Stephen Crane - The Complete Novels & Novellas of Stephen Crane

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.

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