Free Noble in Reason by Phyllis Bentley

you can’t get a better report than that! What will become of you, my poor child!”
    Netta, utterly overthrown, burst into tears and rushed to my mother’s arms.
    â€œI don’t want father to scold me. Miss Craddocks never scold me,” she cried.
    â€œNever mind, darling!” said my mother soothingly, drawing Netta to her breast.
    â€œThere, there! Never mind! I’m not cross with you, Netta,” explained my father impatiently, a little ashamed. “I just wonder what will become of you when you grow up, that’s all.”
    â€œI don’t want to grow up. I don’t want to be scolded,” wailed poor Netta.
    â€œShe’ll get married, surely,” said my mother, stroking Netta’s hair.
    So much fury seethed in my heart that I had difficulty in choking down my food. To see Netta wounded in this way was almost more than I could bear. And my father was so unreasonable, I thought, so unjust. He scolded me for having a good report, Netta for not having one. It was impossible to please him.
    At this moment John came in.
    â€œYou’re late, John,” said my father sharply.
    â€œAm I?” said John. His tone had that pretended innocence which when suspected to be ill-founded has such an insolent ring.
    â€œDon’t speak to me in that tone, sir!” snapped my father.
    John raised his eyebrows and enquired: “What tone, father?”
    â€œI am perfectly aware of why you are late every morning, John,” said my father. “I will speak to you about it tonight.”
    John coloured angrily and was silent.
    The holidays thus begun proceeded in the same tense and uneasy atmosphere. Our Christmas rites were muted; the turkey was small, the dessert scanty. It appeared that Henry’s bicycle, which had descended to me (because too small for him) in the summer of that year, was to be counted as my Christmas present. I was disappointed and disgusted by this arrangement but not surprised; I thought it characteristic of my father’s parsimony. Netta soon recovered from the incident of the report, for she soon forgot it; but both my brothers seemed uncomfortable. It was clear that John was under my father’s serious displeasure for some crime unknown to me, while Henry seemed brooding and touchy. As for myself, I took to fainting suddenly at unexpected moments. For some time I managed to conceal this from my family, but an unlucky chance brought it to light.
    It was my custom to go to the mill on holiday mornings, to run errands and make myself generally useful, and this had usually seemed to please my father, who allocated me simple tasks with a smile. But these holidays he frowned on me impatiently when I asked for work, and one day his impatience broke out into an angry scene. Returning to find that in his absence I had split the wood of a drawer he had set me to repair—I was always clumsy with my fingers—my father threw the drawer violently to the other side of the office, where it smashed against the wall, and cried:
    â€œGo away! Go home! You can’t help me! Nobody can help me! Get out of my sight!”
    Frightened, resentful, remorseful, I fled away gladly to the street, where I met John.
    â€œWhat’s up?” said he.
    I explained in a quavering tone that father was vexed because I couldn’t repair a drawer.
    â€œWell, keep out of his way,” said John with a scowl. “Don’t come to the mill any more.”
    This advice though humiliating was welcome and I was about to act on it with relief when I fainted, clutching at the railings as I fell, in vain.
    Naturally a good deal of fuss supervened. John carried me back to the office, where my father became so upset, pacing the room in vehement strides and telling me with emphasis that I took things far too much to heart, that in sheer justice to him I was obliged to confess that I had fainted before. I was taken home in a cab and Dr. Darrell was summoned.