DOI article:
Balfour, Marie Clothilde: "Sub tegmine fagi"
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.26393#0207
By Marie Clothilde Balfour 203
the rain was everywhere, and the low sky frowned in a black
promise of continuance.
But at the cottage of John the carter the door stood wide, and
the water took its way in without hindrance and lay comfortably
upon the floor, reflecting the red glow of the spluttering fire,
with the kettle singing cheerfully on the hob, and the tea-things
set out upon the little table at the side where the armchair stood.
It stole into the very flounce of the bed that hid itself modestly
behind curtains and woodwork, and only opened a wide black
mouth behind a hanging full of gaudy cotton. Hannah stood
outside—out in the rain—and stared up the road in a blasphemous
silence. John was out yonder—in the wettest of the wet weather
—he who was so old and so frail and newly from a sick bed ;
John who had married her—sometimes she wondered why—only
a few months ago ; that he might have some one to nurse him
and cook his dinner, the neighbours said—but Hannah thought
differently. There were others who could have done that for
him; but she, Hannah, who had trailed herself through the
mire of the town and had spent her youth in the bearing of
chance-got children and the bestiality of drunkenness ; she at
whom the not overnice neighbours had looked askance, and whose
grey hairs had not brought her dignity, why had John, the
carter, who was sober and well to do, ever looked at her ?
Hannah did not know, but she thought dimly that God had been
sorry for her, and she remembered the wild unspoken rage of
gratitude and devotion that had filled her, when John asked her
to come to his fireside, and to come there by way of the Church
door. She would have gone without that ; but her simple un-
developed mind had its yearnings for paradise—a paradise where
she would know what it was to be “an honest woman” before
she died ; where she could be as others were, who had once never-
theless
the rain was everywhere, and the low sky frowned in a black
promise of continuance.
But at the cottage of John the carter the door stood wide, and
the water took its way in without hindrance and lay comfortably
upon the floor, reflecting the red glow of the spluttering fire,
with the kettle singing cheerfully on the hob, and the tea-things
set out upon the little table at the side where the armchair stood.
It stole into the very flounce of the bed that hid itself modestly
behind curtains and woodwork, and only opened a wide black
mouth behind a hanging full of gaudy cotton. Hannah stood
outside—out in the rain—and stared up the road in a blasphemous
silence. John was out yonder—in the wettest of the wet weather
—he who was so old and so frail and newly from a sick bed ;
John who had married her—sometimes she wondered why—only
a few months ago ; that he might have some one to nurse him
and cook his dinner, the neighbours said—but Hannah thought
differently. There were others who could have done that for
him; but she, Hannah, who had trailed herself through the
mire of the town and had spent her youth in the bearing of
chance-got children and the bestiality of drunkenness ; she at
whom the not overnice neighbours had looked askance, and whose
grey hairs had not brought her dignity, why had John, the
carter, who was sober and well to do, ever looked at her ?
Hannah did not know, but she thought dimly that God had been
sorry for her, and she remembered the wild unspoken rage of
gratitude and devotion that had filled her, when John asked her
to come to his fireside, and to come there by way of the Church
door. She would have gone without that ; but her simple un-
developed mind had its yearnings for paradise—a paradise where
she would know what it was to be “an honest woman” before
she died ; where she could be as others were, who had once never-
theless