'll go
between us; but he'll have the worst of it if he gets his
dues,” — and, anger once more gaining the mastery of
George, he set his teeth tight, and his usually mild
eyes glittered with excitement.

Margery was frightened. “O George,” she cried, in
a deprecatory tone, “don't you fly in the face of your
uncle Baultie! He's a hard man — hard as a flint. If
you run against his sharp corners it 'll be you that 'll get
the worst on't. Take my advice, George, and be careful
for the future, when you're riled, not to put yourself in
his way.”

It was difficult to judge what effect this expostulation
had upon George. He seemed resolved to subdue, or at
least hide his passion; but as the expression of wrath
subsided on his face it was succeeded by one of stern
determination, which steeled his features when he next
spoke, though his tone was sad rather than vindictive.

“We won't say any thing about the future,” was his
answer; “that's all a big secret — the future is, mother.
It's only about the past I have one word more to add.
I've been a poor sort of a son, that 's a fact, and there's no
denying it. I have never done any thing for your comfort
or happiness; but — but,” and here his features softened,
and he looked tenderly at her, “I've always loved you.”

The poor widow only stared.

“You believe it, don't you?” with a pleading smile —
his boyish smile, which he had never lost.

“I do, George.

“And I always shall love you. Good night!” and he
started for the door, then stopped, turned, and came back
to where Margery stood, stupefied and puzzled. He
came close to her, and studied her face lovingly, but did
not kiss, caress, or even touch her. It would have been
too foreign to their natures and the habits in which he
had been nurtured. He merely took hold of her apron
string and wound it round his fingers, as a child would
do. “I dont care a bit for any harm I've done or mean
to do to any body else,” said he; “but if ever I've been
a trial to you (and I know I have often enough), I — I'm
sorry.”

“Law, George,” said his mother, “what matter is it?
Folks don't harbor any thing against their own flesh and
blood. You're dreadful down-hearted to-night; go to
bed.”

“So I will;” and he went as far as the door,
opened it, then stood a moment outside, with the latch
handle in his hand. “It's all right between you and me,
mother, ain't it?” said he, looking back as if eager for
one more assurance.

“Yes, all right,” was the answer, — “that is, if
you've got bed-clothes enough. It's a cold night, and
you're agurish, you know.”

“Plenty,” was the response, — “and — well — no
matter, — I guess it's all right;” and he slowly closed
the door after him.

“What's got into the boy?” soliloquized Margery, as

she set back the chairs and completed her preparations
for the night; “I never see him so afore. O dear! It's
the tavern mebbe, or bad company, or Angie Cousin,
perhaps. O Lud! I wish he'd let her alone! Any ways
he's awfully down in the mouth, and I shan't sleep a wink
to-night.”

But Margery had learned to sleep in spite of trouble.
She fretted a while, groaned aloud, tried in vain to
say her prayers, but fell asleep at last, in spite of the
storm raging wildly without, and of anxiety and grief
within.”