Читать книгу Sussex Gorse - Sheila Kaye-Smith - Страница 33

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Naomi had met her tragedy. In course of time she recovered from her confinement, but all the joy of life and motherhood had gone from her. It was inexplicable to Reuben that she could mourn so hopelessly over the death of a little weak girl, who would have been nothing but a care and an expense if she had lived. It was inexplicable that she could take no interest in young Benjamin, a sound, well-made little fellow in spite of his premature birth. For the first time she was unable to suckle her baby, and Reuben was forced to engage a nurse, not liking the responsibility of bringing him up by hand.

But he was very good to Naomi. He tried to forget her indifference to his beloved boys, and to soothe and strengthen her into something like her old self. She did not repulse him. All the violence and the desperation in her had burnt themselves out during that night of frenzy. She lay in bed hour after hour without moving, her long hair—which was now beginning to come out in handfuls when she brushed it—spread over the pillow. Her muscles were slack, she lay without any suppleness, heavy against the mattress. After some weeks she was able to get up, and go about her duties with the children. She never spoke of her misery, she ate, she sewed, she even gossiped with the neighbours, as before. But something was gone from her—her eye sometimes had a vacant, roving look, her shoulders stooped, and her skin grew sallow.

She was still fond of her children, but in a listless, mechanical way. Sometimes when she had them all gathered round her, for their bedtime or a bath, she would find the tears welling up in her eyes till all the little faces were blurred. Poor mites! what future lay ahead of them? They were their father's slaves as well as she—the utmost would be ground out of them as it had been ground out of her.

Once more she had taken up her unwilling part in Boarzell's epic. She was expecting another child for the following spring. This would be her seventh.

She was no longer merely dissatisfied. In her heart she passionately rebelled. She hated herself, and her condition, for now she hated Reuben. The vague hostility she had felt towards him during Fanny's short life had given place to a definite hatred. She looked upon Reuben as the murderer of her child, and she hated him. During the first days of her grief he had been so kind to her that she had grown dependent on him and hatred was delayed, but now dependence and dazed gratitude had passed away, and in their place was a sick, heavy loathing for the man whose neglect and indifference she believed had killed her child. She could not endure the thought of giving him another. Sometimes she thought she would like to kill herself, but she was too weak a soul for anything desperate.

In those days she could not bear the sound of Harry's fiddle, and he was told he must not play it in the house.