Stephen Crane - Ultimate Collection: 200+ Novels, Short Stories & Poems. Stephen Crane

      CHAPTER III

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      As it grew toward seven o’clock the little old woman became nervous. She often would drop into a chair and sit staring at the little clock.

      ‘I wonder why he don’t come,’ she continually repeated. There was a small, curious note of despair in her voice. As she sat thinking and staring at the clock, the expressions of her face changed swiftly. All manner of emotions flickered in her eyes and about her lips. She was evidently perceiving in her imagination the journey of a loved person. She dreamed for him mishaps and obstacles. Something tremendous and irritating was hindering him from coming to her.

      She had lighted an oil-lamp. It flooded the room with vivid yellow glare. The table, in its oil-cloth covering, had previously appeared like a bit of bare, brown desert. It now was a white garden, growing the fruits of her labour.

      ‘Seven o’clock!’ she murmured finally. She was aghast.

      Then suddenly she heard a step upon the stair. She sprang up and began to bustle about the room. The little fearful emotions passed at once from her face. She seemed now to be ready to scold.

      Young Kelcey entered the room. He gave a sigh of relief, and dropped his pail in a corner. He was evidently greatly wearied by a hard day of toil.

      The little old woman hobbled over to him and raised her wrinkled lips. She seemed on the verge of tears and an outburst of reproaches.

      ‘Hello!’ he cried, in a voice of cheer. ‘Been gettin’ anxious?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, hovering about him.

      ‘Where yeh been, George? What made yeh so late? I’ve been waitin’ th’ longest while. Don’t throw your coat down there. Hang it up behind th’ door.’

      The son put his coat on the proper hook, and then went to splatter water in a tin wash-basin at the sink.

      ‘Well, yeh see, I met Jones—you remember Jones? Ol’ Handyville fellah. An’ we had t’ stop an’ talk over of times. Jones is quite a boy.’

      The little old woman’s mouth set in a sudden straight line. ‘Oh, that Jones!’ she said. ‘I don’t like him.’

      The youth interrupted a flurry of white towel to give a glance of irritation.

      ‘Well, now, what’s th’ use of talkin’ that way?’ he said to her. ‘What do yeh know ‘bout ‘im? Ever spoke to ‘im in yer life?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know as I ever did since he grew up,’ replied the little old woman. But I know he ain’t th’ kind ‘a man I’d like t’ have you go around with. He ain’t a good man. I’m sure he ain’t. He drinks.’

      Her son began to laugh. ‘Th’ dickens he does!’

      He seemed amazed, but not shocked, at this information.

      She nodded her head with the air of one who discloses a dreadful thing. ‘I’m sure of it! Once I saw ‘im comin’ outa Simpson’s Hotel, up in Handyville, an’ he could hardly walk. He drinks! I’m sure he drinks!’

      ‘Holy smoke!’ said Kelcey.

      They sat down at the table and began to wreck the little white garden. The youth leaned back in his chair, in the manner of a man who is paying for things. His mother bended alertly forward, apparently watching each mouthful. She perched on the edge of her chair, ready to spring to her feet and run to the closet or the stove for anything that he might need. She was as anxious as a young mother with a babe. In the careless and comfortable attitude of the son there was denoted a great deal of dignity.

      ‘Yeh ain’t eatin’ much t’-night, George?’

      ‘Well, I ain’t very hungry, t’ tell th’ truth.’

      ‘Don’t yeh like yer supper, dear? Yeh must eat somethin’, chile. Yeh mustn’t go without.’

      ‘Well, I’m eatin’ somethin’, ain’t I?’

      He wandered aimlessly through the meal. She sat over behind the little blackened coffee-pot and gazed affectionately upon him.

      After a time she began to grow agitated. Her worn fingers were gripped. It could be seen that a great thought was within her. She was about to venture something. She had arrived at a supreme moment. ‘George,’ she said suddenly, ‘come t’ prayer-meetin’ with me t’-night.’

      The young man dropped his fork.

      ‘Say, you must be crazy!’ he said in amazement.

      ‘Yes, dear,’ she continued rapidly, in a small, pleading voice, ‘I’d like t’ have yeh go with me onct in a while. Yeh never go with me any more, dear, an’ I d like t’ have yeh go. Yeh ain’t been anywheres at all with me in th’ longest while.’

      ‘Well,’ he said—‘well; but what th’ blazes—’

      ‘Ah, come on!’ said the little old woman. She went to him, and put her arms about his neck. She began to coax him with caresses.

      The young man grinned. ‘Thunderation!’ he said; ‘what would I do at a prayer-meetin’?’

      The mother considered him to be consenting. She did a little antique caper.

      Well, yeh can come an’ take care ‘a yer mother,’ she cried gleefully. ‘It’s such a long walk every Thursday night alone, an’ don’t yeh s’pose that when I have such a big, fine, strappin’ boy I want ‘im t’ beau me aroun’ some? Ah, I knew ye’d come!’

      He smiled for a moment, indulgent of her humour. But presently his face turned a shade of discomfort. ‘But—’ he began, protesting.

      ‘Ah, come on!’ she continually repeated.

      He began to be vexed. He frowned into the air. A vision came to him of dreary blackness arranged in solemn rows. A mere dream of it was depressing.

      ‘But—’ he said again. He was obliged to make great search for an argument. Finally he concluded: ‘But what th’ blazes would I do at prayer-meetin’?’

      In his ears was the sound of a hymn, made by people who tilted their heads at a prescribed angle of devotion. It would be too apparent that they were all better than he. When he entered they would turn their heads and regard him with suspicion. This would be an enormous aggravation, since he was certain that he was as good as they.

      ‘Well, now, y’ see,’ he said, quite gently, ‘I don’t wanta go, an’ it wouldn’t do me no good t’ go if I didn’t wanta go.’

      His mother’s face swiftly changed. She breathed a huge sigh, the counterpart of ones he had heard upon like occasions. She put a tiny black bonnet on her head, and wrapped her figure in an old shawl. She cast a martyr-like glance upon her son, and went mournfully away. She resembled a limited funeral procession.

      The young man writhed under it to an extent. He kicked moodily at a table-leg. When the sound of her footfalls died away he felt distinctly relieved.