JENNY

A Village Idyl


BY

M. A. CURTOIS

_Author of ‘Elf-Knights,’ ‘Tracked,’ ‘My Best Pupil,’ &c._


‘Nothing but the Infinite Pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of
human life.’

     --John Inglesant.


_London_

EDEN, REMINGTON & CO., PUBLISHERS

HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


1890




                               CONTENTS


   CHAP.                                                         PAGE

      I. IN THE TRAIN                                               1

     II. IN THE VILLAGE                                             8

    III. A RANTAN                                                  17

     IV. THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED                               24

      V. AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT                                 31

     VI. THE NEXT MORNING                                          46

    VII. TIM                                                       53

   VIII. A MORNING CALL                                            60

     IX. AT THE FARM                                               72

      X. AN AFTERNOON VISITOR                                      84

     XI. THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER                                    103

    XII. A CLASS MEETING                                          111

   XIII. THE RETURN OF THE FATHER, AND THE LAST OF THE RANTAN     123

    XIV. IN SUMMER DAYS                                           130

     XV. MR JAMES GILLAN MEETS HIS UNCLE                          135

    XVI. AN OMINOUS CONFLICT AND A FINAL RESOLVE                  140

   XVII. A PLEASANT EVENING                                       147

  XVIII. A TERRIBLE NIGHT                                         154

    XIX. NAT AND THE SQUIRE                                       157

     XX. A BETRAYAL AND A FALL                                    165

    XXI. LYING ON THE DOOR-STEP                                   178

   XXII. IN THE HOME NEAR THE THACKBUSK                           183

  XXIII. ALICE AND TIM MAKE RESOLUTIONS                           188

   XXIV. NAT IN DESPAIR                                           202

    XXV. TIM AND ANNIE                                            212

   XXVI. IN WINTER NIGHTS                                         218

  XXVII. JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS                223

 XXVIII. A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM                                      229

   XXIX. THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT                                 236

    XXX. BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT                                245

   XXXI. DRESSING FOR DINNER                                      252

  XXXII. IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE                            257

 XXXIII. ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE                                 263

  XXXIV. A PARTING IN THE STREET                                  272

   XXXV. THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE   280




JENNY




CHAPTER I

IN THE TRAIN


THE chimes of the cathedral had just announced the hour of six when the
train left the station, and passing the tall chimneys which were
overshadowed by the cathedral towers steamed out into the country
beyond the town.

The July day was sinking into evening, an evening light that was soft
and mellow in spite of the line of stormcloud above the cathedral. It
was the first bright day that had been known for many weeks, and all
available hands had been turned to work upon the hay which, green and
damp still from recent experiences, was lying spread or in haycocks on
the ground. Here and there, on soil close to the river’s brink, the
masses of purple loosestrife made a glow of colour; or in some uncut
field where the grass was short and brown the dark red cows were
pasturing quietly; or now and then one, unconsciously picturesque,
would be standing on the bank of the river, a distinct picture there.
The train steamed onwards with its scanty freight of passengers,
between the lines of the river and the canal, in the midst of the quiet
fields and the mellow evening light.

The freight of passengers, as I have said, was scanty, for indeed not
many had left the town that evening--the foundrymen, even those who
lodged in villages, having, for the most part, tramped off to their
homes an hour before; whilst, as it was Thursday, and therefore not
market-day, no women with market-baskets were to be expected in the
train. Some few, however, were returning from their friends; and some
workmen had lingered for the advantage of the ‘ride;’ while there was
also, of course, a small proportion of those who were journeying to
some distant town, some of these being strangers much interested in the
cathedral, and others less interested inhabitants of the city. All
these different classes of people were represented, at any rate, in one
third-class railway carriage--a railway carriage in which we must
journey too.

A dark gipsy-looking woman, with fierce eyebrows and eyes, who had a
dark little girl by her side, seemed to be a stranger to the town, for
she sat by one of the windows and with excited gestures pointed out the
cathedral to the child in the corner opposite, whilst she was observed
placidly by a motherly tradesman’s wife who was conveying to her
daughter in a distant village some parcels of groceries from her
husband’s shop. In another corner, neatly dressed and quiet, was a
young woman who had the appearance of the wife of a village workman;
and opposite to her a lad in working-clothes, pale, grimy, and
over-tired, lounged at his ease. These passengers did not appear to
know each other, and conversation did not flow easily; with the
exception of one or two spasmodic efforts, which fell back rapidly into
silence. These had been made by the gipsy-looking woman, who seemed to
be one of those people who are disposed to talk.

The first cause of her remarks had been the sight of some scaffolding
which had been erected about one of the cathedral towers, and which
appeared to excite her very much, for she leant her head out of the
window that she might be able to observe it more closely. Then she drew
in her head again with a laugh that was short and dry, and an
expression that appeared to border on contempt.

‘_Well_,’ she exclaimed, ‘not finished yet!’ The tradesman’s wife heard
her, and heaved a placid sigh.

‘Ah!’ she breathed out softly, ‘_and it never will be._’ Her manner was
that of one who pronounces some final verdict.

‘An’ yet it must ha’ been many years abuilding,’ the stranger remarked,
with renewed contempt, again leaning out of the window, with her eyes
fixed upon the venerable towers above the town. Her remark was a
challenge, or at least was taken as such, and the tradesman’s wife
hastened to explain herself.

‘You see,’ she said, ‘it’s a fack as I have heerd, as all the
cathedrals belong to the Roman Catholliks, an’ they keeps the woorkmen
always at woork upon ’em, for fear lest the Catholliks should take ’em.
For they ca’ant take ’em, as I’ve heerd, till they be done, so them as
manages do contrive to keep ’em out!’

This extraordinary historical statement was received with a slight
snort but with no incredulity, and the conversation fell once more into
silence. The dark woman, however, was not to be daunted, and after a
while burst into speech again.

‘I’m a-goin’ a good way,’ she said, ‘nigh to the sea, to a child o’
mine as has been ill; I don’t think they’ve done to her all they should
’a done, an’ I’m going to see to it or know the reason why!’ She did
not make this remark to the passenger facing her, but threw it out for
the benefit of all who heard, and it seemed to attract the attention of
the young woman opposite, who was seated in the farther corner of the
carriage. She raised her head, as if she had been herself addressed,
and her words came as if against her will.

‘I’ve a child at home as is badly,’ she said, and then she sighed. Her
words and manner were both very quiet, but there was something in
them so simple and pathetic that they arrested the observation of the
others, and for the moment all eyes were turned on her. The stranger
honoured her with a bold and steady stare; the wife of the shopkeeper
turned towards her with compassion; whilst even the foundry lad, to
whom she seemed familiar, let his glance rest curiously upon her for a
while. Indeed, it must be confessed with regard to her appearance, that
these various eyes might have been worse employed.

She has been described as young, for her slight and youthful figure
gave that impression to all who saw her first, but a closer inspection
soon revealed the fact that she must have owned between thirty and
forty years. Her face, too, was more worn than might have been
expected, although it had preserved much of the delicate beauty of its
outline--a beauty, however, so unobtrusive in character that it needed
some close attention to observe it. She had the simple attire of a
village workman’s wife, without any of the fineries in which the wives
of workmen occasionally indulge, a gown of dark stuff, although it was
summer time, a rusty black jacket, and a close-fitting bonnet of black
straw, already old and limp. The lad could have told the others who she
was, although he had not much acquaintance with her himself; and he
might also have been able to give some explanation of the look of
sadness upon her patient face. This was Jenny Salter, who lived in the
village of Warton, who lived by the Thackbusk, and was Rob Salter’s
wife.

Her appearance was too quiet to maintain the interest she had excited,
the curiosity slackened, and the conversation dropped; save when the
irrepressible stranger now and then made some remark on the fields or
on the cows. Jenny shrank into her corner with her face turned to the
window, and her mind occupied with tender yearning over her sick child
at home; whilst the lad opposite, who had been disturbed by his looks
at her, began turning over in his mind, with some compunction, the
thought of a certain ‘rare game’ with which she was connected, and in
which, in common with the other lads of the village, he intended to be
engaged that night. His compunction did not extend to a renunciation of
his purpose, but it made him a little uneasy all the same.

And now the train was beginning to slacken speed, and already could be
seen the irregular lines of village roofs, the grey church-tower just
peeping above the trees on the hill, and, beneath, the red chapel that
had been lately built. With the timidity of a nervous nature, Jenny
Salter rose to her feet before the train had stopped, and hastened to
take her basket on her arm, that she might be found quite ready to
descend. The movement recalled to her something that her dress kept
concealed, a bruise on her shoulder that a man’s clenched hand had
left.

As she stepped on to the platform of the station, and looked wearily
up the river, aglow with evening light, the sight that she saw was one
that might have attracted a mind less preoccupied than her own. For the
line of storm-cloud was heavy above the cathedral, and beneath was the
glory of an intensely golden radiance, against which the hill that was
crowned with cathedral towers stood out as a shadow of deepest purple.
Jenny looked on these things, but seeing did not see them; she gave up
her ticket, and turned towards the village and her home.




CHAPTER II

IN THE VILLAGE


THE village of Warton is situated on the river, about three miles from
the cathedral town of Lindum, and commands a good view of the cathedral
towers, and, from its highest ground, a wide outlook over the Fens. It
slopes upwards from the river to the summit of a little hill, on the
side of which are the church-tower, and the trees round the old grey
Hall; and, to the left, the irregular village street, with its
old-fashioned roofs of red tiles, or of thatch, the churchyard gates,
and the old village tree beneath which are some ancient stone steps,
once surmounted by a cross. Below the hill the road, which is at a
right angle to this principal street of the village, pursues on one
side its way to the town, at some distance from the triple lines of the
river, railway, and canal; and, on the other, winding to a greater
distance from them finds its way out into the great stretch of Fenland,
which is bordered on the far horizon by the blue line of the Wolds. It
is a quiet village, whose inhabitants are more artisan than
agricultural; for the town of Lindum, although three miles away, is
near enough to supply them with employment, to which the men and
lads tramp through the darkness of winter mornings, or the pale light
and mists of the earlier summer dawns.

Here, then, in this place had Jenny Salter lived, although she was not
by descent a native of the village, for her father, Nat Phillips, had
once lived close to London, and had only by accident drifted to the
north. He had happened to hear, through a friend, when he was out of
work, of some foundry employment that could be found in Lindum, and,
the result of his journey proving beyond his hopes, he had settled down
in the village near the town. The country people are habitually averse
to strangers; they looked with suspicion upon this unknown workman, and
would not admit him to any intimacy. It was only when years had proved
his harmlessness; and, more especially, after he had married a village
girl, that they condescended to be favourable, and could be heard to
say that they knew ‘no harm’ of him. By this time, however, the timid,
delicate Phillips had become obscured from another cause, he was hidden
from sight by the superior qualities of the lady who went by the name
of ‘Mrs Nat.’

In many villages there is some admirable woman who acts as a sort of
oracle to the rest, who is an authority on all village matters, and
rules supreme with a rod to which iron is soft. Mrs Phillips was one of
these superior creatures, and as such was recognised in all the
place; the daughters of the Rector did not command much more deference,
and were not to the same extent called upon to rule--it was enough for
them to teach in the Sunday School, to assist in prize-givings, and to
pour out tea at entertainments. Mrs Nat had brought some money to her
husband with herself; and, besides that, he earned good wages in the
town; she was able to appear in a silk gown on Sundays, and her income
was not limited by her charities. For it was one of the principles of
Mrs Nat not to give away anything to any cause whatever, and all sorts
of collectors had all sorts of stories of the results of making appeals
to her in her home. A hard, uneducated, vigorous, despotic woman, with
much local knowledge and unassailable ignorance, she ruled alike over
her husband and her neighbours, kept her home in order, and her
children neat, sold the chickens she reared in the town on market-days,
and asserted her authority on all occasions without dispute. Her
husband, meanwhile, submitted to her sway, left his children and his
wages entirely in her hands, read books and newspapers when she allowed
him to be quiet, was a competent workman, and a continual invalid. They
lived in a house in the lower street of the village, rather larger than
those which other workmen owned, with a view from the back-windows of
the canal and railway lines, with iron railings in front, and a brass
knocker on the door.

In this house had Jenny spent her early years, a shy, timid child,
continually found fault with by her mother for being slow, and
otherwise attracting little notice from anyone. She had inherited,
indeed, from her father the beauty of her face, but it was a quiet
beauty, not readily observed; she was a delicate creature, easily tired
and frightened, not likely to reign as a belle amongst the lads. The
other children of Mrs Nat were boys, bold, black-eyed urchins, who were
their mother’s pride, and she had not much affection for the only girl,
who was not in any particular like herself. Jenny crept silently about
the house, shrank away from scoldings into solitary corners, climbed up
on her father’s knee when her brothers were not near, admired her
mother, and felt herself dull and slow. At that time, as afterwards,
she was willing to accept the estimate that other people formed of her;
she early learned that conviction of unworthiness which is scarcely to
be unlearned in later life. A gentle creature, timid and patient, she
sang her songs low to herself, and was content.

It was not in the least to be expected that poor Jenny would have power
over her fate when her fate came in her way, and indeed her mother
assumed the complete control, and did not require her to have an
opinion for herself. Mrs Nat took a liking to the dark-eyed, handsome,
young fellow who, in those days, haunted the house persistently,
professing himself willing to leave the sea-coast where he had lived,
to settle in the village, and find work in the town. Mrs Nat found
him lively, and loved to joke with him; the father was secretly uneasy,
but dared not express his doubts; and Rob Salter himself had a fancy
for the welcome and the suppers, and the pretty child who was shy when
he looked at her. In those days they would often make excursions to the
sea, and Rob would be generous and pay for everyone; and Jenny loved
the tumbling waves, and the long, low line of sand-banks, and the bare,
flat fields that gleamed in the evening light. It was on one of those
evenings when he stood alone with her on the shore, and a pale light
made a mystery of the sea and sands, that he whispered to her, and it
was all arranged. The father and mother were merry as they travelled
back that night; it was well for them that they did not live to see the
rest.

For it was all settled, and there was a quiet wedding-day, and Jenny
returned after two days to a cottage of her own, and it was all so
wonderful that she could not imagine how she should ever get over the
wonder of it. And yet, after all, it was but a common-place experience,
and she settled down, by degrees, to her cottage-home, though the first
weeks of her new life were overshadowed by such grief as she had not
known before. For Nat Phillips came home with a fever from the town,
and his wife caught it from him as she nursed him that night, and
in the course of a few days both were dead, and Jenny followed
her parents to their grave. She was overwhelmed with grief and
bewilderment; she could not imagine herself without her mother’s rule;
and the villagers, who had more knowledge than she had of her husband,
shook their heads over the thought that the protection of her parents
was lost. Of this, however, they said nothing to the young wife; and,
perhaps, if they had done so, she would not have understood.

No, she did not understand, and although in that first year of
marriage, Rob left his young bride continually alone, although his
varied employments seemed to take him in all directions, she was not
suspicious, and she did not complain. It was natural that he should not
stay with her (‘him so clever!’), of course he had plenty of other
things to do; the meekness that had not rebelled at her mother’s
harshness was not even surprised at her husband’s indifference. She had
something to console her, for before a year was over her little Annie
was born, and the next year her little Nat, and the care and affection
she lavished on her babies made such an opportunity for love as she had
not known before. She had been only just seventeen at the time she
married, and was barely nineteen when her last child was born.

And so the years slipped away slowly, one by one, in the simple
employments of a workman’s wife, marked by the continual development of
the children, and by drunken outbursts too frequently from Rob. But, as
years went on he was still less at home, and even when he professed
to be there he was not seen there often, though Jenny often sat up for
him all the night that she might open the door as soon as his step was
heard. No home in the village was kept more daintily, no children were
prettier or more neatly dressed, the heavy poverty that pressed
continually had nothing repulsive in its outward signs. But the
neighbours complained that Mrs Salter kept herself too much apart; she
had the reserve of sorrow, and preferred to be alone.

More than eighteen years had passed since Jenny’s wedding day, and she
had lived in the same place all the time, for the vagaries and expenses
of her husband had never left him able to provide a larger house. At
the foot of the hill there is a public-house, and by the side of it is
a tiny lane, a lane that is not many feet in length, and is closed by a
gate that leads out into the fields. Rob owned the old, whitewashed,
red-tiled cottage that was nearest to the gate, with a little garden at
the side, between it and the field. It was not large enough for a
growing family, but those who are poor must do the best they can.

And, certainly, if there was not much room in the cottage the same
thing could not be said of the fields beyond, the wide, marshy fields
that stretched down to the canal, and were known as the ‘Thackbusk’ by
the village-folk. There were silver-grey willows in those
wide-stretching fields, and masses of elder in the summer-time, and
above could be seen the red roofs of the village, and far in the
distance the grey cathedral towers. The Thackbusk allowed you plenty of
room to play; the children of Jenny knew that very well.

But those children were almost man and woman on that July evening when
Jenny left the train, and walked alone down the street beneath the hill
with the bruise on her shoulder, and a sore weight on her heart. Some
red cows passed peaceably by her as she went, with the urchin who drove
them loitering behind; and a young workman was leaning outside the
railings of the chapel, proud of holding his baby in his arms. Jenny
went on alone, with her head bent always downwards, and her mind in her
child’s sick-room, and in tender contrivances, and the burdens that
were both of memory and foreboding pressing their habitual weight upon
her heart till she did not hear the good-evening of a neighbour who
stood at his door with his pipe in his mouth. The man’s eyes followed
her curiously as she walked, but she did not turn round, so she was not
aware of it.

‘Well, mother, you have been a while,’ were the words that greeted her,
as she slowly opened her cottage-door at last, not prepared for the
fever-worn face that raised itself from the cushions of the great
wooden arm-chair on the hearth. ‘You wouldn’t expect to see me here
downstairs, but I couldn’t rest after what Mrs Beeton said--she says
that they’re going to Rantan us through the village--I wish I was a
man, that I might kill them all! We’ll never get over this even’,
never, never; we had best leave the place as soon’s this night is
done!’

These were not the most cheering words to come as greeting to an
anxious heart at the close of a weary day; but Jenny, although they
struck her like a blow, was more alarmed for her daughter than herself.
With renewed anxiety she laid aside her bonnet, and came to the hearth
to bend above her child; and Annie raised slowly her languid, beautiful
face, shaken with the sobs that she had till then restrained. We will
leave them to cling to each other, and to whisper, and go out into the
village street to learn the rest.




CHAPTER III

A RANTAN


THE dying sunlight was bright on fields and Fens, and had still a
radiance for roofs and corners of walls, when a motley assemblage of
men, and lads, and children gathered together by degrees before a
public-house. They were in the principal street of the village, some
little way up the hill; they had brought with them banners, and sticks,
and many pots and pans; and, to judge from the shouts of laughter that
echoed continually, the highest good-humour prevailed. The merriment
was occasioned chiefly by the lads, some of whom had blacked their
faces, whilst some wore their coats inside out; and others had
decorated themselves with wigs and whiskers, or had improved their
eyebrows by great smears of burnt cork. A prominent figure was a
hideous effigy, who was stuffed with rags, and clothed with coat and
trousers, with a pipe stuck in his mouth beneath a battered hat, and a
great stick fiercely brandished in his hand. This effigy was to be
carried in the midst of the procession, the object of it, and the mark
for general scorn; this frightful figure embodying the _Moral_ of
all the fun and excitement of the night. For this was a Society that
had a Moral, as the flags and banners abundantly proclaimed.

These were many and various, but the numerous inscriptions all tended
to the same end, or gave the same advice--the object apparently being
to terrify those guilty of the special sin that was rebuked. The
largest proclaimed the name of the Society, ‘Society for promoting
Peace between Man and Wife’--another asked what should be the penalty
of wife-beaters, and answered, ‘Lynching,’ in enormous letters of
red--whilst a third contained a rude but spirited picture, which
represented a criminal being hanged. The others bore similar mottoes,
and were composed of odds and ends both of paper and of stuff, and
those who carried them appeared highly proud to exhibit their burdens
to all who came to look. The enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when
the effigy was placed on a ladder and carried shoulder high; it was
greeted with howls, and a clash of sticks and pans, and the procession
formed hastily, and started on its way. With tumult, shouting,
indescribable uproar, the Rantan proceeded on its course up the hill.

It passed the green, with its old steps, and village pump, and the old
church, dusky against the dark trees of the Hall, and still wound
upwards with clashing of pans and kettles, and incessant hooting and
groaning from the lads. At the top of the hill it turned round to
the right, where trees looked over the wall of the Manor Farm, and in
front of the red school-house before which white lilies gleamed, it
came for the first time to a halt. By this time the crowd had become
very much augmented, some one or two hundred being assembled now.

The procession had paused, and now were begun some fresh arrangements
which appeared to indicate an intended speech, since a young man, most
fiercely adorned with burnt cork smudges, mounted up on a white gate to
the right hand of the house. But it was not easy to check the
enthusiasm of the lads, which expressed itself in brays, and hooting,
and clashing of the pans; and for some while he remained on his
elevation without any possibility of making himself heard. At last,
after frantic waving of his arms, some sort of silence was produced,
and he began:

‘We are the Society--’

‘Go it, Bill, go it,’ cried the lads in great excitement; ‘don’t spare
the langwidge, let’s have yer tongue a bit.’

‘We are the Society for preserving Pe-ace; we do-ant believe in strife
betwixt man and wife; we says when a man’s bin an’ swore like to a
woman--’

‘Go it, Bill, then, go it,’ shouted all the lads in chorus. ‘We’ll all
support yer; give it ’em well; ’ooray!’

‘---- ye all,’ cried Bill, beginning to swear in earnest, ‘what do
ye mean by interruptin’ me? I’ll leather ye when I get ye,’ cried Bill,
forgetting his peacefulness; ‘ye young uns shall feel my hands, I tell
ye that!’

‘Hold back there, ye fools,’ proclaimed an older man; ‘can’t ye let a
man be when he sets forth to speak? There isn’t a grain o’ sense amidst
the lot; one ’ud think ye were bred upon folly, and not on milk.’

‘We’re on’y supportin’ of him,’ a lad urged, sulkily, ‘we thort it ’ud
do him good to have a cheer. Here, Bill, ye get up,’ for Bill was going
to descend, ‘an’ we’ll let be for a while, an’ hear ye out.’

Bill ascended once more, but his ardour was gone. His speech came with
abruptness, snappily, in this wise:

‘It’s a known fack as men marry. A man as marries had better live at
peace. And him as doesn’t set for to do his dooty had best be taught in
this manner so to do. That’s all.’

‘Why, Bill, it’s not over,’ cried out the lads; ‘ye don’t mean to say
as ye’ve got done a’ready.’ But Bill was not to be tempted to proceed.

‘A man speaks short,’ he replied, candidly, ‘when he spe-aks to fools.
Help me down.’ With that he descended from his elevation, and the
Rantan proceeded upon its way again.

It reached in due course the corner of the road, where the sunlight was
golden between the trees on the left, and golden radiance and vivid
shadows of trees fell in light and darkness upon the Manor wall. And
now, down below, could be seen the distant country, bright and dim
like some beautiful fairyland, and the long soft shadows upon the field
of grass, and on the other side the Squire’s house, grey among the
trees. They went down the steep road, shouting, clashing, hooting, the
evening stillness rebuking them as they went, and reached the bottom of
the hill without any interruption, and turned forthwith into the lower
village street. Men and women stood at their gates to see them pass,
the mothers holding their babies in their arms; and little children,
too young to join in the tumult, babbled at them with great excitement
and delight. There were none who objected to the discordant
interruption that might have been heard for miles around; the sympathy
of the villagers went with it, and no one would have ventured to
attempt to interfere. This was partly due to a primitive sense of
justice, and partly because Rob Salter had the unpopularity he
deserved, but partly also to a sort of pleasure in the excitement,
which in the quiet village made a kind of festival. The procession
clashed onwards, gathering numbers as it went, and turned down by the
public-house to Rob Salter’s home.

So quiet and still! the cottage stood in the shadows, with the evening
light upon the gate and field beyond, with bolted door, and with blinds
closely drawn--there was no sign of any drunken outbreaks here. But
here, as at a resting-place, the procession halted, and gathered
together all its strength, and rattled, hooted, groaned, shouted, and
clashed, until its hideous clamour might be said to surpass itself.
There was no answer, no sign that they were heard, the two women
cowered together in their home; and after some five minutes of
serenading had elapsed, the procession turned round, and went on its
way again. It went along the road to the Fens as if it would get out
into the country; and then, once more turning, proceeded up the hill,
this time by more devious ways to the left of the village, with fields
on one side of it, and the glowing Fens below. To the right, below a
wall, there was a deserted stone-pit, all covered and shrouded with ivy
and trees, and beneath that wall crouched an unseen auditor, a young
lad who lay and listened, but who dared not raise his head. The
procession of men would have known him if he had shown his face; he was
Nat Salter, who was Rob Salter’s son.

There was another witness of whom they were more aware, for as they
passed once more by the bushes of the Manor Farm it was observed by a
few amongst the lads that the dark eyes of a girl were peeping from
over the fence at them. The boys who observed her whispered amongst
each other, and cast furtive glances, and appeared to feel interest;
but the demands of business would not allow of delay, and they were
obliged to go onwards with the rest. For one moment the dark face was
raised to look after them; then it disappeared, and was not seen
again.

Unheeding, the Rantan went round and round the village, for the
enthusiasm was not exhausted soon; and with tumult, shouting, and some
attempts at speeches, the hours of the evening were uproariously worn
away. Once, twice more it paused before Jenny Salter’s home, and
brayed, and clashed, and groaned out its loudest there; but the cottage
remained, as before, closed and dark, and after a prolonged pause each
time it went on again. The red, lovely glow that hovered round the
horizon turned pale and faded, and the dimness of twilight came, the
first stars began to shine out in the sky, and slowly the darkness of
night encompassed all. And then the procession poured into a field upon
the hill, and there gave vent to some final hoots and groans, and then
all dispersed in their several directions, and left the fields and the
village to the silence of the night. The boy who had been in hiding by
the stone-pit, had waited to be sure that they had all dispersed; he
raised his head now, and looked around with caution, and then through
the darkness and stillness he stole off to his home.




CHAPTER IV

THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED


IN that home the lamp had been lighted for the evening, and the mother
and daughter sat in silence at their work, for the timid efforts of
poor Jenny at conversation had been negatived by the determined silence
of her child. Yet, though Annie had been quiet, it had not been the
quietness of resignation, she had trembled and quivered like a
frightened animal; and during the uproar that had been three times
repeated had been scarcely able to keep herself in her seat. It had not
been terror by which she was moved, but rage; a rage that glowed in her
eyes and worked in her troubled lips, a condition of feeling that was
no doubt assisted by her physical weakness, but which was yet such
shattering agitation as only the sensitive can feel. Her face had
inherited much beauty from her mother, but it was a more vivid beauty,
more easily seen and felt; and in its best moments had never the look
of patience that had belonged to her mother in her girlish days. Yet,
as I have said, the eyes of any stranger would, no doubt, have
proclaimed her the more beautiful of the two.

Jenny sat by the lamp and threaded her needle quietly, her delicate
features distinct against the light, the outline of her cheek a little
marred by the hollow which had been wrought slowly by age, and care,
and time. Her daughter reclined in Rob’s great, red-cushioned chair,
her unbound hair lying loosely round her face, to which it served as a
more radiant background, for her dark eyes were weary and her cheeks
were pale. She always suffered from her own impatience, poor Annie, she
had the constitution that vibrates too easily.

But, indeed, both mother and daughter were suffering to-night, and the
same trouble weighed on the hearts of both, to an extent that would
have surprised those who are ignorant how keenly even the scantily
educated can feel. A delicate fastidiousness is not at all uncommon
amongst those who shelter beneath cottage roofs; and these two women
both felt disgraced and branded by the public ceremony that had rattled
out their woes. Jenny bent to this new trial as she always did to
trial, with no thought of protesting against her calamities; but Annie
opposed to it the fierce impatience which her physical weakness left
her scarce able to express. She kept turning from side to side on her
red cushions, with the restlessness that is not able to be still.

‘Where’s Nat,’ she asked suddenly when, weary at last of movement, she
lay still, perforce, for a moment in her seat; and, as if the
question roused a sudden anxiety, Jenny let her work fall in her lap.
Indeed, through all the excitement of the evening she had had no
leisure in which to think of her son.

‘I can’t think,’ she replied tremulously, in a voice which had her
father’s gentleness to lend its soft utterance to the accent of her
mother’s ‘folk;’ ‘I haven’t set eyes on him sin’ twelve o’clock, when
he came in, an’ took his meal, and went again. Ah! I’m sorry to think
he’ll be comin’ through the village; it’s a bad night for him to be out
in all the fuss.’

‘He won’t care about that,’ muttered Annie with a toss, for Annie and
Nat were very rarely friends; ‘it’s like as he’ll on’y think it a bit
o’ fun; he’s no sense to see into things, boys never have! It’s full
time he should be findin’ work to do, and not be a-loiterin’ an’
dawdlin’ here; sin’ he’s so proud o’ the notice that the Squire takes
o’ him, the Squire had best get him a place, an’ send him off. Here he
is.’

For, as she had been speaking, the door had opened; and, as she broke
off, Nat came into the room; he came in softly and with a shamefaced
expression, as one who is conscious that he is very late. And, indeed,
as Jenny laid down her work on her knees, there was something of
severity in her eyes as she looked at him.

‘An’ where ha’ ye been, Nat, all this while?’ she asked, ‘a-leavin’ of
Annie, as might ha’ wanted ye--I doubt ye’ve not worked on the
allotment ground, or done any good wi’ yoursel’ through all the
day! There isn’t much use in ye when ye’re out o’ work, ye go off an’
play, an’ there’s an end of all!’

‘Why, mother, I haven’t played up till noon to-day,’ said Nat, ‘and I’m
goin’ at the hay to-morrow, ye know I am; there isn’t a lad in all the
village as doesn’t like to have a bit o’ game sometimes. I’ve been
lookin’ at them to-night,’ and his eyes sparkled; ‘I had a fine sight
of ’em, though they didn’t know I was near.’

‘Ye’ve been an’ looked at ’em,’ cried Jenny, rising, with a wrath most
unusual glowing in her face; ‘ye’ve been an’ took part in all their
wicked ways as bring shame on the father, an’ me, an’ all on us! I
didn’t think it of thee, Nat, not e’en o’ thee; ye’re a wicked boy, an’
I’ll not forget thy work.’

‘I told ye so, mother,’ cried Annie from her cushions; ‘I told ye he
wouldn’t care, and ’ud think it fun. Ye’ll believe me, perhaps, next
time when I speak of him, though ye always take his part whatever comes
to us.’

‘I did but hide by the stone-pit,’ muttered Nat, dismayed at the storms
that were rushing on his head; ‘there wasn’t an eye of ’em all as saw
me, but of course ye find fault wi’ me, ye always do.’

He pulled out a chair, and threw himself down upon it, an expression of
sullen resistance on his face, thrusting out his legs in a most
determined manner, and screwing his mouth as if he were whistling
silently. The eyes of his mother and sister rested on him meanwhile,
with the silent opposition that is most hard to bear.

‘I want some tea,’ muttered Nat, with his hands in his pockets,
resolved to make the best of his position.

‘The things is locked up,’ his mother replied, ‘and I can’t be troubled
to get ’em out for ye. I don’t care to give ye tea when ye do such
tricks as them.’

‘All right, I’m not hungry,’ the boy said, with a gulp, as if he were
exercising some control upon himself; he had seen, no doubt, the tears
in his mother’s eyes, and did not wish to continue the dispute. But
Jenny received the remark as an expression of indifference, and her
unwonted anger could no longer be restrained.

‘I wish ye would go to bed,’ she cried out to him; ‘I can’t bear the
look of ye, indeed I can’t.’ The boy got up in a sulky, slouching way,
as if he were delaying the operation as long as possible; an expression
which almost served to conceal the fact that, after all, he was doing
as he was told. Unlike his sister, who did not practise obedience, Nat
generally yielded, although defiantly; his mother, poor soul, was
scarce conscious of the fact, she only observed the defiance, as
mothers often do. Her daughter was always consistently imperious, but
to her daughter she was accustomed to submit; it was the imperfect
obedience of her son that, far more often, was able to rouse her
wrath. To-night she was sore with anxiety, shame, and pain; and, in
their own fashion, the gentle take revenge.

‘Ay, go off,’ she said; ‘that’ll be some comfort at least. If father
was here he’d hasten thy steps for thee.’

‘Look here, mother,’ cried Nat, stopping short, and with a gasp, for
his nature was as emotional as it was passionate, ‘ye’ve no call to say
all these things to me, as if I’d been settin’ on to do ye harm.....
What do it matter what t’ village says o’ father? I’m sure he merits
the worst as they can say..... But I doubt if I’d stuck to him i’sted
o’ ye he’d not send me hungered to bed as ye do now.’ His words were
caught suddenly with a sob, and, turning hastily, he ran out of the
room. The sound of the door he banged made echoes there, but the two
women did not disturb them by their words.

Annie turned round upon her cushions, glad of the absence of her
brother, because it left her able to shed a few tears unperceived;
whilst her mother bent over the sewing in her hand, with trembling
fingers that could scarce guide her thread. With the reaction of a
timid and conscientious nature, she was now being seized with terror,
uneasy about her boy, and sure that he might be ill if he went for so
many hours without a meal. Although quite certain that he would reject
any food, she longed to go to his room, and entreat him to come and
eat; at the same time being not at all ready to forgive him, for
her anger was enduring, although it was not strong. She would have
stolen up the stairs to his bedside, but she dared not move with her
daughter so near to her.

It is probable that her son would not have received her well; but the
attempt at reconciliation might have produced some result; it might, at
any rate, have averted an adventure that was to produce enduring
consequences. For when poor Jenny, about an hour afterwards, went up to
her room to put away her work, she found that the window of the room
was open, that the boy’s bed was empty, and that Nat was gone.




CHAPTER V

AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT


NAT had rushed up the stairs and thrown himself on his bed with that
sense of injury which is so keen at seventeen, and which compels us to
find relief in tramping heavily, and flinging ourselves down without
taking off our boots. A few passionate tears, however, wore off its
sharpest edge, and with renewed vigour he soon sat up again; and it was
not without even some feeling of enjoyment that he began to ask himself
what was the next thing he should do. His mother’s order did not
concern him much; Nat was quick in compunction, and not slow in
penitence, but in spite of these qualities it must be owned that he was
not the ideal of an obedient son.

An artist might have taken his picture as he sat up on the bed, with
his eyes still bright with tears, and a face alive for fun, and his
hair as rough as its want of length would permit, for it had crisp
ends, although cut too short for curls. A handsome boy! (all the
members of his family were good-looking), with deep-set, grey eyes
beneath fair, curved eyebrows, and lips which, though small and
full, yet found themselves able to close as obstinately as thin
lips could do. It was a face undeveloped, passionate, full of
contradicting, opposing qualities; a face that was rich in many
promises, but whose future must yet remain a problem. Under any
circumstances he would not have been easily trained, and his home
education had not been satisfactory; he was too young to appreciate
what was best in his mother, and his father’s career could only be
thought of as a disgrace. We commend such lads’ characters to the
instruction of experience; but Experience is an instructor who teaches
with the stick.

Guarded at home, educated in a Board School, trained to out-door work,
and yet in too many respects unguarded, untrained, uneducated, at this
moment sore with anger, and with a pinch of hunger, all ready for
adventures, and ripe for mischief, Nat sat up upon the bed and
considered what he should do. A lad of his nature does not long
reflect; adventures lie ready and can be found easily.

‘I’ll go to t’ Farm, an’ take Miss Gillan’s basket. I’d like to see
Miss Gillan, they say such things o’ her! An’ Alice’ll give me a bit o’
cake; I’m sure I’m in want of it, goin’ without my supper! She’ll like
be vexed if she knows that mother’s angered, but I can’t attend always
to what Alice says. I’ll try an’ see Miss Gillan, although it is so
late; they _do_ talk so of her, all the lads do!’

With gleaming eyes, and a keen sense of adventure, he got off the
bed and took his cap in his hand, and went to the little window that
stood out from the roof to see if he could open it and let himself down
from there. It might have been well if he had not undone that
fastening, or if his mother had come upstairs, or if he had reflected
that he had vexed her once that evening, and that it would be better
for him not to vex her again. But the rusty fastening only detained him
for a minute, and there was no sound of any footstep on the stairs, and
he only thought that he had been already punished, and that his mother
and Annie should not triumph over him. So easily, with such heedless
footsteps, do we make our own paths to the temptations of our lives.

All was quiet outside when he had dropped from the window; the noise in
the village had completely died away; in the west, beyond the great,
dim field of the Thackbusk, a pale after-glow from the sunset still
lingered. The public-house at the corner was quiet, though it was
lighted; he came out of the lane into the lower village-street; and,
turning into the principal street, where the Rantan had begun, he began
to mount the hill towards the Manor Farm. A wan, blurred moon was
shining, the street was dark and dim, from a public-house and from
shops there came faint streams of light; there were lounging lads like
dark shadows in the corners, or tramping together towards the
public-house. In one of the shop-windows there was a light behind rows
of bottles, and this threw the shadows of the bottles across the
road; they stood in a row on the cottage wall opposite, with a curious
effect, like that of an upright regiment. Nat passed by these things,
and by the dim steps and church, without stopping once either to loiter
or to speak; for he had no wish to join himself to the shadows in the
corners, and was glad that the night-time kept his face concealed. It
was only when he had reached the top of the street and hill, a more
silent part of the world where no wayfarers were, that he turned aside
to the fields upon the left, and sat down on a ledge of stone beneath a
stile.

All was quiet, the Fens were dark in the distance, there was the soft
noise made by cows grazing in the darkness. Nat leant his head against
the stile, and lingered--the ledge was a familiar resting-place for
Sunday afternoons, but he had never rested here at this time of night
before. Perhaps the strangeness frightened him, or his own natural
nervousness, for he began to ask himself whether after all he should go
on. What should he say to Miss Gillan when he gave back her basket?....
it was so late, she would not understand why he had come.

But oh! he must see Miss Gillan, cried the spirit of adventure; he must
know for himself why the ‘folk talked so of her;’ he had heard ‘such
a-many stories from the lads,’ and he would like to know if these
things were true. For there were many who said that she was ‘quite
a beauty;’ and others, that she had come from London, and had been an
actress there; and others, that she was a relation of old Mr Lee in
Lindum, and that he was going to leave her his money when he died. The
village propriety shook its head over her, with the village propensity
to surmise the worst, but this spice of doubtfulness did but add to the
curiosity that had been excited in the breasts of old and young. And
Nat was a boy, with a true boy’s eagerness, and a determination to find
out all he could.

Yet he knew that he would be frightened, that he would blush and
stammer, that he would stand in her presence and not know what to say,
and it was the presentiment of this incapacity beforehand that made him
feel hot and foolish even then. Uncertain, half-frightened,
undetermined what to do, he slowly rose from his cold seat with a yawn,
and it was more from the sense of long use than new desire that his
wandering footsteps turned to the Manor Farm. He would see Alice
Robson, at any rate he would see Alice.... and it was so cold and dark
sitting out here in the night....

In a few more minutes he was standing in the yard of the Farm, with the
blurred moon shining from out of the sky at him, and the dog in the
distance just stirring at his footstep, and the pump looking a
mysterious object in the darkness. His presence was a familiar one,
the dog did not bark at him, and his knock brought a servant to the
back-door speedily, a small, rough creature of the maid-of-all-work
order, who, village lad as he was, treated him with much respect. Oh,
yes, he could see Miss Gillan, she was quite sure he could--Miss Gillan
was in the ‘owd kitchen,’ she would tell her he was there--he would
perhaps come in to the fire and wait there for a bit, for Mr Robson and
Miss Alice were not back from Lindum yet. Nat was relieved to hear that
his friends had not returned, and yet not quite pleased with himself
for being relieved. Declining mutely the invitation to the kitchen, he
stood by the back-door without entering, and waited there. The kitchen
at his right hand looked warm and bright, but he did not feel any
disposition to go in--his eyes followed the servant who went a few
steps down the passage, and knocked at a door beneath which was a gleam
of light. As if in answer to the timid knock she had given, a burst of
music was uplifted from within. Nat stood and listened, seized with
sudden astonishment; he had never listened to singing like this before.

It was a wild song, with a monotonous refrain, and the voice of the
girl sounded wild, and sweet, and deep, the whole performance did not
resemble anything that he had ever heard. At first he thought of the
recurring refrains in games, and then he thought of Moody and Sankey’s
hymns, and then he was carried quite beyond himself, and could no
longer attempt to understand. The servant had paused with her hand
upon the door, as if uncertain whether to proceed or not.

  ‘Whither upon thy way so fast,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   With morn scarce reddened, or darkness past?’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

  ‘I am called to find a bridal bower,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   Where I may be free from hatred’s power,’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

  ‘And where wilt find that bridal bower?
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   Ah! where wilt find that bridal bower?’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

‘If you please, miss, there’s a young man as wants to speak to you.’

‘A young man!’ cried the deep voice, ‘oh! let him come in, I shall have
done my song directly.’ And the song broke forth again.

  ‘I am called to the river deep and wide,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   Where I and my love may rest, side by side,’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

  ‘If thou so black a weird must dree,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   A curse is on thy love and thee,’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

Nat stood at the door, not daring to go farther, and she stopped for a
moment to glance round at him. It was but for a moment, and again
the song vibrated, more wild and mournful still.

  ‘The curse be on them who thus have blest,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   Thy love shall find no earthly rest,’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

  ‘Yet cold the river, and dark the night,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   And I fain would flee towards the light,’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

  ‘My heart is cold, and my brain on fire,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   They are cold and burned with vain desire,’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

She looked round at him as he stood entranced, and laughed; and then,
turning to the piano, poured out the notes again, with the fulness and
passion of one who is drawing to a close. The boy stood still, he could
scarcely breathe or see, the whole air seemed to be full, to vibrate
with the notes she sang.

  ‘Ah! if one ray could shine again,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   I might be saved from death and pain,’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

  ‘Let me alone, I dare not stay,
      (_Christabel, Christabel_)
   The voices are calling, I must away!’
      (_As dawns a summer’s morning_).

‘There, there!’ cried Miss Gillan, springing from her seat, with a
lightness and activity such as he had never seen; ‘my song is done,
and you shall not be kept waiting longer, and you shall come into the
room, and tell me what you want.’ She put out her hands as if she would
draw him in, and as he shyly advanced he saw her face. In one respect
at least she was like her song, she resembled nothing that he had known
before.

She was small and dark, and in a black lace evening dress--it was the
first time that he had seen an evening dress--whose sleeves left bare
from the elbow her soft, brown arms, and whose lace rested softly upon
the curves of her neck. Her hair, which was rippling, and very short
and thick, was gathered into a loose, rough crown on her head; there
was a golden tint in it in spite of its darkness, and although her
eyebrows were very dark beneath. Her dark eyes shone till they seemed
to ripple too; her lips, which were not small, were full and very red;
and there was a lovely colour in her cheeks, which came and went easily
through the darkness of her skin. She seemed altogether full of health
and life, of the brilliant spirits of youth and loveliness, the only
contradiction rested in her mouth, which could take curious expressions
that gave her face an older look. Nat observed this for an instant as
she looked steadily at him, but in the next moment her lips were
radiant too.

‘Oh! tell me who you are, and why you have come,’ she cried;’ I have
been so dull all the evening by myself! I am quite sure that you
must have something good to say, but that is because I’m so glad to
hear anything at all!’ Her manner was free, but not with village
freedom; it did not make the lad shy, but it made him confused. With a
feeling of caution to which he was not accustomed, he held out the
basket without answering. She took it with surprise as if she had not
expected it, and her dark eyes dwelt curiously on the handsome lad.

‘My basket!’ she said, ‘how did you come by that? I have been looking
for it since yesterday. The little girl thought she had taken it down
the village’--and there came a strange alteration in the expression of
her face. Nat observed the change, and it seemed to him an accusation;
he hastened to defend his family and himself.

‘Molly brought it down to us yestermorn,’ he said, vexed to find his
voice thick and his face hot. ‘Mr Robson had sent some raspberries to
us, and we thought that the basket must belong to him. But I saw your
name in the corner of it, miss, an’ so I thought as I’d bring it up to
you.’

She turned it over with the prettiest little movement, and looked at
the name in the corner, and glanced up at him and smiled. ‘T. G. ...
Tina Gillan ....’ she read out to herself; ‘it was clever of you to
guess that it was mine. And I am sure it was kind of you to bring it up
to-night, and you shall have my very best thanks before you go.’
And then, all at once, as if some sudden idea had seized her, she bit
her red lips, and looked down, and was mute. When she spoke to him
again she did not raise her eyes, and the change in her voice made it
sound quite differently.

‘What is your name?’

‘Nat Salter,’ he said, surprised at her altered manner, but too much
surprised to be offended yet.

‘Salter .... Salter .... I remember that name .... Do you know my
brother--have you come to speak to him?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, miss,’ answered Nat. ‘I’ve never spoke to
your brother in my life.’ She looked at him with a hard, searching
glance, and then lowered her eyes once more, and seemed to think.
Whatever her thoughts were they did not appear to soothe her, for when
she spoke again her voice was sharp and quick.

‘You have not come up here to receive a letter; you will not take away
a letter when you go?’

‘I don’t know what you mean at all, miss,’ replied Nat, confused. ‘I’ve
never took no letters, except the letters of the Squire.’ Apparently
she believed him, for she did not question him further; and when she
spoke her voice had become soft again. It was time, for the angry
colour had mounted to his forehead, the feeling that he was suspected
had roused his pride.

‘You live down in the village?’ she asked him, gently, as if she were
sorry, and wished to show interest in him. ‘Have you many brothers and
sisters in your home? Do sit down whilst you talk, for I know you must
be tired.’

The gentle voice and the lingering glance she gave had on him the
effect of a new experience; he was touched and confused as he had never
been before. But, although he sat down as she bade, it was with the
manner of a village-boy, for he became very red, and he turned away his
face.

‘I’ve one sister,’ he blurted, as one making a confession; ‘she be a
year older nor me, an’ she live with me at home.’ He could feel that
her eyes were upon him as she spoke; although he had not the courage to
turn his face to her.

‘And is she like you--your sister?’ she asked gently, as if the subject
were one that was interesting. Nat did not answer, for he did not know
how to answer, it was a question that he had never considered.

‘Is your sister pretty--do the village people think so?’ She seemed
somewhat amused to see him blush.

‘Some folk does, miss,’ answered Nat, with difficulty. She drew her
lips close and tight as she heard the words.

‘Ah! ah!’ she sighed to herself. And then, with a sudden movement, she
threw up her arms, and clasped them above her head. For a few minutes
she remained in that attitude, with her face averted; and, then,
letting her arms drop slowly, she turned to him again. If some
excitement had caused that sudden gesture it was only visible now in
the glow upon her face. She had her former expression of sympathy and
interest; her voice was a murmur; and, as she spoke she looked at him.

‘And you--you,’ she whispered; ‘what do you do with yourself all day?
Are you always working?’ and, as she looked, she smiled. Nat did not
know what to do with her glances or her smiles, but he made an effort
to answer, as he had done before.

‘I’m at work most-whiles, miss, at the hay, or with the Squire. I don’t
get let off, not till the evening come.’

‘But in the evening you have some time for yourself? Do you think you
would be able to do some work for me?’ She looked at him with her
gleaming smile again.

‘I’d be most glad, miss,’ cried Nat, with a sudden thrill--he could not
understand, poor boy, why he cared so much. But, on her part, she
seemed to understand quite well, as she stood with her arms drooping,
and her fingers clasped.

‘Then come up to me,’ she murmured.... ‘Come at eight o’clock, and I
will give you work to do.... And do not talk to too many people about
it, they gossip so in the village about everything.... I want to hear
about your mother, and your family .... your sister, and everything
else.... Here is my brother, I hear him, you must go.’ Her movement
was so sudden that he retreated hastily; the door was closed upon him,
and he found himself in the passage and alone.

Alone, confused, bewildered by the darkness, not knowing in his
bewilderment what to do or what to think, with the voice of the
stranger still within his ears, with her face and the lighted room
before his eyes! Oh, what did it all mean, what had he been doing since
he left his home? Scarcely conscious of his actions, he stumbled
through the passage, and into the dark yard, and then into the road.
Tired, hungry, and giddy, with his head confused, with the remembrance
again of his mother’s anger, he stumbled along to the ledge where he
had rested, and sat down on that, and vexed himself, and cried. But
there was no good in crying alone there in the night, and he dragged
himself to his feet, and wandered on.

His home was dark when he reached it, though the door was left
unfastened, and there was a light in the room where his sister
slept--he did not attempt to mount the stairs after he had entered, for
he did not wish to see his mother again that night. When he had locked
the door, and made sure that everything was secure, he laid himself
down on the rug with his head upon a chair, his heavy head which sank
down upon the cushions as if it would never be able to raise itself
again. Yet, tired as he was, at first he could not sleep, and then his
sleep was confused with a strange, broken dream--he thought he was
wandering on some unknown path, and that he could not be certain where
it would lead. And still, as he wandered, and felt that he was lost, he
could hear in the room above his sister’s tread, pacing ceaselessly up
and down with restless footsteps, which seemed a part of the confusion
of his dream, until, as deeper slumber closed on his fatigue, both
footsteps and dream were lost in the stillness of the night--the
night-time which bears on its pinions so many wandering fancies of the
wandering souls soothed for a while to rest. No lasting relief can it
give, and yet to men’s fierce impatience that interval of rest may not
be quite in vain.




CHAPTER VI

THE NEXT MORNING


NAT awoke the next morning, feeling sore and stiff, a feeling not
uncommon with people who have spent their night on the floor; but,
tired as he was, the habit induced by training made him wake with the
sun as he was used to do. Even at that hour he was not the first awake,
although there was no one else present in the room--a fire had been
lighted, a white cloth had been laid, and his solitary breakfast was
spread daintily. His mother’s hands must have been there at work,
although she would not stay in the room to speak to him; but to such
silent displeasure he had been long accustomed, and neither that nor
the tender care astonished him. Himself so proud and reserved that it
would have been difficult for him to meet her after all that had passed
the night before, he was only relieved that he had not awaked when she
was there, and determined to escape as soon as possible. So he made a
hasty toilet with the assistance of a pail, and swallowed quickly the
breakfast so carefully prepared; and, then, seizing upon his can and
bag of tools, he hastened out into the cool, fresh morning air. By
the evening she might choose to forget that she had been vexed, and at
any rate the evening was hours away. For it is the privilege of a man
to go out into the sunlight, and forget in his daily work the vexations
of his home.

Oh, beautiful sunrise! at which he glanced for a moment, leaning over
the gate that led into the Thackbusk field, without much notion of
seeking consolation in a sight so familiar as that of the rising sun.
The whole of the eastern sky was a mass of countless ripples, such as
in old pictures make a floor for angels’ feet, save where here and
there they were broken by lines of vivid light, or contrasted against
the horizon by one unbroken glow of red. Nat glanced at these things
and thought that the day seemed stormy, and that there might possibly
be rain before the night; and then, swinging his can of provisions up
and down, he turned away from the sight to the village streets. He
wanted to fall in with other working-lads, for he was in the state of
mind that longs for company. The scene at the Manor Farm lingered still
before his eyes, but he did not wish to think about it yet.

The village was grey in the early morning light, with a great stillness
upon cottages and roads, though already blinds were drawn up, and doors
open here and there, showing that the work of life was even now astir.
And, every now and then, from one of these open doors would come out
some man or boy in working-clothes, in a blue or white jacket, as
the case might be, with his tools slung over his shoulder, and his can
in his hand. The form of the worker would not long remain solitary, for
he would hasten his footsteps to join some man or lad in front, or
else, with a glance at the road behind, would loiter for some companion
to come up. In spite of the loneliness of the morning hours it is a
sociable business, going to work. But Nat, notwithstanding his late
desire for company, was seized with another mood, and preferred to be
alone. He was able for some while to be solitary, but as he passed the
red chapel a hand laid hold of him.

‘Hallo, boy, you’re early to-day,’ so spoke his companion’s voice; ‘I
must walk by thy side a bit, for I have to speak to thee.’

It was a young fellow who spoke, a lad who might have been twenty,
dressed like all the rest in the street in workman’s clothes, but
without any dinner-can or bag of tools, in spite of his blue jacket and
his corduroys. He had a face that was intelligent and quick, with dark,
bright eyes, over one of which was a scar, and a figure that appeared
upright and lithe, although so lean that it gave the impression of
having no flesh to spare. The grasp of his hand upon the shoulder of
the boy was not one from which it would have been easy to escape, and
Nat, who knew him, did not cherish any such intention, although not
altogether pleased at the enforced companionship. It appeared,
however, that he was not to be let go, so he resigned himself with as
good a grace as he had.

‘It was Alice, lad, as told me to speak to thee--I see Alice last
night, for I was late at t’ Farm--and she seem to me to be just a bit
uneasy, a-worritin’ lest all things shouldn’t be quite right. She don’t
like these Gillans as is lodgin’ there, an’ she heard as ye’d been
a-comin’ to t’ Farm; an’, says she, “Tim, I can’t bear to think as
Jenny Salter’s boy should get mixed up wi’ that Jim Gillan an’ his
ways.” An’ so, as I thought I might happen speak to ye, I told her I’d
mention it when as so we met. An’ I hope ye won’t take it bad, or be
angered wi’ me, lad, seein’ as I don’t mean nought that’s hurt to ye.’

It was evident Tim was conscious that he had undertaken an unpleasant
task, although he possessed the resolution to go on with it to the end.
Perhaps he was not surprised that Nat turned away his head with every
indication of sullenness and pride, for the man who gives good advice
must be prepared not to have that friendship received with gratitude.
He kept on walking, notwithstanding, by his companion’s side, as if he
were waiting to hear what the boy would say; but he had to wait for
some considerable while, for Nat was by no means willing to condescend
to speak.

‘It’s a fine day the morn,’ he deigned to say at length; ‘if it keeps
itsel’ up they’ll do good work wi’ the hay.’

‘That’s not what I wanted, Nat, thou know’st it’s not’--in Tim’s clear
tones there could be severity--‘it’s not doin’ well by me to talk like
that when I’ve ta’en the trouble to come and speak to thee.’

‘Ye may tell Alice then,’ Nat burst out suddenly, for his passionate
nature could no longer be restrained, ‘that she needn’t go pokin’ an’
pryin’ into me as if I were somethink bad to be kept fro’ wickedness. I
ain’t done no harm to her, nor I don’t mean, an’ I’ll go my own ways
for all that she may say. I don’t know Mr Gillan, nor I don’t wish to
know; I’ve not spoke a word to him in all my life; I came up last
evening to bring Miss Gillan’s basket, an’ I didn’t see him, nor I
didn’t want to see. Ye may tell Alice she may keep her bad thoughts to
herself, if she goes for to think I want to do all that’s wrong. Ye had
best get ye back to her, sin’ ye come fro’ her, and tell her all the
things I’ve said to ye!’

‘Fair and softly, lad,’ murmured Tim, unmoved by this vehemence, ‘it’s
not like as I’ll tell Alice what ’ud make her grieved to hear, an’ she
such a good friend to ye as she’s allays been. If it’s so as ye don’t
know a bit o’ Mr Gillan, that’s every bit as she wants to know or me;
an’ I’m glad eno’ to have heard ye say the words, an’ to see as there
wasn’t no need for me to speak.’ He was evidently determined to be
magnanimous, almost to the point of an apology.

But Nat remained silent, as if he had not heard, and appeared to be
lost in thought, as indeed he was; his promise to go up to the Manor
Farm that night returning with some unpleasant compunction to his
heart. The beauty of the stranger was still before his eyes, the sound
of her wild singing seemed to fill his ears; he longed to be alone in
the grey morning light, that he might walk by himself and dream of her
.... Tim was not unwilling to leave him to himself; he was never
disposed to loiter a long time over talk.

‘Well, lad,’ he said to him, ‘I will not hinder thee; go on to thy
work. I’m right down glad all the same as thou know’st nought o’ this
young Gillan--he’s an idle chap as ’ud do no good to thee. It’s like as
I may be going to thy home--Annie will be there, I suppose--’ there was
a tremor in his voice. ‘One must make the best o’ such days as one can
get, it isn’t oft as I can be free. Good-day to thee, lad,’ but Nat
only bestowed a nod for answer, and without looking back went on
quickly to his work. The eyes of the young workman followed him as he
moved, a solitary figure in the grey morning light, a shapely lad with
hair crisp beneath his cap, and his bag of tools slung upon shoulders
that bore the burden well. Before him, in front of the flat fields and
roads, rose an ominous mass of heavy storm-clouds, whose shadow,
falling upon the earth and trees, made the grey morning appear still
greyer than before; though in the east, through the ripples that
seemed made for angels’ feet, the rising sun broke in resistless might.
It was towards the east that the workman turned his face, as, with
something of a sigh, he began to walk on again; but its brightness made
no impression on his thoughts, which appeared to be bent beneath a
weight of anxiety. ‘I’ll go an’ see Annie,’ he thought, ‘an’ talk to
her; I’ll happen persuade her a bit; poor child--poor child. I’ve not
done much good wi’ the lad, but I donno care for him, I’ll do what I
can to save Jenny Salter’s girl.’ With these words, and with renewed
vigour in his steps, he walked on rapidly towards the village street.




CHAPTER VII

TIM


WHO was this guardian angel who was making an attempt to save from
threatening danger Jenny Salter’s boy and girl, who had risen from his
bed upon a holiday to deliver a warning in the grey light of the dawn,
this guardian angel in blue cap and corduroys, with lean, intelligent
face, and eyes bright beneath a scar? Let us pause for an instant to
listen to his story, which is not out of place in this tale of village
life, although it is one that advancing civilisation may help to render
impossible in time. Under no tender influences had poor Tim been
reared, no motherly hand had made life smooth for him.

This was his story.

His father had been a workman in a distant village, and after his
marriage had shared his brother’s home; his brother who, like himself,
had a wife, and also children, and rented a two-roomed cottage in a
narrow village street. These two rooms--they were both very small--made
but a limited space for two families, especially at night; it is,
therefore, not surprising, that after a little while the families
began to quarrel. And since it is the lot of wives to remain at
home all day, it is not wonderful that the disputes arose principally
between the two ladies of the house.

The mother of Tim was a little, feeble creature, absorbed in her own
ill-health, and the baby at her breast; her rival was a handsome,
coarse, and loud-tongued woman, who acquired an unbounded authority
over both the men in the house. Under her influence Tim’s father
learned to despise his wife, and to that contempt ill-treatment soon
followed; he complained that she did not work hard enough, and
attempted to enforce more work by chastisement. These efforts being
unsuccessful, he determined to get rid of her; and, after having beaten
her into submission, he provided her with a little money with which to
get back to her parents, and then turned her out of the house. But by a
refinement of cruelty, (which was also due to her rival,) he would not
allow her to take the baby too; but on that morning hid the little
creature carefully, so that the poor mother could not discover its
hiding-place. The neighbours all heard the wailing of the mother, but
they knew the household, and were afraid to interfere; and after she
had been turned out, and had gone away to ‘her people,’ they were
relieved by the comparative quiet that ensued. It was supposed indeed
that the baby would be claimed, but the poor mother soon died in her
parents’ house; and as these had no particular wish to rear the
infant, Tim was left to the mercies of his uncle’s home.

And what those mercies were it is not for me to say, for our ears are
tender for such subjects; our eyes just glance at them in the daily
papers, and we forget that the newspapers are describing facts. Tim
remembered, for instance--it was but one remembrance--that when one of
his little cousins wished to punish him, she thrust a spoon between the
bars of the grate before forcing his baby-fingers to close upon it.
Ragged, half-starved, alive only on sufferance, he had, however, the
advantage of school, because the blessed provision of the Government
does not now allow children to be uneducated. At first, indeed, his
progress was not extraordinary, for starvation and learning do not walk
hand in hand; and his father, uncle, and aunt began to realise that
this want of progress would prolong the days of school. Impatient at
this they applied the spur of beating, but this produced illness, and
delayed his progress more; so that, moved by interested motives, they
finally condescended to pay some amount of attention to his health.
This kind consideration produced a due result, Tim proved intelligent,
and passed his Standards well; and was eventually able to leave the
Board School when he was not very much more than twelve years old. His
father removed him as soon as possible, and hastened at once to put him
out to work.

And now let us for a moment, think of Tim, a little, lean, bright-eyed
creature, twelve years old, ill-clothed, ill-fed, not very much
educated, treated always with harshness from his cradle. From that
wretched household what else could be expected but the sort of beings
that such brutality rears; such creatures--one scarcely dares to call
them men--as we may find in our back streets if we go there to look. In
this life, however, we often have to deal with that strange element we
call the Improbable; and it is this want of absolute knowledge of the
factors in our sums which makes us unable to calculate results with
certainty. From out of that wretched, drunken, brutal home an
irresistible force rose in the boy; there awoke in Tim, and grew in him
with his years, the tendency that ‘makes for righteousness.’

How was this? I cannot tell; in such cases one often cannot tell. It
may have been inherited by him from his mother, or it may have been
induced from lessons learnt at school, or it may have risen as a
reaction from the absolute hideousness of the evil that was round him
in his home. I know that he could not remember any particular occasion
which he could mention afterwards as that of his conversion, the
tendency towards well-doing began in him at an earlier date than he
could himself recall. At school he sought out the steadiest companions,
on holidays he played with well-conducted boys; his nature, ill-taught
as it was, possessed the power of assimilating to itself that which
is good. ‘The wind bloweth,’ we read, ‘where it listeth, and thou
hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and
whither it goeth: _so_ is everyone that is born of the Spirit.’

And now let us think again of Tim, twelve years old, sent out day after
day to work, a member of a household to which it was a disgrace even to
belong, and allowed by that household no smallest chance of improving
his position or himself. His clothes were so ragged that respectable
boys did not like to be seen with him; his food so limited that it
barely provided him with strength enough to work; and every halfpenny
of his wages was taken from him as regularly as Saturday night came
round. Under such circumstances it is barely possible that a young
nature should not be overwhelmed--it is not surprising therefore that
Tim sank into despair, and for more than two years lived on in
hopelessness. But the irresistible strength that was in the boy refused
to be crushed even by such circumstances; a purpose grew in him like a
revelation, and inspired him with hope to mend his lot. One Saturday
evening Tim returned without his money, and announced that he intended
to keep his wages for himself.

The scene that followed need not be described. Tim lay on his bed
through the whole of Sunday to recover from it. On Monday morning he
returned to his work, under strict orders, seasoned with many oaths, to
bring back at night the money he had withheld. He returned without
it. This time there was no Sunday rest for him--but bruised as he was,
he rose with the dawn on Tuesday and went to his work again. To a
similar scene he returned on every evening of that week, but the close
of the week found him unconquered; and on Saturday he came back to his
family without his wages, as before.

This was too much. On the following Monday the father of Tim went to
his master, and desired that his son’s wages should be given into his
own hands in future--he added that his son was ‘a wicked boy who spent
his money bad.’ Tim’s master, who took an interest in his farm-boy,
replied to this request with a flat denial--he declared that the boy
deserved to have some money, and that, no doubt, on his side also there
might be ‘tales to tell.’ This last observation was too true to be
disputed, the father left him in a rage, and at once sought out his
son, and informed him that he ‘would have no more of this fooling--he
must bring the money that night, or he might look to be killed.’ In the
nature of Tim there was not that instinct of running away which belongs
to some natures in an eminent degree--with the fear of being murdered
heavy on his heart, he returned, as usual, to his home that night. A
terrible scuffle ensued, with regard to which I only know that a hot
poker was the instrument employed; and that burnt, scarred for life,
believing himself to be dying, poor Tim was just able to crawl to a
neighbour’s door at last. The outbreak proved his salvation, his
injuries excited sympathy, and the village rose in his defence--his
father, uncle, and aunt, were driven from it, work was offered to the
lad from all sides; and at the age of fourteen he found himself able to
begin his life again. From that time forth he prospered; he advanced
from one situation to another, he met with kindness and assistance; at
the age of twenty he was a skilful workman, and able without difficulty
to maintain himself. Of his past life, the life of his childhood, he
never spoke; and indeed such stories are only useful when they remind
us that our land has still dark corners into which we must carry
candles when we can. It is true indeed that Tim had emerged from the
darkness--but there are those whom the darkness overwhelms.

This then was the workman, lean, and lithe, and active, with an anxious
brow, and ‘poor Annie’ on his lips, who parted from Nat in the grey
light of the morning, and turned his footsteps towards the village
streets. Some hours later, with a face that was still anxious, and yet
with something like eagerness in his tread, he left the Farm where he
had been breakfasting, and went down the hill towards Jenny Salter’s
home.




CHAPTER VIII

A MORNING CALL


THAT home was in order although it was the morning, and daintily ready
for the business of the day--an appearance that was always conspicuous
wherever the hands of Jenny moved and worked. She had risen before the
dawn to get her son’s breakfast ready, and she had not been idle since
the dawn had passed; already all things were ‘straight,’ and she was
able to get out her stitching and to sit down to it. If the echoes of
the ‘Rantan’ of the night before were lingering stormily about the
place, no signs of that hidden tempest could be seen in the room in
which she and her daughter sat and worked. And yet it may be that the
clamour of the night was sounding in the hearts of both women as they
sewed.

Their room had a raftered ceiling, which was painted yellow, whilst
paper, woodwork and fire-place were a sober, greyish green, the quaint
colouring being contrasted round the window with dimity hangings,
exquisitely white. In the corner was an old clock which reached from
floor to ceiling, whose face of brass made a familiar brightness there,
and the sober walls were everywhere ornamented with numbers of little
photographs in frames. Annie sat in an easy chair upon one side of the
hearth, and her mother was opposite, each with work on her knee, for
the master here had no reason to complain of any want of industry in
the women of his home. The echoes of the ‘Rantan’ were in those women’s
ears, and, as they sat silent, their thoughts were turned to him.

‘When’ll father be comin’ back,’ Annie cried at last, and fiercely;
‘comin’ back in his shame to disgrace us all agen? I wish he’d come
back to-night so as he might hear the sound o’ that clamour ringin’ in
his ears. I’ll not stay here to be made a laughin’ stock, to hear the
village rejoicin’ over us, I’ll go and wander away, for miles away, so
as no one may see me, or know whose child I am.’ She had never before
spoken in that manner of her father, but her mother had not the heart
to rebuke her now.

‘I have tried to be good and to be respectable,’ Annie cried, with a
feverish movement of her hands; ‘I’ve liked for to think as men should
think well on us, and shouldn’t not breathe a word agen our name. I
won’t try so hard now, I’ll have some fun mysel’; it isn’t no good
whate’er I think or do; I’ll not shut mysel’ so close as I ha’ done;
they may answer for it as drives one past one’s hope.’ She relapsed
into silence, but her lips were working as if the thoughts she had
spoken were wrestling in her mind. Ah! Annie, a dangerous thought
and a dangerous resolve, however natural to despair as young as yours.
Her mother heard the words, and in some degree felt the danger; but,
herself sad at heart, she had no power to speak.

The sound of a footstep--Annie raised herself suddenly, whilst a
brilliant flush crimsoned both her face and neck, and her breath began
to come and go hastily, though her dark eyes sparkled as if with sudden
hope. In another instant, as the young workman knocked and entered, she
lay back wearily, with her face pale again. Her change of expression
caught her mother’s passing notice, but poor Jenny was not learned in
such signals. Ah! was there some hope, not confided to her mother,
working in the girl’s mind in spite of her passionate despair?

It was Tim who entered, appearing taller than usual, as he descended
the step into the low, yellow-raftered room, taking off his blue cap
with civility, and advancing with more timidity than was usual with
him. He was still in his blue working jacket and in his corduroys, but
his dark hair had been brushed and he looked spruce and fresh, and
there was a red rose in the buttonhole of his jacket, although he was
not accustomed to wear a flower. A lean, lithe figure, he advanced into
the room, his bright eyes seeming to take in the whole of it as he
came, and with it the delicate mother with her sewing in her hand, and
the bright-haired girl on whom his gaze lingered last.

‘I’ve come early to see thee, Annie,’ he said, (his honesty inducing
him to speak first to her) ‘for I must get back to the town this
afternoon, and I’d a bit word to say to thee ere I go.’ He turned for
the first time to Jenny, who gave him for answer her rare, pretty
smile, although with the reserve that belongs to North country folk,
she did not put into words the welcome that she gave. Another mother
would have been alert, suspicious, but in certain matters poor Jenny
was not quick; she was ready to welcome the young fellow as a friend,
without pausing to consider why he came. A certain reserve and caution
in her nature, born of her hard lot and sad experience, and of the care
with which she guarded both her treasures, made the list of her
acquaintances very short. But Tim Nicol! there was no reason to be
afraid of _him_, no one in the village was without a good word for Tim!

He had seated himself upon a chair by her daughter, having disposed of
his cap by placing it on the floor, and without seeming to be in any
haste to speak, let his eyes follow the young girl’s fingers as she
sewed. There was nothing sentimental, however, in his face--no one
could well have been less sentimental than Tim--and anyone seeing him
there, bright and business-like, might have doubted whether indeed he
had come there as a _swain._ It may be, notwithstanding, that Annie did
not doubt--a beautiful girl is generally conscious of her power, and
the daughter was without the ignorant humility that had belonged to
her mother all her life. But it was observable that she made no effort
to attract, her passionate nature had a proud sincerity.

‘I wonder as you come to see us, in this quiet way, Tim,’ she said,
‘now we’re so public as all the village knows; I’m thinkin’ it ’ud be
more fun for you to come wi’ the rest o’ the lads an’ shout at us. It
isn’t surprisin’ if we get strange an’ proud, now as we’ve all this
notice taken of our ways.’

Annie knew very well that of all the moods she owned there was none Tim
liked less than this one of passionate bitterness; his own steadfast
nature, trained in self-restraint, had little sympathy with such
outbursts. But this morning, although she was willing to offend him, he
seemed unusually disposed to be merciful, softened perhaps by the sight
of the face still pale from illness, which rested against the white
pillow in her chair. And indeed it is true that she was looking very
pretty, the languor of illness gave her face another charm, her mouth
had drooped into soft, weary lines, and her dark eyes had a young, and
appealing look. Then, although her fair hair had been carefully
arranged, there were still loose hairs that would ripple as they
pleased, and behind this bright framework the whiteness of the pillow
made a distinct background. Tim’s eyes saw these things, and then
wandered thoughtfully amongst the red bricks of the cottage floor;
when he raised his face and spoke, it was with something of tenderness
that could not often be heard in his voice. It had not been in this
manner that he had spoken to her brother; but it is so easy for a young
man to be tender to a girl!

‘Don’t be troubled, Annie, don’t think on ’em,’ he said; ‘they isn’t
worth as ye should give thoughts to ’em. They ought to be thrashed,
these lads as do the mischief; but, there, they’re past schoolin’, so
we must let ’em be. I’ve often wished there was a school for bigger
boys, as could give ’em a lickin’ sometimes, an’ help to keep ’em
straight.’

‘I wish Nat could be licked then,’ cried the sister, fiercely,
‘a-givin’ us trouble when we’re not in need of it! He went an’ he
looked at t’ Rantan yester-e’en.--Mother was sore an’ angered’--(Jenny
had just left the room) ‘an’ then when she spoke to him he turned up
sulky, and ran off in t’ night, an’ didn’t get back home till late. I
wouldn’t ha’ given him breakfast, that I wouldn’t, until as he’d told
me what he’d been an’ done, but mother’s that soft as she won’t ask no
questions, so there’s no knowing what he’ll be up to next. It’s all
along o’ what the Squire says to him; he don’t ought to have no favour,
that he don’t.’

‘He wasn’t i’ mischief last night, as I can make out, Annie;’ (Tim’s
sense of justice was always keen and clear) ‘he told me as he’d been up
to t’ Manor Farm to take back a basket o’ Miss Gillan’s as had been
left by mistake. It was that as made me uneasy like for him, for
Alice had told me as he’d been to t’ house, an’ I was afeard as he
might ha’ fallen in wi’ that Jim Gillan as is a-lodgin’ there.’

A sudden movement like a quiver in his companion arrested his voice,
and brought a cloud on his face, but Annie had turned herself towards
the fireplace, and from where he sat he could not see how she looked.
For a while he was silent, as if he were meditating, with his eyes
fixed again on the red bricks of the floor.

‘Alice she don’t like ’em, these Gillans,’ he said at last with an
effort; ‘she wishes they’d take ’emselves off and leave t’ place; she
says as we donno what they done in London, or what’s the reason as have
brought ’em here. They say as they’ve come to see Mr Lee i’ Lindum, but
if they’re his nephy an’ niece he don’t take no heed to ’em; he’s good
an’ respectable, and’s got a deal o’ money, an’ it’s happen he doesn’t
like ’em or their ways. They call ’emselves lady and genelman, but
they’re not a piece o’ that; the girl’s like a play-actor, wi’ her eyes
an’ tricks; an’ as for t’ lad, he’s not no good at all, he goes to t’
town most evenings, as I hear. I don’t like no strangers here, nor
never did; t’ village is best wi’out such folk as them.’

Again there was silence, whilst Annie leant on her pillow, with her
work on her lap, and her face turned to the fire; whilst Tim, without
trying to catch a sight of her face, looked hard at the bricks as if he
were counting them. The storm which had been slowly rising all the
morning, was beginning to beat in slow drops on the panes; from the
room overhead could be heard some gentle movements, the footsteps of
Jenny at her work. The increasing gloom may have served as
encouragement, for Annie turned her face slowly towards her companion
at length.

‘Do you know--Mr Gillan?’ she asked below her breath; and even as she
spoke there rose in her pale cheeks the slow burning flush that tells
of hidden fire. Tim’s eyes were on her face, he appeared to be uneasy;
it was only after a while that he could compel himself to speak.

‘I--know him?--I’ve seen him oftens’--he muttered, brokenly; ‘I’m
likely to see him sin’ I lodge in t’ house; but I’ve never not gone to
speak no word to him; he goes upon his way, and I go on mine.’ He
paused for a moment as if he had something on his mind whose utterance
was almost more than he could compass.

‘_Do ye know him, Annie?_’ he asked in a low voice, with a terrible
effort, and turning his face away--at the last moment afraid to read
upon her features the answer to this question which he had come to her
home to ask. It may be that the pain and difficulty with which the
question came were like a revelation even to himself. But Annie allowed
him no time for meditation, for with a sudden movement she sat upright
and spoke.

‘What dost mean?’ she cried to him, with her eyes bright and sparkling,
and her voice indescribably sharp in utterance, a tone and a manner
that might have been sufficient to crush the courage of any questioner.
But Tim was confident in his good intentions; and, moreover, he was not
easily overwhelmed.

‘I mean, Annie,’ he replied, low and gravely,--with a gravity indeed
that seemed beyond his years--‘I mean as there’s things as I don’t much
like to tell, an’ yet as make me feel anxious over thee. It’s only a
night or two agone, as Alice says, as she were stannin’ i’ t’ passage
in t’ dark, an’ Jim Gillan come in fro’ an evenin’ in t’ town,
a-staggerin’ an’ a-talkin’ as if he couldn’t mind hissel’.... An’ his
words they was all upo’ “Jenny Salter’s daughter”--“he’d have Jenny
Salter’s pretty girl,” he said--he called her “t’ handsomest lass in
all t’ parish,” an’ said as he’d “get a sight o’ her agen.” I don’t
like to think, Annie, as thy mother’s name an’ thee should be made free
like that upon such lips as his’n--I would as he hadn’t got thee upon
his mind, as thinks he’s a gentleman’s rights, a plague on him! Alice
thinks he pays Molly to do what things he will, to sneak out wi’
letters an’ messages for him.’

‘Ye think I write to him,’ cried Annie in a frenzy, ‘ye think as I meet
him an’ let him talk to me!--me as hasn’t spoke with him sin’ he came
with his sister, an’ lodged at t’ Farm to be spied upon by all. What is
it to me if he does think me pretty, I reckon as I can take care of
mysel’? An’ if he do write to me at all, what’s that, so as I don’t
take it on mysel’ to answer him? I tell thee, Tim Nicol, thee think’st
a deal o’ thysel’; thee’dst best keep thy hands from off thy
neighbour’s ways.’

Indeed it is certain that poor Tim had not prospered in either of the
warnings which he had bestowed that morning, although it is possible
that the passion with which he was now accused was not otherwise than
consoling to his heart. It did enter his mind that he might ask Annie
if the dangerous stranger _had_ ever written to her, but he was afraid
to rouse her wrath again, and thankful to take her word and be content.
After a minute’s silence during which he seemed to ponder, he rose from
his seat, and then took up his cap.

‘Well, good-day, Annie, I must be off,’ he said; ‘I’m thankful to hear
what thou hast told to me--thou knowest it is a bad world, this of
ours, and we’ve got to be careful and to mind our steps. Look after
thyself, I can’t think thou art strong, thou used not to have a face as
pale as that!’

Annie raised for an instant a softened countenance, whose dark eyes
glistened as if tears were not far. Her passionate anger had been like
her brother’s--the brother to whom she would not own resemblance--it
would be inquiring too curiously to ask if it had not, like his,
concealed a suppression of the truth. Tim did not go near her, or even
take her hand, for out of his admiration for her sprang a certain
reverence; he just gave for farewell a little, awkward nod, and put his
blue cap on his head and turned away. Annie did not stay to look after
him as he went; she turned her face to the pillow, and hid it there,
and cried. Upstairs, poor Jenny, who had been settling drawers, with a
delicate care that performed the task well, heard the door of the
cottage shut, and at once determined that she would come down to her
daughter’s side again. ‘I’m glad for her to have had a bit chat wi’
Tim, it’ll happen amuse her a bit, and do her good; I’m so dull always,
and I’m not like to be better, whilst I’m still feelin’ the bruise Rob
gave to me. But if only the childer can do well, an’ be happy, I’m sure
it’s no matter what becomes o’ me.’

‘If only the childer’--ah! anxious mother’s longing, that stirred with
her pulses as she went down the stairs, with a step as light, one might
almost say as timid, as in the past days when she had been herself a
girl. Annie heard the footsteps and raised herself from the pillow,
removing with haste the trace of recent tears, for her nature, proud
and impatient of sympathy, was accustomed to keep its sorrow to itself.
Far away Nat was toiling wearily amongst wet vegetables, with resentful
feelings against his mother and his home, and a conscious throbbing of
excitement in his heart at the thought of an interview to which he
had pledged himself. The guardian angel in blue cap and corduroys
had delivered his warning to both lass and lad; but, that warning
delivered, he could not stay for further guidance, but was compelled to
turn back to the Manor Farm again.




CHAPTER IX

AT THE FARM


THE Farm was now lying in the full sunlight of noon, for the storm had
swept by, and again the sky was clear, although grass was dripping and
branches shone with moisture, which the sunlight had not yet had time
to dry. Above it the sky was of deepest, clearest blue, and the yard at
the back appeared to be bathed in light, which shone on the grey and
white pigeons sunning themselves on the roofs, and consoling themselves
now the rain was over. Beyond the yard was the kitchen-garden, and
behind that rose the heads of some trees belonging to the Squire--a row
of trees which Alice Robson did not favour, because they shut out the
view of the sunset from her room. On the right, the yard-door opened
upon the road near the school, down which were running the children,
just released; whilst the smoke from the school-house, where dinner was
no doubt being prepared, was intensely blue against the dark trees of
the Hall. A pleasant yard! with its noontide lights and shadows, its
roofs of house, outhouses, stables on each side of the square, with its
whirr of pigeons, soon startled by a footstep, and its great black
dog, stretching himself on the ground. In the noontide sunlight all
seemed lazy and at peace, the more so since there was little business
to be done.

For though Mr Robson had been a skilful farmer in his day, and indeed
owned much land as a tenant of the Squire, he had been incapacitated
some years before by an accident, which had nearly cost him his life.
The land he still tenanted was farmed by his eldest son, who lived in a
smaller farm-house near at hand; and to this lesser place most signs of
business had retreated, leaving the Manor Farm to be quiet and at
peace. Mr Robson lived there, as he had lived all his life, and with
him his wife, and his pretty daughter Alice; and, since his sons had
grown up and left the place, Mrs Robson had taken lodgers as an
occupation for herself--Tim Nicol at first, and, that experiment
proving successful, the two young strangers who had come from ‘Lon’on
town.’ Whether that experiment would also be successful remained to be
proved--there seemed some cause for doubt.

The Manor Farm, as a house, was of no very great extent, though larger
than farm-houses generally are, and much improved by the alterations
and additions which successive tenants had thought fit to make. In
front it had gables and square windows which made recesses within, and
an old green porch which was now gay with geraniums; and, standing
as it did on the summit of the hill, it looked down over a wide
extent of Fen. From the upper windows, if you awoke early in the
morning, you could see white mists beneath a glow of sunrise; or,
possibly, at a later period of the year, miles of water, the
unfortunate result of autumn floods. These front bedrooms were the best
and the largest in the house, and for some time had been left
untenanted; but, just now, they had been recently given over to the use
of the lady and gentleman from ‘Lon’on.’ That lady and gentleman had
now inhabited them for a week, and had been the cause of much
speculation, as may be supposed. It was not imagined that they would
stay there long, for Lon’on people do not like country ways.

And yet even Lon’on people might have found themselves content with the
brilliant flowers that were the garden’s pride, with the sweep of green
field beyond, vivid in the sunlight, with the corn-fields, and the
wide-stretching distance, blue against the sky. In Lon’on there is no
such distance or such silence, such clearness of atmosphere without the
breath of smoke, such sudden gleams upon grass and golden corn, such
songs of blackbird or of thrush to break the stillness. The people of
Lon’on have to content themselves with Lanes in which there is not the
smallest blade of grass, with the tramp of men, and with music bought
with shillings, with the glare of footlights, and the rush of cabs and
trains. It is well if these pleasures do not leave them blind,
deaf, and senseless to the earth and sky, so that when they are in the
midst of the beauty of the country, the beauty of the country has no
voice or charm for them.

It is to be supposed that it had little voice or charm for one
discontented wanderer from the great city’s streets--Miss Tina Gillan,
retired to her apartment, and leaning against the window of her room.
Before her the sunlight shone on flowers and grass, on meadows,
corn-fields, and wide blue distance. She let her glance wander over the
extent of country before she turned away to express her thought to
herself. ‘To think,’ she cried, petulantly, as she flung up her arms,
‘that I should have sunk as low as a village in the Fens!’

But even to a lady who has lived in London and who has been brought
down to the level of the Fen, there are some consolations and
alleviations that persist in haunting the most dismal paths in life.
Tina almost smiled as, on turning round her head, her eyes caught sight
of the litter in her room, the half-emptied trunk whose miscellaneous
contents were lying strewn in disorder on the floor. For mixed with
various translations of French novels, and hairpins, and combs, and
curling pins, and even rouge, there were ribbons and feathers, flowers,
gloves and fans, whilst the bed was covered with dresses and hats. From
out of this varied assortment of articles a beautiful toilette was to
be compounded--an attire so elegant and complete in all its details
that it should even soften the heart of Mr Lee. For Tina was going
with her brother to visit her relation--the uncle whom she had never
yet beheld.

‘I am sure he will be an old fogey,’ cried Tina, with a pout, ‘and that
anything pretty will be wasted upon _him;_ so I won’t attempt to put on
a bow of ribbon, or to look anything but a dowdy and a fright. In this
horrid country they don’t care what you wear; they don’t look at you
long enough to see; it would be better to have been born without a
nose, for that might induce them to put up their spectacles!’ In making
which statement, Miss Gillan was not at variance with the opinion of
some Londoners on country folk; though it is true that in this instance
she did the village an injustice--for the village had looked, and had
also disapproved. It may be that some vague sense of being condemned
gave an edge to the bitterness with which she spoke.

‘I do love London,’ cried Tina, with little dances--she was a small,
light creature, who could dance easily--‘I love the streets, and the
theatres, and the lights, and all the nice boys who fall in love with
me! If I was to do what Mr Markham says I would be able to be a London
girl--he would bring out my voice and make a fortune of it; and then
I’d be on the boards for all my life. But then he keeps saying that I
must work, and work, and I hate work, I can’t bear to do with it! With
Mr Lee’s money I should be a lady, and could dress up in silk, and
do all things that I like!’

Yes--‘be a lady--’ this was the sole ambition that had sunk deeply into
the wild girl’s heart, the solitary longing that had worked in her
since she had been able to choose things for herself. Brought up in the
midst of the lives of adventurers, it had been impossible that she
should not be aware of all the hardships, the possible wretchedness
that attend too often on professional careers. Brought up by a father,
adventurer and vagabond, who had been artist, musician, actor, as
inclination prompted him; by a mother who had left a safe home to share
his lot, and had ever afterwards regretted her choice openly, she had
early learned to set an unspeakable value on the money that does not
ask for years of labour, but is freely and graciously inherited. Ever
since, in her early youth, she had heard of her uncle’s wealth, it had
represented a means of obtaining that graciousness; since, if he left
his money to her brother and herself, they would be able to be a lady
and a gentleman and would not be obliged to work. The years, as they
passed, increased this confidence--her uncle was a man, and all men
were good to her.

So, now that her father and mother had both been dead a year--the
father and mother who had not shared her hope, who, judging from their
own hardly-earned experiences, had refused to appeal to her uncle for
money or for help--now that she had been left with her brother to
struggle as they could, and their money was almost spent, and
themselves almost destitute, it was natural that they should at length
resolve on one grand effort on which to stake their lives. They had
come down from London to the village next to Lindum, in which town Mr
Lee had lived all his life, and from thence had addressed to him a
touching letter, describing their poverty and their orphanhood. To that
letter they had not as yet received an answer--although they had felt
that it was beautifully expressed--and so, undaunted, they had agreed
in council, in person to storm the breach and win the day. Which is to
say, they were about, that afternoon, to call at Mr Lee’s house, and at
least leave cards on him.

One does not live in London poverty without gaining some knowledge of
the world and its ways; one has not haunted back streets and theatre
dressing-rooms without possessing at least some experience of life.
Tina’s head was empty of solid furniture, but it could be shrewd enough
in spite of that emptiness; and she had begun to perceive that it was
needful to make some decided move, in order to avert various dangers of
which she was aware. It was not only that both her brother and herself
were short of money, and that they had not yet paid for their board or
their rooms; or that it would be well to reply to the suspicions of the
village by exhibiting Mr Lee as an affectionate relative--there was
another peril of which she was vaguely conscious, although even its
outline had not been shown to her. For some few months she had
suspected that her brother had become involved in some secret
attachment of whose nature she was ignorant, but which she imagined to
have considerable influence upon him--she had been therefore much
relieved when he had willingly consented to assist her in her scheme,
and to accompany her into the country, and had himself proposed Warton,
the next village to Lindum, as their place of residence. No suspicion
of any secrecy on his part had crossed her mind; she had been only too
glad to accept his escort, and to imagine him delivered from any
adverse influence. And now .... now .... she scarcely knew what she
suspected, but there was an uneasy suspicion in her heart, a lurking
doubt from which she could not free herself, and yet which she could
take no means to satisfy. The altered manner of her brother to herself,
the conversations with Molly in which she had detected him, the
confusion of the servant when she had questioned her--these things, if
not amounting to absolute conviction, afforded at least most ample room
for thought. In one of the conversations to which she listened
secretly--for no shame restrained her from acting as a spy--the name of
Salter had reached her ears more than once, and she had stored it in
her mind for future use. The unexpected appearance of the handsome
village lad connected itself with her doubts and fears; she imagined
him to be her brother’s messenger, and was not surprised that he
owned the remembered name. And although the ingenuous manner and
indignation of the boy compelled her to believe that his denial was
true, she considered him to be a chance thread in her hands by which
she might unravel a tangled skein at last. ‘I’ll get it all out of
him,’ she cried, ‘see if I don’t; I’m not unskilful in making fools of
boys!’

As, saying these words, Tina pauses for a moment, with the novels and
hair-pins in disorder at her feet, with her pretty hands twisted behind
her back, her face uplifted, and her dark eyes bright with thoughts--in
that instant’s repose let us seize the opportunity to claim for our own
the picture that she makes. A dainty creature! small, slim, lithe, and
dark, with a foreign grace, and a southern colouring, with full lips,
whose redness relieves the darkness of her face, and with glowing eyes
that have sparks and glints of light! Seeing her in this moment one
might fancy her to be some wild-spirited, capricious, playful child,
full of possible passion, and love of reckless daring, not easily
guided, and still less easily restrained. But Tina had other
moods--alas! poor girl--which could also find their expression in her
face, a weary bitterness that could make her lips cold and hard, could
rob her cheek of its freshness and her features of their youth. And
then, besides, if she ever found herself alone with any member of the
sex that was not her own, there was yet another expression to be
observed in her eyes, which could impart to them the most attractive
charm--a look of the softest, tenderest sympathy, which held as by
magic the male glance bent on hers. If you, being a woman, not a man to
be fascinated, could have seen those soft eyes and those sympathising
lips, something like a doubt must have risen in your mind as to what
the meaning of that tender glance could be. It meant mischief.

Reckless, capricious, improvident, with no education in the laws of
right and wrong, with a love of amusement which had never been
restrained by any fear for another besides herself--Tina might have
been held, in spite of comparative youth and innocence, to represent
one part of the darker side of life, the type of woman who through all
succeeding ages has been able to be the danger, if not the ruin, of
man. For though such a character presents an open snare, it is yet a
snare into which feet fall easily.

But still let us think for a moment of Tina as, at length attired, she
turns to leave her room, with one sidelong glance just thrown backwards
at the looking-glass, as brightly and quickly as if it had come from a
bird. Above her hair, which was very short, and tied behind in a knot
which rippled out in curls, she had placed a little black hat with its
outline softened by a black ostrich feather that curled all round the
crown. Her dress was also black, an old figured silk, for she thought
it best to seem in some sort of mourning; and a silver bangle was
clasped upon her wrist above the long, black, embroidered glove she
wore. One more thing we must notice, the daintiest black umbrella,
which had at the top of its handle a pretty silver knob. Thus attired,
Tina’s dress could not be accused of brightness, or of any attempt at
unwarrantable display--yet it must be owned that there was still in her
appearance that look of an adventuress which seemed to belong to her.
If she was conscious of this fact, I do not know that she regretted it,
for she liked people to turn and look at her in the street, and if you
have nothing more than an ordinary appearance, it is at least possible
that you may not be seen.

So, thus attired, and moving daintily, with a face more thoughtful than
usual, and her great dark eyes shining beneath the shadow of her hat,
little Tina was able to leave her room at last. She went slowly down
the stairs, meditating as she went, for there were consequences of
serious importance depending on the interview she was about to dare
to-day. At the foot of the stairs her brother stood waiting for her--a
young man whose appearance was not as much like that of a foreigner as
her own; well-dressed, supple-figured, with delicate hands and
features, and languid eyelids that were scarcely raised as she joined
him. They did not exchange a single word or glance, but, moving
together, went out into the yard.

Here, amidst the bright sunlight, and the shadows of the roofs, the
Robson’s pony-carriage was waiting for them, with Tim standing by
it as a guardian; for he was accustomed to assist in the work of the
house when he was at hand. With a true artisan independence,
nevertheless, he did not touch his blue cap as they came up to him, but
stood at the head of the pony without paying attention to them, until
they were seated in the carriage, when he moved away. The yard boy had
thrown the folding doors wide open; and the rough black pony moved
forwards lazily, undisturbed by the excitement of the yard-dog at his
rear. By the door near the kitchen stood Mrs Robson and her daughter,
who had come out to watch the start; and behind the portly form of the
mistress of the house little Molly concealed her eager interest. The
groups of figures were distinct in the brilliant sunlight on the yard,
and so were the gleaming pigeons, and the rustle of their wings; but
the occupants of the pony-carriage appeared to be abstracted, and to
have little attention to give to all that surrounded them. Without
speaking, even to each other, they reached the folding-doors, and
turned the sharp corner into the road, and drove away.




CHAPTER X

AN AFTERNOON VISITOR


SOME hours afterwards occurred an extraordinary event; a visitor
appeared at the front-door of the Farm.

To explain why this was a wonder it is necessary to state that the
front rooms of the house were for the most part unoccupied; the family,
especially since Mr Robson’s illness, inhabiting only a few apartments
at the back, so that the village visitors, being well aware of this
fact, were accustomed to approach by the great doors of the yard.
To-day, however, the sound of the crunch of wheels drew all the
household with one consent to the front--Mrs Robson, her daughter, and
Molly, the man-of-all-work, and the boy. These five comprised the whole
household that afternoon, for Tim had gone to the town, and Mr Robson
was away.

The sound of hoofs and wheels came steadily round the drive--they
belonged to a powerful horse and high dog-cart, within which were
seated an elderly man, who was driving, and a companion who appeared
to be a servant, though he was not in livery. The attention of the
driver seemed to be occupied with every detail of the country round the
house, with the brilliant flowers in the garden, and the geraniums in
the porch. For the afternoon sunlight shone upon the flowers, the pink
and white stocks, the roses, the red poppies, the tall white lilies
that stood above the rest, and drooped fragrant heads of stainless
purity--whilst this fore-ground of flowers was intensified by the wide
country fields that stretched away into blue. The eyes of the driver
were occupied with these things, whilst the wheels of his dog-cart went
crunching round the drive; and then, with a sudden movement of a wrist
that still was strong, he pulled up his powerful horse before the door.

He was an elderly man, as has been said, and there was no great
appearance of refinement in his face, nor had the look of his vehicle
and horse the assumption of any outward show or pride. But his features
at any rate, if harsh and strong, had something in them to impress a
gazer’s eyes; and he raised his hat with deferential courtesy, as Alice
Robson came out into the porch. The slender girl in her neat, quiet
working-dress was a figure not inharmonious with the flowers.

‘Good-day to ye, miss,’ cried the occupant of the dog-cart, in a voice
like his face, harsh, strong, without refinement; ‘I’ve come to this
place where I’ve never been before to ask for a boy and girl as lodges
here. I don’t suppose _you’re_ the lady, though you’re standing in
the porch, it’s not in my mind as I’ll have such luck as that!’

‘I am afraid, sir,’ said Alice, after an instant of the confusion with
which her modesty received an unexpected compliment, ‘as you’re askin’
after Mr Gillan an’ his sister, as have left us to-day to drive into
the town. You’ll perhaps know the gentleman, sir, they’re going to
see--he’s Mr Lee, at the top o’ Lindum Hill.’

‘Why, _I’m_ Mr Lee,’ cried the stranger in an outburst, whose fit
succession was the loud, rough laugh he gave; ‘an’ I’ve come over to
see the girl and lad, without thinking as they would pay me honour
first. Well, I’m not sorry, I want to hear about ’em, an’ I guess as
I’ll do it now they are away; so I’ll send round my horse to the
stables--I suppose there _are_ some stables--and just come in an’ hear
what there is to tell--Ha, this is the hall, I suppose, and left
unfurnished; in these hard times we can’t get chairs for our halls!’

Alice had stepped out to give directions to the man, so Mrs Robson in
her turn came forward, not offended by these observations on her house,
which she considered to be jests befitting ‘quality.’ Mrs Robson was a
big woman, firm and solid, with every capacity ripe for self-defence,
but she had old-fashioned ideas on social questions, which imparted to
her conduct some inconsistency. At the present moment she was so far
from indignation that she was only anxious to improve the occasion.

‘I’m sure, sir,’ she said, ‘an’ it’s right enough you are--these _be_
hard times, an’ we’re all on us sufferers--not as we haven’t money eno’
for chairs an’ tables, but we don’t take pleasure in such things as
them. The sitting-room here it’s furnished smart enough, but the
master’s not happy but by the kitchen fire--ye’ll be warm enough, sir,
if ye please to step this way, for the air’s not hot, although it be
summer-time. Or it’s happen ye’d like to see Miss Gillan’s room--we
call it th’ owd kitchen, this room here, where she sits--Alice, take
this gentleman to Miss Gillan’s room, being as he’s a relation or a
friend of her’n.’

‘Ah, Miss,’ said Miss Gillan’s visitor, turning round to Alice, with
the freedom of manner of one who does not fear to give offence, ‘I’m
willing enough to see Miss Gillan’s room when I’ve such a quiet maid to
show the way. You make me mind of the days when I went courting--I
don’t want to tell ye how long that was ago--I’d set my eyes on just
such another girl, an’ I made up my mind I’d have her or I’d die. Ye
see I’d not spoken to her in my life, I saw her with old Mr Long, an’
made sure she belonged to him, so what do I do but write to him one
mornin’ and offer his girl all the folly that I had. An’ then did I
dress myself right down smart and beautiful, and go out a-courting like
any fool of them all.’

He paused to laugh with his loud guffaw, his two entertainers remaining
silent at his side.

‘Ye’ll never guess it--ha! ha! ye’ll never guess it--I never did hear
such a story in my life! When I reached Mr Long, all a-quakin’ an’
a-tremblin’, he had me in the parlour, and then shook hands with me;
and there was some wine and cake upon the table, and the missus she
poured me a glass, and seemed fit to kiss me too. And there was I, all
hot as if with fire, with my eyes on the door, like an idiot as I was;
and the missus she went out for to fetch her daughter, and I heard ’em
coming along the passage to the room. And then when the door opened--ye
could ha’ knocked me flat!--it wasn’t the girl, it wasn’t the girl at
all!’

‘A poor, sallow creature,’ he went on, when he had laughed, ‘as wasn’t
at all the sort of thing I meant; an invalidish, complaining sort of
lass, as they had kept quiet, ’cause no man cared to look at her. The
t’other one she had gone away that mornin’, a pretty creatur’ that was
a friend of theirn; and there were they both as pleased as possible to
get their daughter off their hands at last. Now, when I looked at ’em
both, and saw them so pleased and proud, and saw the young lady all
blushing and ready to be kissed, I hadn’t the courage to stand up
before ’em all, and tell ’em it was a mistake and I must get out of it.
For old Long he had always been good enough to me, and since I’d been
in business I owed him a turn or two; and, besides that, there was the
girl, and she’d be crying, an’ I never liked to disappoint a woman--not
in those days when I was young. So I put my arm round her, and made
the best of it, though, I tell ye, I didn’t like the morsel much; an’ I
bought the ring in due time, and a new coat for the wedding, and didn’t
tell no one what a blundering ass I’d been. And I made her a good
enough husband; yes, I did, for all as she wasn’t the girl I meant to
have; but she died before we’d been ten years wed, and I was left to be
alone, as I am now--And now, if ye’ll please to show me the right way,
I’ll be going with ye to see my niece’s room.’

They went on accordingly, but Alice found an opportunity to whisper a
few words in her mother’s ear as they were crossing the inner hall,
where was the staircase and also a great black stove, that made warmth
in winter-time. ‘Mother, I don’t like it,’ whispered Alice with
indignation, ‘he hadn’t ought to talk so of his wife when she is dead.’

‘He don’t mean no harm,’ whispered Mrs Robson back, being much more
disposed to be merciful. ‘But it’s not right,’ pronounced Alice, in the
tone of final decision in which an irrevocable condemnation is
proclaimed. For the precise Alice had enough warmth within her to
become indignant for another woman’s sake; and as an only daughter of
doting parents she was allowed to own such opinions as she pleased.

And now they all stood together in the ‘old kitchen,’ into which fell
the slanting evening light, the room chosen by Tina for her
sitting-room, in preference to the smarter parlour of the house. It
had once indeed been a kitchen, as was made evident by the great
kitchen fireplace and mantelpiece, all of sombre black, a circumstance
which added to the quaintness of the apartment, which had been used as
a living-room by the family before their lodgers came. The walls were
covered with a sober-coloured paper, representing various scenes in
farming life--stables, men ploughing, hay-making, and harvest-time,
each scene in a little frame of trellis-work. To add to their effect
the skirting of wood, the beam which divided the ceiling, the cupboards
on each side of the fireplace, the doors and window-seat were all alike
of a deep, dull green, which allowed the paper the advantage of such
brightness as it had. The floor was covered with matting, and a long
table with a cheap and brilliant table-cloth went down the room;
against the furthest wall was the little pianoforte which had been
hired for Tina, and the low basket-chair in which she was accustomed to
recline. A big, pleasant room, which with a little trouble might have
been made into an apartment sufficiently comfortable.

Alas! poor Tina, she had evidently not expected that the eyes of a
critic would be upon it that afternoon, or no doubt she would have
bestowed on its arrangement the same care which she had lavished on her
dress. The table was covered with a heterogeneous litter of novels,
music, and bits of fancy-work, together with stores of old letters
and newspapers, of ribbon and coloured lace. These last predominated so
much in certain places that the room might have been supposed to belong
to a milliner if it had not been for the heaps of yellow novels, which
excluded the idea of a career as industrious. The eyes of Mr Lee, which
were grey, small and shrewd, gathered in these details with an
observant glance; and, putting out his hand, he took up from the table,
a large, coloured photograph, which was lying there. It was the
portrait of a young man, apparently an actor, attired in a rich,
old-fashioned suit; and at the back (at which Mr Lee looked forthwith)
were these few words scrawled in the bold writing of a man:

    ‘FOR THE LOVELY TINA,
        FROM ONE OF HER SLAVES.’

‘Hum-hum,’ said Mr Lee, and laid the photograph down. The two women
drew closer to him, for though they had not seen the words they
observed his darkened brow--without heeding them, he remained for a
while with his clenched hand on the table, and his thick grey eyebrows
almost meeting above his eyes. And then, turning suddenly, he addressed
himself to Mrs Robson, with a hard, abrupt manner, as of one much
displeased.

‘Ah, ha! My niece--the young lady that lives here--this is her room,
you say?’ Mrs Robson assented with humility.

‘And this--all this--_rubbish_--this belongs to her?’

‘Yes, sir,’ murmured Mrs Robson, after a pause of some alarm, for the
grey eyebrows were threatening, and she did not know what would come
next. The eyes of Mr Lee wandered over the yellow covers of the novels,
the coloured ribbons and the sheets of music-paper.

‘And this young woman--my niece--tell me what you know about her? How
she spends her time here, and all the rest of it?’

His glance wandered past Mrs Robson, and rested upon Alice, who stood
near her ample mother like a sapling near a tree; but who hastened to
answer with a gravity and precision which her mother would probably not
have exhibited. Her manner, however, was not conciliating; she did not
approve of her guest or the questions that he asked.

‘Miss Gillan has been here about a week, sir,’ she said, ‘and she has
had this room to herself ever since she came. She came from London, we
didn’t know nothing of her; the neighbours directed her here, and she
has lodged here ever since. It isn’t likely we could tell you much of
her; we’ve our work to do, an’ we leave her to herself.’

‘Ah! ah! you’re cautious,’ pronounced the old gentleman; ‘you don’t
give more testimony than you are obliged--well, well, I don’t blame
you, a loose tongue runs to mischief--and mischief is a thing you
don’t deal in, I’ll be bound. Well, well, I won’t ask you for more
than you like to say--my niece is an orphan, but she can take care
of herself.’

‘She sings most beautiful, sir,’ said Mrs Robson, who thought it right
to put in a word of praise. ‘There’s some songs she has about love, and
parting, and spring-time--I assure you, sir, they ’ud make you cry to
hear.’

‘About love! I don’t doubt it,’ said Mr Lee, very drily, ‘but I don’t
cry easily, I never did!’ And then, turning suddenly, as if he would
change the subject; ‘But there’s the lad; what have you to say of
him?’ His question was so sudden, and came so unexpectedly, that Mrs
Robson had not a word to say.

‘The boy, my nephew! you must know him by now; doesn’t he live here
with his sister?’

‘He’s a well-looking young gentleman, sir,’ said Mrs Robson, with
hesitation, yet with some satisfaction too; because she had been able
to choose from the qualities of Mr James Gillan the one virtue at any
rate that could not be denied. Her words, however, did not please her
questioner; he drew down his eyebrows into a more decided frown.

‘Well-looking? I do not doubt it,’ he replied at last; ‘his mother was
a pretty lass when she was young--if she chose to bestow herself on a
foreign scamp, that was her misfortune an’ wasn’t no fault o’ mine.
Well-looking? ah, yes! that’s only half the tale; how does he employ
himself, what does he do?’

‘He’s in the town most-whiles, sir,’ murmured Mrs Robson, with a
hesitation that was more marked than before. Alice stood meanwhile
by her mother, grim and silent; these questions on the absent did not
commend themselves to her.

‘In the town--ah! yes--I daresay--what does he do there?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Hum--hum--’

Again there was silence--a longer pause this time. Mr Lee’s clenched
hand rested once more on the table; he kept on unclenching the fingers
and closing them again, but not with the manner of one who is
irresolute, rather that of one whose motions keep time with his
resolve. In fact, he had not delayed to form his resolution, and he was
accustomed to hold to his ideas tenaciously.

‘Ah, well,’ he said, arranging the collar of his coat, as if to prepare
to go out of doors at once, ‘it is getting late, and the evenings close
in early, I must be ready to go back to the town--I say, my good
woman,’ he added suddenly, ‘will you remember a message if I give you
one?’

‘Surely, sir,’ said Mrs Robson, with a little offended curtsey; for the
words, ‘my good woman’ smacked of condescension, and she was more
sensitive with regard to herself than to her chairs. But Mr Lee took no
more notice of her than of her daughter’s silence and hostility, his
mind was occupied entirely with the subject that had brought him over
from Lindum to the Farm. He settled his collar, and appeared to
meditate, and then turned round again to the farmer’s wife.

‘Ye may tell these young people who write to me,’ he said, ‘that they
needn’t take the trouble to visit me again; I’ve many calls from all
sides on me just now, and I can’t pay heed to them till New Year has
come. But since they seem to be happily settled here in lodgings that
are comfortable and respectable I’m willing enough to pay that board
and lodging until some other arrangement can be made. And you may tell
them, too, that if they behave themselves I’ll see what I can do for
them after the New Year’s in--we may be able to contrive some meeting
before that time so that we may know each other better than we do now.
Just give them that with my compliments, or whatever you will, and show
me the yard, that I may find my horse and go!’

With the manner of one who is resolved he followed Alice, who led the
way silently through the back-door to the yard; and yet there seemed
something of impatience on him also, as if he were becoming anxious to
be gone. It may be that he had already accomplished a desired
investigation, favoured by the opportune absence of his young
relatives, and that he was unwilling to complicate the situation by
encountering his nephew and niece on their return. In the soft evening
light he watched the preparation of his dog-cart, hurried his servant,
and got up and took the reins; and then, with a sweeping wave of his
hat to the women at the door, he drove from the yard. The doors
were closed promptly behind him by the boy, and Mrs Robson and Alice
went back into the house.

In another instant Mr Lee would have left Warton; but, although his
visit must in any case have been fateful, it was not destined to be
concluded, even now, without one last incident to give completeness to
the rest. For his horse stumbled over some loose stones, and the
servant dismounted as they were going down the hill, and began to
examine the shoes of the animal--in the course of which action he
observed a letter on the ground. His examination concluded, he stood up
to address his master, who then saw that he held a letter in his hand.

‘Someone must have dropped this, sir, and left it here,’ he said, and
held it up for his master’s eyes to see. There was only a short name
inscribed on the envelope, but in an instant Mr Lee had recognised his
nephew’s hand.

‘It’s for Miss Salter,’ said his servant, as he sat silent--‘that’s the
daughter of Jenny Salter as lives by the Thackbusk field. And I
believe, sir, though one wouldn’t credit it, that it is her as is
coming along t’ road.’ And, raising his eyes from the letter that he
held, Mr Lee saw the young girl advancing up the path.

It was a picture to be remembered, and that he did not forget--that
sight of the hill in evening radiance, the trees of the Hall rising
darkly to his right, and, far away, between branches that seemed bronze
against the sky, the cathedral and town in a gloom of purple grey. Yet,
fair though the sight was, it only formed a setting to the face of the
young girl who paused near him. Mr Lee had never before beheld that
face; it was impressed on his mind now, and was remembered afterwards.

On her part, Annie had merely gone out for a walk, impelled by her
mother’s desire, and her own restlessness; and had only stood still on
the path by the dog-cart, because she had felt, almost unconsciously,
that the two men were about to speak to her. A faint colour rose in her
face, which was pale from recent illness, and added to it another
beauty. She was in her working dress of plain, grey cotton, with a
broad-brimmed black hat to keep off the summer sun.

‘You must excuse me,’ said Mr Lee, as if he had already spoken to her;
(he did not think it necessary this time to put his hand to his hat);
‘my servant has found a letter which has your name upon it, and we
suppose that it must belong to you.’ He kept his eyes fixed
unreservedly on her face; and watched whilst his servant gave the note
to her. She put out her hand for it, in simple wonder, and her eyes
fell upon the hand-writing as those of Mr Lee had done. And then, in an
instant, it seemed as if some strong feeling moved her, for hot
blood rose to her cheek, and the pupils of her eyes dilated. She let
her hand close on the letter, and began to move away--then turned, and
spoke.

‘I ought to thank you, sir,’ said Annie with simple dignity, in a voice
which in spite of its country accent was low and sweet. ‘This is for
me, though I was not expecting it; it must have been dropped as it was
brought to me. I thank you kindly, sir. Good-evening;’ and she went on
up the hill. The eyes of Mr Lee still rested on her figure, and
continued to do so till it was out of sight. Then he signed to his
servant to get up into the dog-cart, and shook the reins of his horse,
and drove away.


Some hours later, when the evening light had faded and the crescent of
the moon shone on the garden-paths--in the time of darkness and
silence, of barred doors and closed windows, the lodgers at the Farm
returned. Tim was waiting for them in the shadowed, moonlit yard,
having undertaken that office in order that the yard-boy might go
home--but he did not look on them with the eyes of favour, being
displeased, like the rest of the household, at the lateness of their
return. On their part, the lodgers appeared to be in the worst of
tempers--they did not even speak to each other; and James Gillan got
down without offering any assistance to his sister, and strode away
into the darkness. Tina was more gracious; she hastened into the house
where her bright fire was welcome even on an August night, and
condescended to address to Mrs Robson some words of apology for their
late arrival. It had not been her fault--her uncle had been away from
home--and her brother had insisted on an excursion which she had not
herself desired. Mrs Robson received her excuses willingly, being only
anxious that her own tale should be told.

What the proud girl suffered during the course of that narration the
farmer’s wife had not tact enough to imagine; and, indeed, since there
was no light but firelight in the room, she could see only the outline
of a face that was turned away from her. But when Tina at last moved,
and the rising flames shone on her features, it became obvious that
they were flushed as if with fury. Before, however, she had time to
speak, the farmer’s wife had some other news to give--she was to tell
Miss Gillan that Nat Salter had been waiting all the evening at the
Farm. And, as if on her tumult of anger a new idea had fallen, Tina
ordered with shining eyes that he should be summoned immediately.

What did she want with him, why should her tempestuous anger be calmed
at once by the thought of this interview; what possible advantage could
she hope to gain from one who was only a village-labourer? Something
must have moved her--perhaps a secret hope of obtaining privately a
clue to the conduct of her brother; or at any rate of learning more of
her uncle, the Squire’s old acquaintance, from one who was reckoned
a favourite of the Squire. These thoughts may have influenced her--for
she loved such devices--but too possibly another feeling stirred as
well, her insane habit of compelling admiration, reckless from whom or
from what source it came. If she had been humiliated by her uncle--well,
she would prove to herself that she could still triumph over men.

She lit the candles in brass candlesticks on the table, and when the
lad entered the room she was standing by them, her two hands leaning on
the table near her hat, her dark eyes as sorrowful as if they had been
filled with tears. He entered to this sight--a poor, untaught boy, his
foolish brain only too full of expectation; he entered to see the dark
room, the shining candles, and this sorrowing, beautiful image whose
eyes were fixed on him. In that one instant her mastery was gained;
already the unworthy triumph she had desired was won.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jenny sat alone that night in her raftered cottage, waiting for the
children who were in no hurry to return; on her mind a dread--a wife’s
dread--which made her tremble lest each passing foot-fall should be her
husband’s step. Alone, quite alone, with no human comfort near her, she
had endured the tumult before her door that night, the shouts, the
clashing of the Rantan, braying out her griefs openly, to the ears of
all. And then, when that thrice-repeated clamour ceased at length,
she was left to a silence still more hard to bear, left to stitch
patiently with her never-wearied needle, and to wonder why the children
did not come. Her mother’s heart had time to become frightened,
agitated, before at eleven o’clock there was at last a sound of
footsteps; and Annie, wan, chilled, and feverish, sank down in a chair
on the hearth, and turned her face away--succeeded after a minute or
two by the brother, who had not that day entered his home, and who
seemed now as weary and feverish as herself, and still more determined
than she was not to speak. Jenny asked no questions, and only said a
word or two; and Annie kissed her, and went up to her room; whilst Nat,
without kissing her, also stole upstairs, and undressed hastily, and
lay down in his bed. He slept, village-fashion, in the corner of his
mother’s room, which he had occupied almost since he was born.

He slept soon, heavily; the young slumber hard and well; but to his
mother no such relief could come--the poor mother who felt a pang
beneath her anger, because her boy could sleep though he would not
speak to her. Poor Jenny, sleepless, sat up in her bed that night, and,
with the pain of the bruise which her husband’s hand had caused, felt
the anxiety of new forebodings which she had not experienced before.
Afraid of her children with the fear of a timid mother, and longing to
trust them, to be at peace with them, she yet knew that she must
gather courage to address them, and demand from their lips the story of
the night--though herself as ready to shrink before the prospect as a
nervous child before the confession of its fault. She did not murmur,
or pray, or even weep, she tried to submit as she always did submit; it
was only her tremulous fear of danger near her treasures, which
compelled her to attempt some action for their good. ‘I can’t bear to
vex them,’ she murmured to her pillow as, at last worn out, she laid
down her head to sleep--a sleep as broken and fitful as the dread of an
anxious mother, whose power to guard those she loves is more feeble
than her will.




CHAPTER XI

THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER


THE next day Farmer Robson’s daughter was seated at her work, when the
sound of footsteps announced a visitor; and, as she rose to meet the
disturber of her solitude, the door opened, and Annie Salter entered
the room. Her appearance was not at all expected there; for Annie was
not often a visitor at the Farm.

And perhaps it might also be correct to say that her appearance at that
moment was not at all desired, since Alice had come upstairs when her
noontide meal was done with the intention of allowing herself a quiet
afternoon. On her little bed in the corner there lay in heaps a variety
of garments in much need of repair, for it had been her intention, as
an industrious daughter of the house, to accomplish the family mending
in these hours of loneliness. She was an exquisite needlewoman, and the
prospect of stitching did not alarm her--already she had taken up a
pair of socks, and with needle and cotton in hand was ready to begin.
When Annie entered she remained standing where she had risen, with her
left hand deep in the sock and her needle in the right.

She entered the room where this image of neatness stood--poor,
passionate Annie, with her dark eyes dull and tired, her pouting lips
pale with sickness or weariness, and the straying hairs bright and
rough beneath her hat. She was neat, indeed--Jenny’s child could not be
otherwise--but not with the conscious neatness of the farmer’s
daughter, and at that moment she looked tremulous and ill, unwilling to
talk and only fit for rest. Without saying a word or holding out her
hand, she sat down in the chair Alice silently offered; and almost
unconsciously put out her hand, and took up a sock from the heap upon
the bed. The action might have been called mechanical, but it raised
her at once in the opinion of her companion.

‘Would you like to work?’ Alice asked, hospitably; ‘I’ve needles,
cotton and thimble, everything; I can put the big basket between us on
a chair, and then we can take from it what we want. Only don’t be
troubled, as if you must be helping me, ’cause I’ve plenty of time to
get through all to-day.’

‘I ’ud like to work,’ Annie answered, not unreadily, as she took off
her hat and laid it on the bed; ‘I’m always accustomed to sit an’ work
at home, whenever there’s any spare time of any sort. It doesn’t seem
natural to sit with idle hands, and I don’t like it ... it gives one
time to think ...’

The deep sigh with which she broke off did not escape her companion,
and Alice looked up anxiously. Annie did not resent the glance, she
appeared to welcome it; at that moment she must have felt in need of
sympathy.

‘Mother an’ me’s had words,’ she murmured, half-reluctantly, as if in
answer to her companion’s eyes; her industrious fingers occupied all
the while with the sock that she had taken in her hand. ‘Mother is so
foolish, she will not understand that there’s some things about which
one cannot talk; she wishes me to behave as if I was a child, an’ I
know I shall never be a child again.’

The words had a pathetic sound, perhaps because of the pathos of the
dark eyes she raised--a glance almost childish in its simplicity, and
yet, at the same time, too suggestive of womanhood. At that moment it
was not possible to look at her without some intuition of danger; and
‘farmer’s Alice,’ in spite of her precision, had enough clearness of
sight to be forewarned. It may be that an anxiety lurking at her own
heart made her more able than usual to feel for another woman’s trial;
for, in spite of her resolves--and she could be resolute--she had been
herself more or less troubled all the day. The sound of that trouble
could be heard in her voice, an undertone beneath its quietness.

‘We can’t expect things to be always right,’ she said; ‘there’s worries
upon t’ best o’ days--there’s the colt in the garden, or else there’s
father ill, or t’ boys steal the fruit, an’ we can’t find who they be.
Mr Bender, he says we all on us have trials; an’ I’m sure it’s true,
so I suppose it must be so.’

The tremor in her voice had more effect on her companion than the
indisputable wisdom of her words; Annie vaguely realised, unconscious
that she did so, a sensation that she was receiving sympathy. That
loosed the restraint that held her heart in bands, and the wish to
speak became irresistible. Her companion listened and worked, and felt
troubled and confused, as one before waters too deep for her to sound.

‘Alice, have you seen t’ Thackbusk when it’s late at night,’ cried
Annie, ‘when t’ mist have risen so as you can’t see t’ moon? you can’t
think how strange it looks and big an’ solemn, t’ great flat fields,
an’ t’ willows in the dusk. I mind me of a night about a year ago when
I ran out there because mother scolded me, an’ I got frighted with the
great mists all round me, an’ all the grass white and strange wi’ moon
an’ mist. An’ now I keep feeling as if I was there again, an’ all t’
mist round me, an’ keepin’ me from home, an’ I keep wantin’ t’ light in
mother’s window, an’ it’s not there, an’ I can’t get back to it. I
don’t know what to do with t’ feeling, that I don’t--it a’most makes me
cry--and I can’t get free from it.’

She put up her hand to shield her eyes for an instant, and then went on
quietly with her work, though not before a sudden catching of her
breath had told of trouble as plainly as her words. Her companion was
in no haste to break the silence, and some minutes passed without
a word from either. Outside the window the pigeons gleamed and
fluttered, and clouds and blue sky looked down upon the yard.

‘Annie,’ said Alice softly, ‘won’t you come with me, an’ hear Mr Bender
speak in Harmenton--he’s going to hold a class-meetin’ there to-day,
for the sake o’ them as can’t get over to the town? I didn’t think of
going, not to-day, but I’d be glad enough if you’d like to come with
me.’

If her voice trembled now it was from shyness, and a little pink colour
gave some warmth to her cheek, for she was not accustomed to speak to
those around her of the religious exercises in which she indulged
herself. Some time ago, Alice had chosen, as the church-people in the
village sarcastically observed, to give her parents ‘more trouble nor
she was worth by taking up with them Dissenters in the town’--and they
had added that ‘her parents they were too soft with her, they should
ha’ let her know their mind, that they should.’ At the same time the
village Dissenters, who were numerous, were not on their part disposed
to be pleased with her, they said that ‘she held her nose a deal too
high, she ’ud have to come down afore her life was done.’ This was hard
upon Alice, who at the desire of her parents had abstained from
attending the red chapel at the bottom of the hill--though it must be
owned that her obedience was the easier because she preferred the
Wesleyan place of worship in the town. A young heart has a natural
instinct for the place where its religion was first stirred into life,
a yearning like that which makes us turn back again to visit the scenes
where our childhood played. Poor Alice, although confirmed, was
entirely ignorant of the history, the claims, the pretensions of the
Church; she was only aware of the help that touched her life as the
wounded man of the hand of the Samaritan. And certainly since that time
her life had found new happiness, a transfiguration of duty which made
all things sublime.

Into the innermost sanctuary of her religious life we can have no
desire and have no right to pry, but the outward manifestation of such
feeling is a common ground upon which all feet may tread. To complete
then the sketch of this dissenting maiden we may add that her sense of
duty, at all times clear and keen, was of that nature which loves the
harmony of perpetual details, small and numberless. Alice had her
little laws with regard to all things that she did, the making of a
pie-crust or the wearing of a gown--and this habit, almost unconscious
before the time of her conversion, she recognised now as the principle
of her life. A disposition by nature opposed to morbidness saved her
from dangers that might have been possible; although it must be owned
at the same time that these endless regulations were not always
convenient to others in the house. A life thus self-governed is mostly
solitary, but Alice had not the warmth that desires companionship; with
a truth and sincerity of nature that rendered her capable of friendship
she generally preferred to go on her way alone. She was thin, slender,
and quiet (to conclude her description with her portrait), and usually
dressed in some dark, sober gown; without being pretty she was not
inharmonious, and it was this sensation which satisfied those near her.
The villagers said that ‘t’ girl was well eno’, an’ a good girl too who
’ud do her duty well, but if you wanted a face as lads ’ud like there
was Thackbusk Annie was worth ten on her.’ There were a few lads,
however, as it seemed, who had found the daughter of the farmer fair
enough.

And now these two rivals, for once in unison, were close together in
Alice’s little room, whilst without pigeons fluttered, and the yard-boy
came and went, and the light of a sober noon-tide shone on the yard.
The girls were silent, but both were deeply moved, each indeed more
thrilled than she would have dared to say--Annie with a delirious sense
of pressing danger; Alice with a secret anxiety that affected her like
shame. Oh! why should she mind if Nat came to see Miss Gillan, and had
been engaged to do joining work for her?.... the Gillans they were a
bad lot, that they were; but it wasn’t the place o’ the boy to think o’
that. She should not mind--but it was not easy to forget that low
in her heart there stirred a secret pain, a fear for one who had been
an old companion, and who was yielding now to other influence than
hers. For Alice had played with Nat when they were children, had
reproved him for errors and tempers even then; and, although actually
by a few weeks his junior, had not tried to restrain a mother’s love
for him. A woman loves the position of a guardian; and such anxiety
tends to tenderness.

‘Alice, I’ll go with thee,’ cried Annie suddenly, remembering at length
that she had not answered; ‘I’ll hear Mr Bender, an’ all he says, it
may be he’ll be able to tell me what to do. I know I’m not good, an’ I
haven’t been religious; an’ when I’m angry then I forget everything;
but we’ll go to-day an’ we’ll hear all he says--whatever happens
that’ll do no harm to us.’ And, moved by a common impulse, the two
girls rose and put their work away. They would go together, and learn
to be good; whatever happened that would do no harm to them.




CHAPTER XII

A CLASS MEETING


THE room in which Mr Bender had chosen to hold his Meeting, for the
benefit of some adherents who could not get to the town, was in a lane
in the village of Harmenton, on the brink of the eminence which looks
on Lindum hill. A most retired lane! which went down hill so steeply
that it lay upon different levels all the way, and was further
protected on one side by a wall, over which the branches of trees were
green against the sky. The turning from the road was opposite a red
building, so square, and with such rounded windows, that it seemed to
proclaim itself a chapel, only that, to guard against the possibility
of such delusion, ‘Village School’ was announced in large letters on
each side of the door. If you strolled down this lane on an August
afternoon, pleased with the retirement, the steepness, the quaintness
of the place, you were rewarded at last by the view from a lower road,
which looked over the Squire’s plantation to the valley and the
town--Lindum lay there before you, shrouded with foundry-smoke, with
its river flowing in the valley underneath it, and above the slope
of the city and the hill the great cathedral, distinct against the
sky. But the scholars of Mr Bender had no wish for idle strolling, they
had hastened at once to the room where the class was held.

That was a small room--so small, it must be owned, as seriously to
inconvenience the members of the class, who were, however, at that
moment more disposed to think of their benefits than of their trials.
When Annie and Alice entered, tired with an August walk, with the
yellow corn marigolds they had gathered in their hands, they found
already assembled a company of eight, including the mistress of the
house, and ‘Mr Bender of the town.’ The company sat on chairs against
the wall, Mr Bender at a little table in the centre of the room--Annie
was too nervous in this unwonted position to observe any more than
these simple facts at first. It was only when she had risen from her
knees--for she and Alice had knelt down side by side--that she became
aware of another experience, for every eye in the room was turned on
her. With the crimson of pride and shyness on her cheek, she sat down
on her wooden chair, and fixed her eyes on the ground.

‘Mr Bender,’ said Alice, rising, and going up to him, and holding out
her hand with simple grace, ‘I’m glad to be able to get to the class
to-day, and I’ve brought a friend with me as has not been before. She
doesn’t wish to speak, ’cause she’s not been used to it’ (the girls
had arranged this matter as they walked), ‘but she will be glad to
listen to the others, and to hear the words that you have to say to
them. And I hope Mrs Bender is better of her cold, I’m sorry she hasn’t
been able to be here.’

Mr Bender thanked her, and said his mother was better, looking at her
the while with considerable interest; and then his glance wandered past
her to the chair against the wall on which was seated the friend whom
she had introduced. He was but human, if he was a class-leader, and
that may account for the fact that he looked hard and long, and that it
seemed to need something of an effort for him to withdraw his glance
and speak again. He said then in formal terms that he was glad to
welcome the visitor, and that if she should, after all, feel disposed
to speak he was sure they would all listen with interest to her words.
With that, Alice returned to her seat by the side of Annie, and without
any further delay the class began.

It began with a hymn, which went somewhat drearily, each verse of it
being read before it was sung, an arrangement which has an invariable
tendency to check any fervour in singing. The hymn was succeeded by a
prayer, extempore; after which they all rose and took their seats
again; and after a little preliminary cough, Mr Bender, as leader,
addressed himself to speak.

He appeared to be taken with nervousness, a circumstance which
surprised the members, and was no doubt owing to the disconcerting
influence of the presence of a stranger. He was a young man, very thin
and pale, with reddish hair, and a somewhat scanty moustache, and that
indefinable _something_ in addition to his white tie which proclaimed
him at once to be a minister. For the rest, he appeared sincere enough,
perhaps a little young in all senses for a spiritual guide, but with
his inexperience redeemed by earnestness, and not marred by any
conscious pride. For a minute he worked his foot upon the ground; then
he overcame his reluctance, and spoke.

‘I’ve been thinking, my sisters,’ he said, ‘of a great day in my life,
a day when I was in Newark many years ago, when my heart was troubled
with thoughts and cares, and I hadn’t found peace, and did not know
what to do. It was just such a summer’s morn as this has been, and I
stood in the great market-square that’s paved with stones, and looked
at the lights and shadows on the stones, and the church-spire behind
the houses rising up into the sky. I was standing in front of an old
house in the corner, when I heard a Voice in my heart that spoke to me;
it called to me to put all my sins away, and to turn unto Him that has
power to save. I heard the Voice speaking as I stood there in Newark,
and my life found the peace it sought, and it abode with me.’

Ah! the Voice, the Voice in our hearts that comes to us from above,
that speaks in our ears and tells us what to do--what marvel if those
who struggle in the tumult should long for the guidance that can heal
and save--that Annie should raise her eyes in astonishment at the
thought of a help so simple and direct, so different from all the blind
and weary struggles that closed round her life like the gloom of mist
at night? Mr Bender could see the inquiring eyes she raised, the dark,
lovely eyes which seemed to plead for help; and a sense as of help
required pierced to his heart, with which perchance rose some other
feelings too, some feelings less manageable and more imperious than any
that he had ever known before. He was a preacher, and righteous and
sincere, but not with the strength of iron, or the hardness of a stone;
without unkindness it might be reasonably foretold that he would soon
be in love with some member of his class. He had been impressed by the
farmer’s daughter with her grave, simple grace, but at this moment he
did not think of her.

And--alas! that our emotions are wont to serve us ill--these very
feelings checked and controlled his words, so that with an unwonted
desire for oratory, he found himself compelled to stammer and then be
still. No matter! he might be able to draw words from this young
stranger, who had such speaking eyes--and for the present no doubt it
would be best that he should be silent and let other members speak. So,
after a moment’s pause to gain attention, he called on the member who
sat nearest to him on the right--and Annie heard, for the first time,
not without surprise, the formula in which such demands are made. A
maiden brought up in a cottage craves to be addressed as ‘Miss’; but no
such vanities ruled the councils here.

‘Jane Smithson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with
you.’

Jane Smithson began at once, and had a great deal to say, so much,
indeed, that all were soon tired of her, although she contrived to
introduce into her words as little information as might be about
herself. She spoke indeed both of trials, prayers, and praises, of the
necessity for repentance and for faith, but always in such a regular,
even tone as let no glimpse of her inner life be seen. She seemed to be
about thirty, and might have been a servant, was dressed neatly in
black, and wore an old, silk mantle; and round her face, which was
somewhat plump, though sallow, was a round black bonnet that was tied
beneath her chin. Before the end of her words, which were wearisome,
Annie had begun to thrill and flush with fear, for she was herself on
the right hand of the speaker, with Alice seated on the other side of
her. Oh! what should she do if she were herself addressed?.... and how
could these people talk _so_ of their religion? her passionate, silent
nature revolted from their words. As the endless voice drew to a close
at last, her heart choked her breath with terror; she drove her nails
into the palms of both her hands, and kept her eyes firmly bent
upon the ground. She would not look up, even if she were addressed, and
he would see that she did not mean to answer.

‘Alice Robson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with
you.’

The shock of relief, and perhaps of disappointment--relief and
disappointment can be so strangely mixed!--was considerably softened
for Annie by the wonder how Alice would ever be able to find courage
enough to speak. She need not have wondered, for in spite of her
reserve the farmer’s daughter could bear such an ordeal well. Alice
answered softly and very modestly, but yet in a manner that arrested
attention; for the absence of formality is a quality to be noticed in a
Class.

‘I’ve been troubled lately,’ said Alice, softly, quietly, with a slight
quiver in her voice, a faint colour in her cheek; ‘I’ve been thinking
of one as seems to be in danger, and feeling as if in some way I ought
to help. An’ then I’ve wondered if it was all selfishness in me, an’ if
I was really only feared to lose a friend; but I hope I’ll be taught to
feel as I ought to do, an’ as the one I fear for ’ll be kept from harm
an’ wrong.’

Mr Bender bent towards her to give her his advice (he had only said a
few words in answer to the first member’s speech), whilst the whole
class was stirred by some visible curiosity with regard to the
mysterious friend of whom she had spoken. ‘It’s Tim,’ thought Annie,
after rapid consideration, with which was mingled a thrill of
irresistible anger--of anger that the mention of one whom she had
learned to think her property could bring the colour to another woman’s
cheek. So hopelessly mistaken do we all become when we attempt to
penetrate another’s heart.

For Alice had bent her head, the words of advice being ended, with all
her mind full of fear and prayer for Nat, the passionate, wilful boy
who clung to her heart by the very reason of his passion and
wilfulness. ‘She isn’t a good girl--oh! she’s not,’ cried Alice; ‘she
likes every man as comes near to look at her; an’ he seems so excited
about it--an’ I can’t think it is good for him to come up to t’ Farm,
an’ work for her. Mr Bender says I’m to trust, but it is hard to go on
trusting when everything goes wrong.’ It was perhaps natural that she
should not question herself about the nature of the feeling that wrung
such fear from her. She kept her head bent and did her best to
‘trusten,’ though with some soreness of perplexity in her heart.

The other members had meanwhile had their say, and in speeches of
varying length had all attempted to communicate their spiritual
condition to Mr Bender’s ears. It must be owned that they were rather
less than more successful, unless indeed he had the discernment to read
between the lines--and such discernment was not especially apparent in
the words of advice which he addressed to them. The six who spoke
were of very different ages, from the stout mistress of the house to an
hysterical servant-girl; the other four being two sisters, dressmakers,
the young wife of a labourer, and a teacher in the village-school.
These related their feelings in conventional sentences, to which he
replied with words of exhortation; the regularity being only broken by
the trembling servant-girl, who thought herself reproved, broke down
all at once, and sobbed. When she had been consoled by Mr Bender, who
became somewhat agitated, the line of speakers was completed; for with
one exception, the stranger and visitor, each had taken her part, and
had no more to say. There followed a pause, and all began to wonder
whether it was not time for the Class to be closed.

‘It is not late,’ said Mr Bender, nervously, without daring this time
to raise his eyes from the ground; ‘we have a few minutes in which it
may be possible for us to listen to one more experience. Will our
sister, who is a stranger, consent to be persuaded to say a few words
about herself to us?’

Silence. Excitement. Annie sat resolutely upright, with her eyes as
resolutely downcast; her face burning, her heart throbbing, and her
lips compressed. Mr Bender glanced at her with visible disappointment;
he waited an instant, then he spoke to her again:

‘We Methodists have learned the comfort of joining together when
we wait on the Lord; we believe that we are often able to find
consolation and instruction from the lips of each other at such times
as these. Has our sister any difficulty on which she would ask our
advice, or any sorrow which she may ask us to share?’

Still silence. Greater excitement. The face of Annie was flaming, but
her lips continued to close upon each other. For one instant the
minister gazed upon her silently, then he rose from his chair, and gave
the number of the hymn. If, at that moment, she felt the impulse of
confession, it was then too late, and the time for speech was gone.

Ah! would it have been better if that troubled, silent nature could
have compelled itself to speak, to give words to the conflict that
raged within its heart, and seek for some help that might avail to
save? Would future misery have been averted, if that opportunity had
met with response? I cannot tell; I can only say, that to Annie, such
public confession would have been unnatural; her whole nature shrank
from laying bare to strangers the inmost recesses she veiled even from
herself. She had come to the Class with some vague hope of assistance,
but it was not in such ways that her trouble could find relief; to
speak of her anguish seemed impossible, and she could not speak without
speaking honestly. And yet, at that moment, she was troubled, thrilled,
excited, her heart had been touched, although her lips were silent! She
stood with the members, and from their united tones came the pathetic
cadence of a hymn--she heard the voices of her companions rise and fall,
if she had opened her own lips she would have broken down into tears.

  ‘When the weary, seeking rest, to Thy goodness flee,
   When the heavy-laden cast all their load on Thee,
   When the troubled, seeking peace, on Thy name shall call,
   When the sinner, seeking life, at Thy feet shall fall ...
   Hear then, in love, O Lord, the cry, from heaven, Thy dwelling-place
       on high.’

The voices ceased, the members knelt, prayed silently, rose again, the
Class meeting was over....

Scarce a word passed between the two girls, as, unaccompanied, they
found their way over the fields towards their homes, whilst slanting
sunlight fell on them, and on the meadows, and on corn-fields ripening
beneath the summer sun. At the gates of the yard they paused and kissed
each other, then silently separated, and Annie went on to her home; her
passionate thoughts still struggling beneath an impulse of duty which
had been unknown to her before.

‘I will be good,’ thought poor Annie, desperately; ‘I willent meet him
within the fields again; if he wants to have me he must come up to t’
house, and tell before mother all he has to say. I would ha’ told
mother about him long ago, but I didn’t like sin’ he allays begged me
not; it seemed so hard on him as is like a gentleman to be tied to
me who am but a village girl. But I will be honest; I’ll have no
double-dealing; I’ll give him up sooner than do wrong for him.’ As the
words trembled on her lips she turned the handle of the cottage door;
she entered and crossed the threshold of her home. And in an instant
she stood still, struck with dismay--her father was there, he had
returned once more.




CHAPTER XIII

THE RETURN OF THE FATHER AND THE LAST OF THE RANTAN


YES, there he sat, there could be no doubt about it--he sat in his
wooden chair upon one side of the hearth, a wan, blear-eyed, crouching,
shivering specimen, too visibly in a condition of tipsiness. Annie had
been used to her father in every stage of drink, and could see at once
at what phase he had arrived, a state of virtue and moral indignation,
ready to be maudlin at the first opportunity. At a little distance,
with pale, indignant looks, though not near each other, sat his wife
and son--Jenny upright, silent, her lips stern and compressed, a
strange expression for her timid face to wear. She did not draw close
to Nat, nor he to her, rather they preferred to remain obviously
apart--it was evident that if she was divided from her husband she was
also for some reason separated from her son. Indeed there had been a
painful scene that morning; as Annie, on her part, had good cause to
know, though the religious excitement that she had since experienced
had driven the scene of the morning from her mind. She stood by
the door now, uncertain what to do, her pulses quivering, and her
face aflame.

‘It’s a pretty thing, isn’t it?--er--er--?’ cried Rob to her,
addressing her as a stranger who had come into the house, ‘it’s a nice,
good thing I should come into my dwellin’, an’ be welcomed i’ this way
by my wife an’ son. There’s my wife she wo-ant kiss me for all I ask
her to--she’s too good for me, happen--’ and here for a while he
cried--‘or it’s like as she’s doin’ what she don’ want me to know, an’
is ashamed when an honest man comes ho-am.’

‘You needn’t go tellin’ your vile, wicked thoughts,’ cried Jenny,
absolutely excited into speech; ‘or think as there’s any one at’ll
believe ye, when ye set for to take away my character. Ye’ve been my
disgrace an’ shame sin’ we were wed; an’ t’ boy, he’ll be like ye, it
is like enough--if ye’d set about to train him and correct him, there
might a bin some chance for him, but now there’s none.’

‘There ye go!--ye’re on at my trainin’ an’ correctin’,’ burst out Nat,
his young face afire with rage and shame; ‘ye’d set my father upon me
if ye could--but I can’t have t’ strap now, I’m too old for that.’

And Rob faltered with tears that t’ boy had a fine spirit--he was _his_
boy, an’ was not t’ mother’s son.

‘Come an’ kiss me, Nat--come an’ kiss me,’ he whimpered, ‘t’ mother she
haven’t no heart for either on us--she’ll be tellin’ me as I am in
drink, it’s like; when I haven’t not touched a drop sin’ I was
here. But _ye_ will kiss me--an’ then ye’ll come wi’ me--an’ we’ll make
our fortunes, an’ get away fro’ here.’

‘Go an’ kiss your father, Nat,’ said Jenny, slowly and coldly--and the
boy got up from his chair, but then stood still, for even the sense of
his mother’s scorn was not sufficient to induce him to go near his
father. He stood still, trembling and troubled, without being able to
decide to which side to turn, to the wrath and righteousness in his
mother’s eyes, or the unalluring vice that asked for an embrace. His
hesitation had a voice more plain than words, and Rob’s sense of injury
found a new direction.

‘Do ye think as ye’ll go to disobey me, ye little d--d scoundrel?’
cried the father’s wrath; ‘I’ll teach ye, an’ leather ye, an’ shew yer
mother too as I’m goin’ to be master, whatever she may say. Ye dare to
come near me! I’ll know how to teach ye; ye give me t’ cha-ance, an’
I’ll make use on it.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ answered Nat, with resolution, and he did indeed take
one step towards his father; but in an instant, with a little cry of
terror, poor Jenny rushed forward and threw herself between. She was
not always ready to forgive her son, even when such forgiveness might
have brought him to her feet; but she was ready to be struck in his
stead at any moment, even whilst not forgiving him--that is a mother’s
love. Rob did raise his hand; but confused by a change of victims, he
let it drop, and fell once more into tears--he whimpered that it
was a strange thing for a man to come back, and not find that his
‘people were proud to meet wi’ him.’

Proud to meet with him!--the shivering, drunken wretch, crouching over
the fire in the home that he disgraced, the words might even have been
considered ludicrous, as if any family could by possibility be proud of
him! But in the midst of the silence into which his words had fallen,
whilst Jenny sat upright and rigid, still and pale, whilst Annie stood
quivering, trembling, by the door, and Nat, still angry, had almost
broken down into tears--whilst the members of the little family were
all miserable, convulsed, absorbed in the private woes in which the
outside world is lost--it was at that instant that there echoed in the
distance a clang which, to three of the four, was a too familiar sound.
The last night had come--the greatest night of all! and the village
Rantan was on its way again.

‘Good be with us! what’s that?’ cried Rob, who was so much startled,
that for the moment the shock almost sobered him; the more so as he saw
in the faces of his family an unmistakeable evidence that the noise
concerned himself. A sudden remembrance of the Rantan frolics, in which
he had joined himself when a younger, better man, a sudden horror of
shame and indignation rushed down upon him, and for a moment choked his
breath. He sat silent, panting, the excitement of drink in his
eyes, at that moment almost like the dark, handsome suitor who had
wooed pretty Jenny in her girlish days. And now the clamour had turned
into the lane, and they could hear the hooting and laughing of the
lads--Rob could hear his own name in shouts, groans, and hisses,
accompanied by such opprobrious titles as village wit could furnish. It
was too much; the small amount of reason he had left combined with his
drunkenness to urge him to resist; with a sudden, fierce movement, he
flung himself from his seat, and rushed to the door, which he banged
behind his back. The sound of the clamour was increased and yet
interrupted by the noise of the different tumult which now broke upon
its course--the noise of a scuffle, of blows, of hasty warfare, a
confusion of steps and voices .... then, a fall.

And in an instant, overcome by a sudden terror that would not allow
even her pride to keep her still, poor Jenny flung the door open as
wide as it would go, and stood before her adversaries on the threshold
of her house. She stood there, a slight figure in the summer evening
light, and the respect in which she was always held imposed a silence
that was deep and universal, and that fell on the motley crowd with a
sudden calm. They had another and graver cause for silence; a fear of
consequences was rising in their hearts, for there in the lane, a
prostrate, motionless figure, a young man lay with his head in pools of
blood.

‘Ye needn’t fear, missus,’ cried our old acquaintance Bill, recovering
first from the panic of the crowd; ‘there’s not so much harm done
as ye might go to think; these young uns are tough, and he’ll get
up again. It is Tim Nicol--poor Tim, as ye know well--he’d come down to
try an’ turn t’ lads away--an’ Rob he supposed he was doin’ harm, it’s
like, for he caught up a clatch o’ wood, an’ made at him. Ye’ll let him
be brought into your house for a bit; Rob has got off, an’ he’s not
like to come back.’

They lifted the prostrate figure gently, and carried it into Jenny
Salter’s home; whilst she stood there, silent, pallid, unresisting, as
one who has been too much stunned with grief to move. The whole Rantan
was in confusion in the lane, the grotesque banners were lowered, the
clanging pans were silenced, the lads were gathered in terror-stricken
groups, appalled at the consequences of their fun. No one noticed that
from the back-door of the cottage an unseen figure had fled into the
fields--it was Annie, with wrath and terror in her heart, escaping from
this fresh misery in her life. Alas! the poor child--and alas! for such
poor children who find their incentives to evil within the shelter of
their homes.

The Rantan was scattered, dispersed to right and left, its members
escaped almost in silence through the streets; there was no bonfire, no
concluding ceremony, there had never been a Rantan come to such an end
before. Yet it may be that after all it had accomplished more than
previous Rantans had done, for issues and sequences are not to be
calculated by the careless hands that set such trains on fire. As the
corn ripened slowly to its harvest-time, the echoes of that summer
evening may have been working still.




CHAPTER XIV

IN SUMMER DAYS


THE August sunshine of a brilliant afternoon was shining upon the yard
of the Manor Farm when Mr James Gillan came out from the house, and
mounted the horse that the yard-boy held for him. It was an auspicious
afternoon for his expedition, the first splendid weather that had been
for many days.

For it had been a cold summer, and the harvest was very late, the
shimmering green of the barley having only just begun to turn pale
beneath the sun; though the wheat, more forward, more ready for the
reapers, was beginning to ripen to gold beneath its rays. A sober
summer! with but little unclouded splendour, with fields softly tinted
beneath a fleecy sky; or with shadowy foregrounds and deep blue
distances, between which the bright light fell upon the corn--a summer
of lights and shades, and of varying circumstances, amidst which the
harvest got ready as it could. They talked even in the lane near the
Thackbusk of the danger to the crops, though from the Thackbusk gate
there was no corn-land to be seen, only willows and marshy fields along
which at eventide the sinking sunshine lay in rays of level light.
That little lane, where was Jenny’s cottage home, was very quiet and
free from disturbance now; the grey cottages stood on one side, and the
white upon the other, and on one of the grey walls some pink rosebuds
were blooming. No one would have supposed, at sight of its sober look,
that the clang of the Rantan had ever echoed there.

And yet ...

People afterwards said when they talked of those summer days that Mrs
Salter had been very ‘still an’ skeared;’ and they certainly remarked
at the time that ‘she held her head so high there was no gettin’ near
to speak a word wi’ her.’ But the pre-occupation upon poor Jenny’s face
had seemed only natural after what had passed; and none thought that in
addition to her fears for her fugitive husband she might be anxious for
her boy and girl as well--_that_ was not thought of till other days had
gone, and the neighbours could speak of the ruin to which boy and girl
had come. For, although their wisdom came after the event, some threads
of doom were indeed being woven in the course of those summer days.

It was remembered afterwards, for instance, that there had been a
change in Annie, which was not such a change as might have been
expected; for she did not seem restless, disconsolate, or passionate,
as she might well have been after the event of the Rantan. She held her
head high, and looked more beautiful than before; her dark eyes were
full of a childish, glowing light; and she kept herself resolutely
apart from all her neighbours, as one who prefers to be quiet and dream
alone. To Alice, whom she met once, she whispered softly that she had
‘made up her mind, and would not be troubled now;’ and yet her
expression was not that of one who is at peace. Had she made up her
mind on the night of the Rantan, when she fled away from the misery of
her home; and were the hours of those golden summer days leading her to
an event that lay close before her now? No one knew, for she said no
word, even to her mother; but it was remembered afterwards that she had
been industrious and silent, and had bent continually over some pieces
of needlework, which she said she must finish ‘before autumn came.’ Now
and then, in the evening, she would be absent from her home, on her
return refusing obstinately to say where she had been; and once or
twice her mother found her on her bed, in convulsive, passionate
weeping which could not be accounted for. But she remained silent, as
it was her wont to be, and was busy and quiet, though there was the
strange light in her eyes; and no one who saw her pure, childish beauty
would have been easily ready to believe much evil of her. For Annie had
been educated to the ideals of her mother, which were higher than those
which most village mothers own; and although her disposition was wild
and passionate it seemed too lofty to incline easily to falls. And
yet--dare we say that any feet are safe from peril--we who are aware of
the countless snares of life?

One safeguard was lost to Annie, for Tim could not see her now; he had
been removed to the Farm, where he lay ill, watched over with
tenderness by Alice and her mother, but shut out from all other society
by the doctor’s law. He had been removed to the Farm before his
consciousness returned--otherwise he might possibly have preferred the
cottage in the Thackbusk lane--and perhaps in his heart he felt some
slight impatience at the restraint which kept him in his room. But Mrs
Robson was kind, and her daughter very helpful, and it would have been
ungrateful to show discontent to them. He liked to think that Annie
must be anxious, and that when he was stronger he would visit her
again; Alice did not tell him that Annie Salter made no inquiries, nor
even Nat, though he was often at the Farm. In her heart she blamed both
the brother and the sister for their silence, but she imagined that
some feeling of shame made them conceal the interest they felt. For it
was known that their father’s hand had struck the blow--there was not a
man in the village who was not aware of the fact. And Nat seemed
altered; he had an uneasy, hungry look, as if for some reason all was
not well with him.

So matters were going on that August afternoon when Mr James Gillan
mounted his horse in the Manor yard, whilst the pigeons sunned
themselves upon the roofs. A well-dressed, slender-figured,
well-appointed gentleman, he aroused the admiration of the boy who held
his horse; even though he appeared to be in a state of abstraction from
which he could not rouse himself to any expression of gratitude in the
shape of thanks or fee. Was it possible that in the mind of this
easy-tempered gentleman were some perplexities that he knew not how to
solve, that some woven threads that he could not disentangle were
beginning unpleasantly to cling about his life? His delicate eyebrows
were knitted, almost frowning, above the languid eyelids that drooped
upon his eyes; and he did not raise his head to where, from a passage
window, his sister stood watching his departure from the yard. He
passed the red School-house with its white lilies, and, taking the turn
to Lindum, rode on to the town.




CHAPTER XV

MR JAMES GILLAN MEETS HIS UNCLE


THE white sun was sinking lower in the west, above the valley at the
foot of Lindum hill, when Mr Lee rose from his chair in his private
apartment to welcome the nephew who was shown into his room. It was the
first time, in the course of their mutual lives, that the nephew had
set foot in his uncle’s house.

An abode of wealth! and yet there were few signs of riches in the
scantily furnished, bare, and matted room, beneath whose windows, in
grey, shining haze, lay the extensive prospect of the valley beneath
the town. A hard room, full of unornamental book-cases, with one small
table, severely erect and square, and on that a heavy desk, a solid
inkstand, some piles of papers, a pen-wiper, and a purse. The eyes of
the nephew wandered to these things before he accepted the hand held
out to him; and it was not until he was seated, and his mind was more
composed, that he ventured to raise his glance to his uncle’s face. It
was not often that he was agitated, but then this interview meant so
much to him!

Mr Lee, on his part, had found no difficulty in surveying his visitor
with a steady gaze; though even for him there was a little agitation,
displayed in the colour that mounted in his face. Perhaps the sight of
his sister’s son affected him, the sister towards whom he had been
unforgiving, and who was dead; or perhaps he almost repented the
relenting that had induced him to send to his nephew and demand an
interview. His original refusal to see his young relations for a while
had been so firm, had been so uncompromising! and yet for once he had
actually changed his mind, not only before winter, but even before
autumn came. Some feeling of curiosity may have prompted him, or some
remonstrance of the Squire who was his friend, or the fact that during
the last month he had been ill, and that he was a lonely man, and that
his wealth had no heir. Whatever the cause, his change of action was
now a fact, for here before him was the young man, his sister’s son.

At such moments the first glance counts for a good deal; indeed, the
impression it leaves is of almost unfair importance, for it is often
difficult afterwards for our sober, solid, reason to counteract its
influence. Mr Lee saw before him a young man, tall and slender, with a
delicate face into which a nervous colour stole; with drooping eyelids,
and thin, fine, hair, a delicate complexion, and nervous, parted lips.
A graceful figure, a face not without charm, an attire refined and
carefully arranged; the most hostile adversaries, speaking honestly,
could not have been bold enough to deny these advantages. They might
have denied that the gentle-featured face gave the smallest indication
of steadfast principles, but then we are not accustomed to look
for unwavering resolution in the countenance of a young man of
three-and-twenty years. And it is certain that in the course of
a wandering life Mr James Gillan had gained an appearance of
good-breeding; the son of a wandering actor, he had yet acquired
refinement, and had the look and the words of a gentleman. This
appearance, moreover, was intensified by the attractiveness of a
gentle, pleasing face; and a quiet manner, which was a positive relief
to the uncle who had seen his sister’s books and songs. And yet the old
man, a keen and shrewd observer, was not altogether satisfied, in spite
of his relief.

A contrast himself!--Mr Lee was not refined or pleasing, but his grey
eyes were clear and bright beneath his brows, and every line of his
harsh, rugged face was graved with a decision that almost rose to
power. A passionate face, but with passion well-subdued, a face
untender, proud, and illiterate, not softened by love, not refined by
education, not enlarged by wide views, and general sympathy. The son of
a grocer, a dealer in provisions, then a general merchant of large and
wide success, he had pursued an honoured and industrious career, and
had retired from business a respected, wealthy man. The unfortunate
circumstances attending his early marriage had debarred him from
the most softening influences of life; though, with the want of
refinement that characterised his words, he had made into his favourite
joke that long-past tale. That was the man! he could keep a promise
honourably, indeed with a scrupulous honour that rose to chivalry; but
no delicate tact, such as sensitive natures own, would hinder him from
boasting of a promise he had kept. Not parsimonious, but not at all
luxurious, he had not the least love for society and its ways, and his
establishment at the top of Lindum Hill was conducted with the utmost
simplicity, though not penuriously. In the house with him were only his
favourite attendant--a dark-faced, under-sized, active boy--an old
woman who was his housekeeper and cook, and her husband, who had been
his coachman many years. The cathedral bells chimed at a little
distance from the house; beneath it lay the valley in endless lights
and shades; and Mr Lee, though but little impressed by sight or sound,
made himself comfortable, and was content. Only sometimes the
remembrance of his conduct to his sister affected him with a slight
sensation of remorse; and he had been lately ill, and still was feeble,
and he was solitary, and his riches had no heir. These various reasons,
acting on each other, had produced the change in his purpose which we
have seen--he had written to his nephew to ask for an interview, and
now was receiving him at his own request. No such very great change
after all, but Mr Lee was always accustomed to cling to all purposes
with tenacity.

If in the mind of the young man close to him, who sat with his eyelids
down-cast, waiting humbly for him to speak, there was being waged a
conflict, more uncertain, more terrible, the uncle at any rate saw no
signs of it. For the contest between our love and our ambition lies low
in our heart, out of reach of human eyes; and the supreme moments in
which the fight is hottest pass on without observation from the world.
James Gillan gave only one sudden, stifled gasp, as if he had found
that there was no air in the room; and then, with his head inclined and
his fingers loosely clasped, sat waiting to hear what his companion had
to say. For--‘So you have come here, sir,’ said Mr Lee, ‘that’s as it
should be, since I have to speak with ye.’




CHAPTER XVI

AN OMINOUS CONFLICT AND A FINAL RESOLVE


‘I HAVE come, sir,’ James Gillan said, raising his eyes modestly, ‘in
consequence of the letter from yourself which I received to-day. If I
had not received it you may be sure that I should not have ventured to
intrude upon you.’

He made the statement quietly, and with apparent self-possession,
although he knew that a conflict was raging in his heart, from the
remembrance of another plan, and of very different hopes, which had
nearly reached their fulfilment by the time the letter came. ‘_Oh,
would it have been better_,’ this was the cry of the conflict, ‘_if I
had made up my mind to that, and had not come here at all?_’

‘Oh, ah, ye speak well, sir, ye express yourself very well,’--the uncle
was only half-pleased with his readiness--‘ye’ll have been educated, I
make no doubt of it, and are able to have opinions for yourself. When
my poor sister would go off with a stranger it was never my thought
that she went to luxury, but ye and the girl seem to have been brought
up easy-like, and to have had your share of the pleasures o’ the world.
I hope as ye’ve had some real instruction too, to which ye can turn
your heads and hands to-day.’

‘My sister, and myself,’ said James Gillan, quietly, ‘have had a
wandering life, and an unsettled education, from which we have gathered
such knowledge as we could. My father was a man of talent, I may say of
many talents, but he did not meet with steady professional success; and
I know that he regretted his inability to give us as much instruction
as he wished. I think I may say, for my sister and myself, that we
would like a less unsettled and securer life; but it is not yet a year
since the death of both our parents, and we have not had time to find
employment for ourselves. If you, being a relation, could give us any
assistance, you may be certain at least of our gratitude.’ He spoke
with the smile that disarms hostility giving pleasant lines to his
lips, though it scarcely touched his eyes--the rarely lifted eyes
which, being blue in colour, had more distinct beauty than any other
feature in his face. Mr Lee was not insensible to the charm of glance
and smile, but he was also aware that he did not know their meaning
yet.

‘Oh, ah, industrious!’ he said, not without sarcasm, with the raillery,
rough if not rude, that was peculiar to him; ‘you would make me into an
office or a registry, to find you places that you may go an’ work.
That’s very fine; I’m glad of that sort o’ spirit, it isn’t too common
in these idle days. But tell me, nephy, an’ speak for my niece as well,
is that all that ye think ye may expect from me?’

Before his keen glance the young man’s eyelids fell; but that
discomfiture was only momentary, and with renewed assurance he raised
his eyes again. A fine tact, a tact that is not common in the world,
can make even an essentially timid nature brave at times, for it is
able to be aware of the fitting moment when secret purposes may be
helped by honesty. If James Gillan were open-hearted his countenance
belied him, but at this moment his words were direct enough.

‘I think, sir,’ he said, with a little hesitation, but not more than
was natural in so young a man, ‘I think .... if you ask me .... that I
must reply that if we cannot expect we yet might hope for more.’ And
then, feeling rather than seeing his uncle’s gaze upon him, he went on
with resolution, although his colour rose; ‘We have no parents .... I
believe you have no children .... there are many ways in which you
might do well by us.’ The sense of his daring almost stopped his
breath--on the issue of those few words he had staked his future.

Mr Lee was staggered; he rose up from his seat; he walked with firm
paces straight across the room; he stood by the window as if he were
looking at the valley on which already the evening radiance fell. In
spite of himself his nephew’s words had pleased him, the challenge he
had flung had been accepted courageously; whatever might be this young
man’s faults and failings, it was obvious that he was not without
qualities. And then, the readiness, the refinement of his visitor, were
beginning at length to impress him favourably; if he had been partly
repelled by them during the first few minutes, he felt the reaction in
their favour now. It needed the remembrance of all he had seen and
heard during his visit to the Manor Farm in the absence of his
relations, to recall to him the caution which, although it was habitual
to him, he felt for once almost disposed to drop. For he was a lonely
man .... he did not know how to spend his money .... and if these young
relations would submit to him ....

With a decided movement--but then his movements were always decided--he
turned away from the window, and the evening glow on the valley: and
with a few strides crossed the room, and stood by the table near which
his nephew sat. He stood with his hands resting on it, a favourite
attitude, looking down on the young man, his harsh features furrowed
and rugged with an agitation, which rendered it difficult for him to
speak at once. There was no sign of emotion, however, in his hard, dry
voice, when at length he spoke.

‘Nephy Gillan,’ he said, ‘I’ll deal direct by ye, as ye, on your part,
have dealt direct by me; I’ve got some money--I’ve got a deal o’
money--an’ I’d as lieve waste it on ye as on charities. But then, ye
see, I don’t know ye well eno’, and I’m not quite satisfied with
all I’ve heard on ye--I don’t want to give money, as ye’ll well
understand, for a girl to flurret, an’ a boy to gamble with.’

It was a home-thrust, and the young man’s head bent again, although
less in surprise than in perplexity; for it was not easy to decide in
the first instant in what manner these accusations should be met. He
was not aware of the extent of his uncle’s information, and it might be
dangerous to attempt denials; and, moreover, the past scrapes of
himself and Tina were subjects on which he did not wish questions to be
asked. It appeared safer, therefore, to assume humility--the humility
that disarms opposition and in that way defends itself.

‘I think I told you,’ he said after a pause--a pause not long enough to
give suspicion time to wake--‘that we have had a wandering life and an
unsettled education; and I don’t doubt that to you that sounds like
idleness. But it is our wish to find work for ourselves--assisted, if
you will, by your generosity; and I am sure I may say that if you will
consent to help us you will not find that you have any reason to
complain.’ There was a slight sound of hesitation in his voice; but, in
spite of that, he got through the words well enough.

‘Ye are meaning to tell me,’ Mr Lee looked at him fixedly, ‘that, if I
were to take ye into my house to-day, ye wouldn’t waste money, an’ your
sister wouldn’t flurret, an’ ye’d give up your old acquaintances, an’
be all as I could wish.’ A sudden, sharp pang pierced to the young
man’s heart; for a moment it contracted his features, then he looked up
and smiled. That smile meant assent, and he knew it meant assent; in
that moment, for the sake of his ambition, he renounced his love.

‘Hum--hum--’ said the old man, and sat down, and got up again, and
stood by the window, and then walked about the room; and then, pausing
once more by the side of the table, remained with his head bent,
absorbed in thought. His companion was aware that on the issue of those
moments depended the lives of his sister and himself, but he sat
quietly waiting the event, and only clenched the nails of his hands
into the palms. Five minutes passed--ten--in that strained, breathless
silence, and then Mr Lee sat down once more and spoke.

‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I’ve been glad to hear all ye say, an’ to have
this opportunity of knowing more o’ ye; we’ll have occasion to talk on
these things again, an’ I’ll happen be able to make up my mind next
time. I’ve got many calls, ye see, on me just now, but I’ll pay for the
board and lodgin’ as before; an’ ye an’ your sister must come to me
some day, so as we may be learnin’ to know more of each other. I’ve an
engagement, so I’ll wish ye good-day; but if ye stay for refreshment
I’ll have some sent to ye. Good-bye to ye now, an’ many thanks for thy
visit; we’ll learn to be acquainted soon, I doubt--good-bye.’

‘The old snake,’ muttered James Gillan, in a fury, by the window
to which he strode as his uncle left the room; ‘he thinks himself
clever, no doubt, to put me off, and to bind me with promises whilst he
himself is free. At any rate, I need make no alteration now; I
certainly will not give up my plans and hopes for _him_--a fine thing
indeed it would be to lose the girl I love for the sake of an old
rapscallion who gives words instead of coin!.... And yet if I lost his
favour .... but that is not inevitable .... we will keep things dark
for a while and bide our time; she ought really to consent to a little
secrecy when I have shown myself willing to do so much for her .... And
I shall have her, I shall at least be sure of that; and it may be that
all things will turn out for the best.’ The sound of the opening door
disturbed his meditations; he declined all refreshment, ordered his
horse, and rode away.

That night, a dark night, when all was indistinct, and even the stars
were not brilliant in the sky, and the outlines of trees made dim and
gloomy masses, and the village had closed its blinds and locked its
doors--on that night, whilst the wide meadows lay beneath the stars,
two shadowy figures met in the Thackbusk field. And as they stood
there, with their arms round each other, they whispered to each other
that all was arranged at last.




CHAPTER XVII

A PLEASANT EVENING


ON that same evening, whilst darkness lay on the fields, and in the dim
Thackbusk meadow the two wandering figures met, there were bright fires
and lights and a pleasant sense of welcome within the closed shutters
of the Manor Farm. The grate in the old kitchen was aglow with flames,
there was a bronze lamp on the table, and the candles on the piano were
lit; and by the piano, in her black lace evening dress, sat Tina, and
at intervals she played and sang. Her weird, sweet voice lent itself to
this fitful music, which rose and fell like the moaning of the wind.
For a while she had been silent, and so had also her companion; and
then, suddenly, she broke once more into song.

  ‘O where are you going with your love-locks flowing,
   On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’
  ‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,
   We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’

‘What is that?’ asked Nat, startled by the sudden cessation from
the dreams and reveries into which he had been plunged. He was sitting
by the fire, with a sheet of cardboard on his knee, and some paper on
which he was tracing patterns for her needle-work. Tina did not answer
at once; she let her fingers wander idly amongst the chords of the
music, which she was playing from memory.

‘How do you like it?’ she asked with a quick movement of her head,
‘though I need not ask, for I know it is not your style. The words are
by Christina Rossetti, I found them in a book of poems; and a friend of
mine made them into a song for me.’

‘I don’t like it much, miss,’ Nat answered truthfully, for his candour
was not shackled by the restraints of society. He added, expressing the
musical sentiment of his class, ‘I like summat that’s lively, when the
day’s woork be done.’

‘_This_ is lively,’ cried Tina, with perversity, and struck a few
chords on the piano, weird and full; and then jerked her head back to
see if he were listening, before she flung herself into the passion of
her song. Her voice was not of unlimited strength, but in the old
kitchen it sounded powerful.

  ‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,
   Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’
  ‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’
  ‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body, which waits the eternal term.’

  ‘Turn again, O my sweetest,--turn again, false and fleetest:
   This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell’s own track.’
  ‘Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting:
   This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’

The dramatic force which appeared inherent in her gave indescribable
expression to the song; she sang the words with a wild, strange
enjoyment, as if she were rejoicing over some ruin she had caused. For
the moment even Nat found himself to be excited to such a sensation of
dread as he had never before experienced; but the little adventuress
had only yielded to a passing impulse; in another instant she threw
back her head and laughed.

‘And how do your patterns get on?’ she asked, coming closer to him, and
bending over him so that her fingers touched his shoulder; ‘I am sure
it is good of you to come evening after evening that I may teach you
this stupid work which I cannot bear to do myself. Oh, my brother
leaves me to be lonely every evening; if it were not for you I should
go mad or die.’

She threw herself into a chair on the other side of the hearth, and
with a tired movement clasped her hands above her head, an action which
displayed the curves of her pretty arms, whose beauty did not require
any ornament. Nat stole a glance at her, and then bent his head that he
might go on industriously with his work--he liked to indulge himself
with these fitful glances, and then feel the hot blood mounting in
his face. A lad of seventeen, brought up with austerity, without much
love for the amusements of his kind, and yet swayed by all the varying,
confused emotions which accompany the perilous age when manhood
dawns--it was scarcely possible that he should not be excited by
evenings spent in such strange companionship. Where was the harm? he
had told his mother that he was working for Miss Gillan, and she had
not refused her permission or in any way hindered him--he was only
confused because Miss Gillan was herself so strange, not like a lady,
not like a village-girl, so that the natural awe which he would have
experienced in her presence was mingled with a sensation of
familiarity. He did not ask himself, as an older man might have done,
for what reason she chose to unbend so much to him; he did not think of
inquiring into the future to learn the result of such companionship. At
the moment the wine of life is at our lips our future head-aches do not
concern us much.

And yet, of late, as one half-waked from a dream, poor Nat had been
possessed with an uneasy, haunted feeling, which scarcely, even now,
amounted to compunction, but which still could render him dissatisfied.
He was not indeed able to gauge the skill of the questions by which
Tina drew from him the information she required; but it had now become
often possible for him to wish that he had not said so much to her. For
he had told her about his home and his mother, his sister’s beauty
and the lovers it had won; about the Squire too, and his friendship
with Mr Lee, and the correspondence Mr Lee maintained with him. It was
on this last subject that Miss Gillan was chiefly interested; and Nat
had some facility for giving her information, for of late he had been
much employed by the Squire, and had continually brought him letters
from the town. The questions of Miss Gillan were so simple, and
appeared so natural, that for a long time the lad had replied to them
carelessly; and it had not occurred to him that, as a servant, he had
no right, even in small matters, to betray his master. That doubt,
however, having once become aroused, would not allow him to be at peace
again; for his mother had trained him to be fastidiously upright, and
his present conduct was at variance with his training. He could tell
himself indeed that he had done no harm, had revealed no secret that
was worthy of the name; but still he was vexed, uneasy, unsatisfied,
and at night tossed restlessly, wakeful and feverish. And now, this
very evening, he had made fresh promises .... but then he would never
make promises again....

He sat by the hearth, with his head bent over the patterns, the easy
work which was all she required from him, in the spacious kitchen,
warm, lighted, brilliant, which had not the dulness, the sadness of his
home. For to-night he would be happy, he would enjoy himself, in
Miss Tina’s room, and in her company; he would bask in his love of
dreams and reveries, in the sense of expanding faculties and powers.
For he was growing older; he was himself aware of it; in the past few
weeks he had known new experiences.

‘Ah! ah! it is late,’ cried Tina, as she sprang from her seat with the
lightness of movement that belonged to her. ‘Your mother will be angry;
you must excuse yourself; you must say that I gave you a great deal of
work to do. And you will remember what you must do to-morrow, you must
just look in here as you come from the town .... I must have a sight of
my sweet uncle’s hand-writing; for, although I am his niece, I have not
often seen it. I won’t ever again ask you to do such a thing for me; I
don’t want you to get into a scrape, you know .... only just this once
.... because I have set my heart upon it .... because it is an occasion
that will never come again. He is writing to the Squire on business,
but he will speak of my brother’s visit, and I shall know by the look
of the envelope the mood in which he wrote. Oh, Nat, you cannot tell
what all this is to me; it is more than a foolish fear, it is my
_life._’

The ready tears sprang to her dark, shining eyes, which she veiled with
one hand whilst she held out the other. He had never seen her in such a
mood before, and the sight of her trouble touched him unspeakably. And
then, as she took the hand which he scarcely dared to raise, she
whispered that he was her friend, her _only_ friend. The words lingered
like music in his ears as he went out from the Farm into the dark
village-streets.


The lights of the Farm were still before his eyes when he paused for an
instant on the threshold of his home, listening for the voices of Annie
and his mother, hoping that he would not be obliged to speak to them.
With the remembrance of a pleasant evening, of Tina’s murmured words,
he paused for an instant, then turned the handle, and went in. And then
.... he stood still as his sister had done once, but with a more
startled dismay, a deeper dread.

The cottage was silent, a solitary candle was burning; his mother sat
by it with her head upon her hands, a scrap of writing before her on
the table, her features pallid, her eyes fixed, scared, and dry. The
scrap of writing gave sufficient information; his sister was gone, she
had left the cottage that night--whilst he had been occupied with his
enjoyment she had escaped in the darkness from her home.




CHAPTER XVIII

A TERRIBLE NIGHT


YES--she was gone--there could be no doubt about it--there was no room
for hope, no chance of some mistake--the scrap of paper, with its
single word ‘Good-bye,’ contained enough information to insure a
terrible certainty. She had gone to her room that evening to lie down,
as she said, whilst her mother was occupied with needlework in her own,
and had stolen away so softly, silently, that her mother had not heard
her footsteps on the stairs. To whom she was gone--if indeed it was to
some person she had fled--in what direction, with what object, remained
unknown; some hours must have passed after her flight had taken place
before her mother discovered the paper she had left. Jenny kept on
repeating in a pitiful, helpless tone that she had sewed downstairs for
hour after hour, until she became ‘skeared’ that Annie did not appear,
and went to her room, and found that she was gone. It was pitiful to
see the condition of the mother, crushed and bewildered, without
strength enough left for any other feeling than that Annie, her Annie,
had really left her home. To Nat it was all a sudden, dreadful
nightmare, the one candle in the cottage, the stillness of the night,
the single word that his sister’s hand had left, the white face of his
mother, and the overwhelming sense of shame. It could not be borne; he
left his home and his mother, and with some muttered words about making
inquiries, went out into the darkness.

That was not a night to be forgotten by mother or by son, the short
summer night spent in this new suffering; by Jenny sitting helplessly
in her chair, whilst the dying candle before her sunk and flickered; by
Nat in wanderings as hopeless and as helpless, and in vain enquiries
which revealed to others their disgrace. He questioned such passers-by
as could be found in the streets at midnight; he roused the inhabitants
of one or two cottages; he ran through the night to the two nearest
village-stations, and found his way by the river to the stations in the
town. The hours of the night seemed short, and yet seemed crowded, too
quickly over, and yet long to endlessness; its shifting scenes, and the
faces of those he questioned, remained with him afterwards as
bewildered dreams. By the grey morning-light that broke above the
river, he found his way back again to his home at last, in some
desperate hope that when he turned the handle of the door he would find
that his sister also had returned. He entered to find everything as he
had left it, the candle burnt out, the cottage dim and silent; his
mother in her chair, pale, sleepless, motionless, and the bit of paper
on the table in front of her. He was worn out; it was all too hard to
bear; he sat down and cried.

By that morning light, breaking over fields and hedges, the men and
boys of the village were starting for their work, whilst gardens and
meadows were drenched with early dew, and tiny pink clouds were bright
above the Fens. Already, as a rumour, the latest piece of news was
passing from mouth to mouth as they paused to join each other; and as
the white light grew clearer in the east, it began to spread amongst
the village homes as well. One thing was clear, so the village-mothers
said, it was not for good that the girl had gone like that; and those
who had accused Mrs Salter and her children of pride were now at last
certain that they would have their punishment. For there is some
consolation attending every sorrow--to those at least who are not the
sufferers.




CHAPTER XIX

NAT AND THE SQUIRE


THE village news, spreading fast, as has been said, was not long in
reaching the mansion of the Squire, the grey house that was situated
upon the hill, with trees around it and the church to the left of it.
It came to this great house of the village with the milk, which was
brought in the early morning by a little village boy, was discussed
over breakfast in the servants’ hall, and was introduced into the study
of the master with the newspaper. The Squire was interested, and even
to a certain extent affected, although the details of village life did
not often concern him much, for he was a recluse, with literary tastes,
who preferred to seclude himself from the outside world. His servants
were not only interested but also much excited, stirred to pity and
even in some degree to triumph, for they had been jealous of their
master’s handsome favourite, whose sister had become so unhappily
distinguished now. The housekeeper declared that there must be
something wrong with the family, and that for her part ‘she had never
no opinion of the _lad._’

Still human pity is produced by impulses that are happily often
independent of our opinions, and when Nat appeared at eleven o’clock as
usual, pale, with swollen eyelids, trying hard to hold up his head, he
found himself received with a general compassion, which would not even
disturb him by too many questions on the event. The housekeeper,
indeed, took him apart into her room to ask if he had heard of his
sister, and to express pity for his mother, but no one would have
imagined from her manner how unfavourably she had spoken of him a
little while before. Mrs Cranby was an old institution in the Squire’s
household, a handsome old woman, with a manner of simple dignity, with
a little red shawl on the shoulders of her gown, and with lilac ribbons
in a most ample cap. It might have been well for the boy if he had
accepted this opportunity of shewing gratitude for her kindness and of
making friends with her, but he was sick and sore with shame and pride
that morning, and only longed to be allowed to get to his work. He
replied to her sympathy with a few, almost sulky words, and then went
at once to the library of the Squire. For the last fortnight he had
been accustomed to enter that room between eleven and twelve every
morning; and on this occasion he found his master there, as usual, and
alone.

Long afterwards, when many things had become clear, Nat learned to
understand that the morning which succeeded his sister’s flight was a
turning-point also for himself; but at the time his mind was entirely
occupied with her, and could not consider other possibilities. There
were such possibilities in greater measure than he knew; for on one
side he had bound himself by a promise which was ill-considered, if not
treacherous; and on the other the pity which had been awakened in his
master was likely to lead to beneficial consequences. In order that we
may understand his position more clearly it is necessary for us to know
something of the Squire.

Mr Arundel-Mallory, more commonly known as Mr Mallory, and in Warton
almost invariably mentioned as the Squire, was at that time a tall,
though not upright gentleman of fifty, with hair that was perfectly
white, though his eyebrows remained dark. His white hair perhaps made
him appear older than he was, but he preserved the appearance of a
remarkably handsome man, with great refinement of manner and of
carriage, with quiet movements and a singularly gentle smile. His eyes
had the abstraction of a dreamer, but his lips were mobile, and their
expression could on occasions appear both hard and keen; they had
subtle lines, and the lines of his face were subtle, with more wrinkles
about them than might have been expected. In his youth Mr Mallory had
been spoken of as _wild_, and had spent more money in Paris than could
be accounted for; but after his marriage with a descendant of the
French nobility he had come home to England to settle on his estate.
Two heavy sorrows awaited him; his beautiful, young wife died in
the year after their marriage; and that grief was succeeded by the loss
of his son when he was thirteen years old. After this last trouble, Mr
Mallory, who had long given up society, secluded himself with more
determination than before; and devoted his time to literature, and the
collection of old pictures, rarely rousing himself otherwise except to
do some kindness to any one who could claim a connection with his wife
or son. He was a man who was regarded with interest, but yet who was
not loved; who was imposed upon by many, and feared and hated by a few;
a man too clear-sighted to be altogether gentle, but too abstracted and
indifferent to be clear-sighted every day. The Squire was a gentle
landlord, as all the parish knew; but his resentment, when roused,
could not be appeased again.

This was the master before whom Nat stood on the morning which
succeeded the night of his sister’s disappearance; and who, as he
entered, turned on him an anxious glance, which revealed more sympathy
than he might have been expected to show. It had long been a matter of
remark in Warton and its neighbourhood that the Squire had an especial
favour for Jenny Salter’s son.

‘Ah! so you have come,’ said Mr Arundel-Mallory, gently; ‘I am glad to
see you, for I have some errands for you to-day. You look tired; sit
down. Whilst I write out your commissions you will be able to rest.’

Nat sat down, soothed in spite of himself by a kindness more delicate
in expression than that of the housekeeper had been. With some
nervousness, for he had much natural diffidence, he drew out a carved
chair from the table and sat down upon it, having placed his cap on the
floor. Into this luxurious library, this room with its books and busts,
and appliances for study, he had been admitted sometimes in earlier
years that he might play with the Squire’s little son. No doubt to this
circumstance he owed his present employment, but in spite of that it
did not enter into the mind of the lad to suppose that this past
intimacy gave him any particular claim upon the Squire. And possibly Mr
Mallory appreciated this reticence, not often a quality of those who
accepted help from him.

‘I have had you in the garden every day for the last fortnight,’ the
Squire observed, whilst he wrote leisurely. ‘I hope you will be able to
come even after the harvest has begun; you can apply for more wages at
that time, if you like.’

‘My mother says I’ve enough, sir,’ muttered Nat, in reply to this
suggestion; ‘she told me I wasn’t to ask you for no more.’ And as the
Squire raised his eyes in some surprise, his glance fell on the swollen
eyelids and pale cheeks of the boy.

‘Ah, yes .... I know .... your mother .... an honest woman ....’ he
murmured over his writing, for he had bent his head again; and then,
when he had finished and laid aside his pen, he added a few more words
with a gentle utterance.

‘You are in trouble to-day?’

The kind words and the kind glance were more than could be borne,
though Nat tried to hold up his head, as if he didn’t care. In vain!
his face became red, and his eyes filled with tears.

‘Yes, sir, we are.’

‘Would you rather not be sent into the town? Is there anything else you
wish to do? Tell me.’

‘I can’t do no good, sir; I’d as lieve be there as here.’

‘You do not wish then to be near your mother?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Have you had any news yet .... of your sister?’

‘No.’

The boy pronounced the syllables with his usual resolution, and with
the reserve that also belonged to him; these qualities were more
obvious than usual to the Squire. ‘A proud family--a proud family,’ he
said within himself; ‘but at least it is not a family that begs for
help.’ And with this thought there rose again in his heart the
partiality he had long felt for the lad, and the clinging remembrance
of the attachment of his little son for the little companion who had
sometimes played with him. ‘I will make up my mind,’ he said to
himself inwardly; ‘the boy is an honest lad, and I will do what I can
for him.’

‘I wish you to go to the gardener,’ he said aloud, ‘and tell him that I
shall require you all the day. By the time you have spoken to him, I
shall have finished the letter which you must take to Mr Lee. I wish
you to leave it, and to wait for an answer, and then to call for my
other letters, and come straight back to me. You will have to wait in
the town for the last delivery--there are some letters that I must have
to-night.’

The boy left the room, and the Squire sat down and wrote. It was a long
epistle, addressed to his old friend, Mr Lee.

‘.... No, I cannot give you advice with regard to your niece and
nephew,’ (with these words he concluded after he had spoken of many
things), ‘and so I will not ask for your help in a similar perplexity,
which has been engaging my attention of late. The boy of whom I spoke
to you seems to me worthy of assistance, and I cannot forget that Willy
cared for him. For the next few weeks and months I intend to watch him
narrowly, and if he proves himself deserving, I will provide for him.’

With these words--that is to say with an assurance of which he was
unconscious although it concerned himself--with the loss of his sister
weighing on his mind, and his promise to Tina haunting him once more,
Nat found his way through the brilliant August sunlight, which
flashed on the river, and shone on the golden corn; and with quick
footsteps, although with a mind perturbed, left river and corn-fields,
and reached the town at length. ‘If he proved himself deserving,’--it
was his hour of probation. Who will dare to say of himself that he is
strong enough for trial?




CHAPTER XX

A BETRAYAL AND A FALL


THE slanting light made the corn-fields into a radiance when Nat
returned in the evening from the town. With the slow step of one who
lingers and hesitates he went along the path which led from the station
to the village. If any one had been close enough to observe his
features a look of conflict would have been apparent on them--in fact
the whole day had been a battle-field for a contest which was not
decided even now. He did not know yet if he intended to turn towards
the village, or to the path which led to the mansion of the Squire.

How shall we unravel from its entanglement the confusion of thoughts
out of which a purpose grows? It is impossible for us to know all Nat
felt that day; we may even add that he himself did not know. But in
order that we may be able to understand him in some measure we must
make an effort to look down into the feelings of a boy.

Nat had told himself then, as he walked along to the town, that his
mother was ‘sore grieved now that Nan was gone;’ that his mother had
‘allays made so much o’ Nan.’ ‘She wouldn’t ’a cared if it had
been _me_;’ murmured the sore feeling of an old jealousy; ‘she allays
thought Annie a sight more good nor me.’ And then he told himself that
his sister ‘needn’t talk; _he_ wouldn’t ’a disgraced himself as she had
done.’ It was hateful to think ‘how all t’ folk ’ud speak; they’ll make
us the gossip o’ t’ village now.’ And still beneath these thoughts
stirred the remembrance that he had not decided what he should do with
the letters of the Squire.

Oh, there was no need for him to think about them; he would make up his
mind as he walked back from the town. He would think of his
sister--about the village people--‘them as Rantanned father, an’ is
allays hard on us.’ He felt chafed, reckless, stung with the shame of
that which had been sorrow the night before, ready to assure himself
that it did not matter what he did, that even his mother did not care
for him. These feelings may have been natural, we will not say they
were not; but it is not in such feelings that virtue finds support.

So he came to Lindum, to the house of Mr Lee, and duly delivered the
letter from the Squire; and was told that the master of the house was
absent, and would not return until late in the afternoon. After this he
performed some commissions at various shops, and had his mid-day meal
at the coffee-palace in the High Street. On an ordinary occasion he
would have enjoyed the fun of it all, and would especially have
considered the meal a luxury, but to-day he could eat but little,
and only just took up the newspaper--although a boy feels himself a man
when he takes up a newspaper! When he paid for his dinner sixpence was
returned to him which he carefully put into his pocket for the Squire.
In this action also there was nothing unusual, but this time he felt
himself to be proud of his honesty. He had a few more commissions to
do, after which he wandered in the streets, and at last found his way
once more to the house of Mr Lee. Tina had not been mistaken--after he
had waited there for some while at the door the housekeeper put into
his hands a letter for the Squire.

Nat felt his heart thump as he received it, and felt his face grow red,
as if he had been suddenly detected in a theft, whilst his fingers
closed hastily upon the envelope with the sensation that they were
being burned. Wild thoughts passed through him as if he must get rid of
it, must give it back to the servant to be sent on by the post; but he
had not the courage or the skill to act upon them, and with the letter
in his pocket went out into the streets. And then, for the first time,
it rushed openly through his mind that he _must_ keep his word to Miss
Gillan even if he were disgraced for it.

With that feeling throbbing as if it were a pulse, and walking at his
utmost speed, he speedily left the streets, and found himself once more
by the edge of the river, in the radiant evening. Since he had
left Mr Lee he had not stopped to think; he felt pursued, breathless,
without even a wish to rest. But now, from very fatigue, he stood still
by the river. And, as he paused, he remembered that the Squire had been
kind to him.

Oh, Mr Mallory would never forgive him, never, if he were to find out
that he had been disobeyed, or if he were once to discover that his
messenger had been talking to other people about his private letters.
He was so terrible when he was offended, Mr Mallory was. And he was
himself the Squire’s favourite, all the servants said he was. What was
Miss Gillan to him, or what was he to Miss Gillan? He was not called
upon to disobey the Squire for her.

He walked on again. He felt calm, happy, his mind was at rest. And
then, all at once, a reaction seized him once more.

Oh, oh, what a fool he was--the reaction seized him suddenly--to make
such a fuss about a little thing, a small thing, a trifle, that no one
would care about. Why, if Mr Mallory were to hear that he had been to
the Manor Farm, there wouldn’t be anything so very bad in that .... he
would never know .... that Nat had gone there to show his letter.....
The last thought had a sting from which there was no escape, for Nat
had been taught by his mother to be fastidiously honourable. Only, if
she did see his letter what was the harm in that? it was only the
outside of it that she _wished_ to see--it was only an idea, a fancy
that she had, she would not do anything to bring him into disgrace.
‘She _likes_ me,’ thought Nat, and the blood rushed to his face; ‘and I
like her too .... and I must do this for her.’ .... So up and down,
literally up and down he paced, and the beating of his heart went up
and down with him. And then, suddenly, with a quick, decided movement,
he left off reflecting, and walked onwards steadily.

There are few things more strange, if we come to think of it, than the
peace which possesses us when we have decided to do wrong; it is to be
accounted for, I suppose, by the cessation of conflict which appears to
be a benefit at whatever cost it is obtained. Nat was a lad, and
disturbed about a trifle, or at least by that which may appear such to
us, but in those moments he experienced the calmness which has been
felt by wrong-doers more guilty than himself. It was only when at
length he drew near the village that he began to waver again, as we
have seen, and to ask himself whether he would pursue the lower road,
or would take the turn that led to the grey house of the Squire. He
drew closer, closer; he saw in the golden evening the dark trees on the
hill, the red chapel on his left .... he reached the turn .... for one
instant he stood still. For one instant; and then, with steady
footsteps he pursued his way through the lower village-street.

Down the street he went in the radiant, summer evening .... he could
not think .... his heart could scarcely be stirred even by terror lest
he should meet his master. No! the street was still, there were even no
village-people; he reached the next turn, and began to mount the hill;
he passed the old stones, and the grey tower of the church; he stood at
length by the yard-door of the Farm. The yard-door was open, but the
yard was deserted, the pigeons fluttered, the black dog wagged its
tail; he went to the back-door, and opened it, and went in. Down the
passage he went to the door of Tina’s sitting-room, and before he had
knocked she opened it herself.

And in an instant, with a clutch upon his hand that made her little
fingers seem hard as steel, she had drawn him, or almost dragged him
into the room, and had closed the door upon them that they might be
alone. In another instant she had forestalled his unwilling movement,
and had taken the letter from the pocket of his coat. And then, with a
fluttering laugh, and her finger on her lip, she ran to the further
door and left the room.


If the fault of Nat deserved speedy retribution it must be owned that
his punishment did not fail; his feelings were not to be envied during
those long minutes which he spent alone. He could not imagine what had
become of Tina, or what cause had induced her to leave the room at
once; a feverish dread was on him that this whole business might
turn out more serious than he had imagined it to be. As the minutes
passed this fever became almost like insanity, and he felt every moment
in more danger of a detection which would destroy for ever all hope he
had in life. He longed to pursue Tina, and yet he dared not do so; he
fell down at length, almost crying, upon a chair. But even as he found
himself giving way in this unexpected manner, the further door opened,
and Tina entered the room again.


She was pale, her eyes appeared to look into the distance, she did not
seem like herself. Without saying a word, she held out the letter. Her
eyes watched him as she did so. He seized it eagerly, without daring to
look at it, and put it back into his pocket without a word. Then she
seemed relieved, and said a few playful words, giving back to him a
seal which she had once borrowed from him, and telling him that he must
be a good boy and not get into a scrape, and that he must make haste
with the letter to the Squire. And then, still holding his hand, she
pressed it softly, and with a gentle movement pushed him from the room.
Nat felt the soft touch still as, in confusion and bewilderment, he did
not delay to hasten from the house. Even now it was possible for him
to escape detection, and to deliver the letter safely into the keeping
of the Squire. If that could be done he might yet be free from
danger--that is to say, if the ‘downhill path’ will allow of ‘turning
back.’


He was gone; the door of the house was closed behind him; and Tina was
left alone in the ‘old kitchen,’ with her hands tightly clasped, and
her face listening and intent. Some strange excitement was upon her,
that was evident, it seemed like the excitement of fear. As soon as it
was certain that her companion had left the house, she let herself fall
down on a seat, and hid her face in her hands.

Oh! what had she gained by this foolish risk she had encountered, the
most foolish and needless of the many risks of her life--what had she
gained and what might she not have lost if her action should come to
the knowledge of the Squire? She had been so insanely bent on the
perusal of his letter in order that she might find out the mind of Mr
Lee, so certain that her uncle was concocting some plan with her
brother, the knowledge of which she was not to be allowed to share. For
her brother had left the house in the early morning, only leaving a
note to let her know that he was gone; and her suspicions, always ready
where he was concerned, had at once connected his departure with his
visit to Mr Lee. Her mere idle wish to see the outside of the letter
(which had included some indefinite desire as well) had thus been
turned into a craving that she could not control, and that she was
determined to gratify at any risk. And yet when the moment came
she might have been terrified, if only .... only .... it had not been
all so quickly done.

For, oh! it was easy! The letter was badly fastened, and sealed as an
afterthought with a little round of wax; it had not been difficult to
take off the seal and to renew it when the letter was replaced. She had
been excited ... it was that which frightened her, which made her
uncertain of all that she had done, but she was quite sure that she had
fastened the letter carefully and had impressed the wax with the plain
seal Nat had lent to her. If that should be recognised; but it could
not be recognised; and in any case she had returned the seal to him,
not without some conscious impression, as she did so, that his danger
would now be greater than her own. Bah! there was no danger, there
could not be any danger; she had not wished to do any harm to him.

If only the letter had been worth the trouble! for it could not be said
to be of worth in any sense--one single cold reference to the visit of
her brother contained all the information that it gave. And yet she
must really be feeling like a criminal because she had dared to look
into its contents--and Tina leant on the table flushed, throbbing
cheeks, and dark eyes whose brilliancy had gained fresh sparkles now.
She would go to her room and see that all was safe, for absolutely she
did not feel secure! And so, with a murmur of singing, for excitement
made her sing, she left the old kitchen, and stole upstairs to her
room.

All was quiet there, it was just the time of sunset, and beyond the
window the Fens lay in crimson glow; the little table at which she had
read the letter was in the centre of the room, and piled with
fancy-work; the red sealing-wax had been carefully put away, the candle
extinguished and returned to the dressing-table. All this she saw at a
glance, with a sensation of relief; she advanced two steps .... then
suddenly stood still. A packet like the enclosure of a letter lay
before her on the ground.

In another instant, with a start and gasp of terror, Tina had sprung to
the door, and locked and bolted it, had snatched up the paper from the
ground on which it lay, and had thrown herself down upon her bed to
open it. In another moment its contents were revealed to her--it
contained a few words referring to a subscription, and a Bank of
England note. At the moment when she had opened and read the letter
this enclosure must have dropped unperceived to the ground.

Trembling, shaking with terror, and almost crying, Tina tried in vain
to discover what she could do, whilst the terrible bank note lay
between her fingers, an indisputable witness if it should be discovered
there. In that first instant she thought of rushing after Nat; but he
was already gone, he must have been gone some while; and even if he
were recalled it might not be possible to open the letter for the
second time. Yet there was the bank note--she walked up and down,
wringing her hands; she seized it between her fingers as if she could
have torn it into pieces. Her reckless action seemed already to have
consequences, and to ensure her a terrible punishment. As in fright and
despair she leant against the window, the glowing Fens appeared to be
stained with blood.

Ah, bah! what a fool she was, there was no need for despair. Or, at any
rate, she would not despair so soon. The Squire might not know, he
might never know what had happened, for the rest of the letter
contained no allusion to the note; or, if he did suspect that the
letter had been tampered with, his suspicion would naturally fall
entirely upon Nat. Poor Nat, it might happen that he would lose his
place, but then her friends in London would give him some assistance;
or if she herself became the heiress of her uncle, she would have
plenty of opportunities of giving help to him. He might betray
her--Tina’s eyes became hard and terrible--but then, if he did, he
would not be believed; and she would explain to him how necessary for
both their sakes it was that she should not be suspected of the deed.
And yet she trembled, as she had never trembled yet, and as she leant
against the window her eyes were wet with tears.

Tina wept; and at some distance the companion of her danger was
returning with an uneasy conscience to his home, all unconscious
as yet of this new peril, but still sore hearted as he had never been
before. He did not linger to look at the blood-red radiance, which lay
as a reflection of the sunset on the Fens, or to indulge in any
delicious expectations of spending the evening at the Manor Farm. With
the fear of detection heavy on his soul he sat down silently in a
corner of the cottage. If any discovery were to occur that night he
would wait for it in his home.

The blood-red radiance, that seemed like a dream of judgment, paled,
faded, and the evening twilight came; and then the moon rose behind a
dim, fleecy sky, with streaks of dark blue between the pallor of the
clouds. No servant came through that clear, sober light to summon the
unfaithful messenger to the presence of the Squire; and, although a few
footsteps passed down the Thackbusk lane, the cottage near the
Thackbusk was left unvisited. It was not until the depth of the night
had come that, according to the report of the morning, there arrived a
visitor.

Was it true? Oh, could it be true? The startling rumour fled faster
through the village than the first report had done, awakening the
excitement of an eager curiosity, and of a gossip that would be in no
haste to cease. For it was said that in the dead of that August night a
figure had been seen lying on the door-step of Jenny Salter’s home; and
that two labourers, returning from their work, had paused by its
side, and had then aroused the house. It was Annie Salter who lay there
in the darkness, forlorn, exhausted, too much worn out to move, her
hair loose, untended, and hanging upon her shoulders, and on one of the
fingers of her hand a wedding-ring. In this manner, after her
mysterious disappearance, the daughter of Jenny returned once more to
her home.




CHAPTER XXI

LYING ON THE DOOR-STEP


IF there were any truth in the oft-repeated assertion that Mrs Salter
was very ‘proud and high,’ and that the reason of her preference for
solitude lay rather in a sense of superiority than a love of
loneliness, the errors of poor Jenny, even in the opinion of her
enemies, must have been held to have received due punishment when that
fatal night arrived. Upon the door-step!--there, lying on the
door-step!--Annie Salter, who had been reckoned the beauty of the
place, Annie Salter, who had always held her head so high, and would
not have anything to say to any lad! The reputation of Jenny’s daughter
had fallen very low, so low that it lay in the dust where last night
her head had lain; the idlest gossip was busied about her name, the
most cruel judgment did not seem too hard for her. Oh! beautiful Annie,
the most beautiful of the village daughters, would your mother ever
raise her head with a mother’s pride again?

‘They say she’ve a wedding-ring, but I don’t think much to that,’
observed Mrs Smith, of the largest village-shop; ‘there’s a many
as goes to put wedding-rings on their fingers that they may appear
a bit more like honest folk.’ Mrs Smith had been established for some
years in the shop; she had a respectable husband and a baby-child--a
dark-eyed, eighteen-months’ child, too plump and heavy to walk, who
insisted upon crawling, to the danger of its clothes. When wretched
wayfarers lay on door-steps in the night-time it will be understood
that she did not feel akin to them--they were only of assistance in the
way of exciting tidings which she could impart to the ears of her
customers. This little excitement may be considered the advantage which
can be gained from wrong-doers by the virtuous.

But it was not only by virtuous shop-owners that the delinquencies of
poor Annie were discussed, they were turned into the favourite theme of
conversation by the lounging youths who were waiting for harvest-work,
and who meanwhile chose to lean against village-walls, and bask in the
blaze of the blue sky and August sun. There was one in particular who
had once been her admirer, and who now sneered perceptibly when he
spoke of her, a tall, not ill-looking lad of twenty years, whose face
had the shadow of dissipation or regret. I fear it is only in novels
and poems that discarded lovers are always generous--at any rate there
was no especial generosity in the words of the lads who were talking
beneath the August sky--they said ‘she would have to come down from her
high ladder, she wouldn’t find boys now as would speak to her.’
And then, having paused to take their pipes out of their mouths and
laugh, they returned to the enjoyment of their pipes again. The name of
Annie Salter had been turned into a by-word, that was certain at any
rate, there could be no doubt of it. And already it was beginning to be
considered desirable that further investigations into her conduct
should be made.

‘I thought as I’d like to call on Mrs Salter,’ said a blooming young
woman who was visiting the Manor Farm, and who lingered awhile in the
pleasant, ample kitchen to discuss village matters with Mr Robson’s
wife. ‘But I found her that high, and that silent in her manner, as I
don’t think there’s very much to be got from her.’ She gave a sigh
here, and a little shrug to her shoulders, and then took the seat that
Mrs Robson offered at once. Mrs Robson was really distressed, and in
anxiety, but she was willing to receive information all the same.

‘There’s Alice been crying,’ she said, as she sat down, and spread out
her hands upon her ample knees; ‘an’ I’m sure, though I say it as
should not be one to say it, she’s not one as often neglects her work
to cry. But you’ve been to Mrs Salter, as you say, Mrs Jones, an’ so
you’ll be able to give us a bit o’ news. Did you see Annie, tell us
now, did you see Annie, an’ what did her mother say about it all?’

Mrs Jones shook her head and gave a little sigh, and then shook her
head again before she addressed herself to speak--she had the
appearance of one who has been offended, so apparently poor Jenny
had not roused pity by her grief. Mrs Jones was a pretty young woman,
neat, dark-haired, and grey-eyed, with a fresh complexion, and a dimple
on her chin, but it is possible for these young, blooming wives to be
severe when they have received affronts. At any rate she began and
continued her tale with the manner of one who has sustained an injury.

‘I came to Mrs Salter,’ she said, ‘with the best intentions--_with the
best intentions_,’ she added, emphatically; ‘but there’s some people
as is that constituted as they can’t understand when one means to be
kind to ’em. Jenny opened t’ door--she was in her working-dress, an’ all
t’ cottage looked very neat an’ clean: she didn’t seem not a bit
inclined to ask me in, but I said as I’d come to see her, an’, if she
pleased, I’d take a seat. An’ I sat down there, an’ she sat down an’
sewed, an’ I spoke a bit o’ the weather an’ such like things; an’ then,
all at once, as if it had come to me, I said, “So, Mrs Salter, your
girl’s got back agen.” An’ she looked at me straight i’ the eyes before
she said a word. An’ she said, “Yes, she is; she got back here last
night.” An’ she said it that short, an’ that disagreeable like, as I
said, “Good-morning,” an’ got up straight an’ went. For I think there’s
no good i’ wasting pity o’ people as thinks ’emselves allays a deal too
good for one.’

‘Ah, Jenny’s a proud spirit,’ chimed in Mrs Robson, ‘an’ she’ll
come to grief wi’ it, as I’ve allays thort. An’ she’ve brought up her
lad an’ lass to cock their heads, as if they was better nor other boys
an’ girls. They’re too good-lookin’, I’ve allays said it of ’em, it’s
well if they doesn’t come to ruin wi’ it. An’ yet she’s an industrious
woman, Mrs Salter, an’ keeps her cottage as a queen couldn’t do, but if
she will give her chil’en all those notions, it isn’t a wonder if they
break her heart. Well, good-day, Mrs Jones, I suppose ye must be goin’;
they’re busy times for all on us, t’ mornin’ hours.’

So one spoke, another spoke, with nods and head-shakings, with
whispered comments and breathlessly uttered words, for a story of shame
and ruin has attraction for many who will not speak of shame and ruin
aloud. Poor, beautiful Annie, so proud and sensitive, at what strange
fate had your wayward life arrived, into whose unworthy hands had it
been committed, before it could sink into such forlornness, such
desperation as this? The gossipping village, although it asked these
questions, was not possessed of any means of answering them; it could
chatter of the figure that lay upon the door-step, but beyond that
door-step it had no right to pry. But we, who possess privileges that
the village could not gain, need listen no longer to its idle words; we
will cross the threshold of the cottage near the Thackbusk, and observe
the mother and daughter, alone there in loneliness.




CHAPTER XXII

IN THE HOME NEAR THE THACKBUSK


THE cottage near the Thackbusk was closed to visitors--Jenny said that
her daughter was ill, and must be quiet. The statement was supposed to
be intended as a protection against intruders, but at the same time
there may have been truth in it. For, from the moment when Annie had
been carried from the door-step, she had lain in her room upstairs, too
weak to move. Jenny went about quietly, and was upstairs or below, and
her light foot-fall was the only sound that could be heard.

Poor Jenny! If those who made free with her name could have kept their
eyes on her through those silent hours they would not have seen her
give way to lamentation, or leave off her employments to indulge
herself in grief. Working people have little leisure for idleness--not
even for the idleness that calls itself despair--and the habits of life
are not easily discarded, even in the midst of overwhelming bitterness.
Jenny went about quietly, and filled her pail with water, or prepared
Nat’s breakfast, or cleared the meal away, her blue working-apron above
her neat black dress, and a red handkerchief on her head to
protect it from the dust. A stranger, setting eyes for the first time
on Mrs Salter, would have been pleased with her quiet movements, her
slim, girlish form; he would have had keen eyes to have been able to
discover also the traces of a sorrow that was not a girlish grief. For
that only showed itself in a little more pallor than usual, a little
more compression of what was still a pretty mouth. Mrs Salter was not
likely to have the sorrow that makes outcries; but the grief that is
silent is the grief that kills.

Poor Jenny! If she was not quite forgiving she was yet very pitiful,
and her pride was little more than the outcome of her reserve; she had
shown no want of a mother’s tenderness, although she had scarcely
spoken to her child. Annie lay in her room upstairs, and was gently
watched and cared for; little dainties were set by the side of the bed
for her to eat; the beautiful hair that had hung loose on the door-step
was now plaited loosely, and gently brushed and smoothed. She lay on
her pillows, her eyes bright with fever, and one hand hanging languidly
on the counterpane; it was the left hand, on which shone the
wedding-ring. Now and then, as she lay, there would pass across her
features a convulsive spasm as of sudden pain or fear; but with the
determination that still belonged to her she would make an attempt to
check it, although such attempts almost always resulted in terrible
shudderings that shook the bed-clothes under which she lay. These
shudderings must have been evidence of some internal conflict; but, if
it were so, she would not express it in words. The little circle of
gold was her mother’s consolation; but it was a desperate consolation
to which even the mother dared not cling.

Ah! do they know much of the feeling of a mother who imagine that at
such a time it is composed of injured pride, of the dread of gossipping
voices and a tarnished name? Is not its worst grief the knowledge,
owned in silence, that the daughter, once close, is now distant, far
away; that some unfathomable gulf has intervened between the souls of
the mother and the child? Jenny had felt that gulf widening through the
summer months, when she knew that her son and daughter had secrets of
which they would not speak to her--and now, on one side at least, the
ruin had come, and her daughter lay silent on her bed, whilst the
village talked outside. Ah! what could she do, poor Jenny, the Jenny we
have known, the gentle, upright, the timid, shrinking soul, but fulfil
her house-duties with eyes too tired for tears, and surround her child
with proofs of a mother’s tenderness? The authority that can rouse and
awe the sinner is not for the affection that is strong in feebleness;
the clarion voice that pierces and subdues finds no note in the accents
of such a mother’s love. Yet Jenny had some strength in her calamity;
her child was not left untended, or her house-work undone. It may be
said that she should have trusted in religion, but then she had
not been educated to understand such trust--to do her day’s duty well
and carefully had, until now, made the chief part of the religion of
her life.

Yet something stirred in her like religious bitterness, as she stood in
the evening by the Thackbusk gate, with her eyes on the wide fields and
the mellow light, and the sore pain pressing its heavy weight on her
life. It is not always easy for those who have breadth of knowledge to
escape from the point of vision of an individual pain; and the
uneducated, with their narrower sympathies, see little clearly beyond
the limits of their lives. To poor Jenny life seemed a hard thing at
that moment, an irremediable, inexorable doom.

‘The Lord is hard on us working folk, He’s hard,’ a low voice was
murmuring within her heart; ‘He knows as we’ve nothing but work an’
trouble left, when He lets there be no comfort in t’ husband or t’
child. T’ rich folk can buy themselves a heap o’ pleasures; I’ve nought
but t’ lad an’ lass, an’ they bring grief to me.’

But the gentle nature had only risen for a moment; the echo of
rebellion died away immediately into a murmur of the pitiful patience
which from her childhood upwards had been the keynote of poor Jenny’s
life.

‘I’m stupid--I’ve allays been so,’--she whispered to herself. ‘T’ lad
an’ t’ girl would ha’ done well eno’ if they’d had another woman for a
mother instead o’ me.’

The pathetic words were just audible in the evening stillness, but
there was no one near enough to hear them. For one moment she stood
leaning on the gate, looking with sore eyes at the wide fields, the
evening light; and then, with a little sigh, she took up her burden of
vegetables, and turned away from the gate towards her home. For her
daughter might be wanting to have her evening meal; and oh! she must do
her best to take care of Annie now. The time might come when she would
resent the silence of her daughter, but as yet she could have no
feeling towards her but that of a mother’s tenderness--the tenderness
which still clings when all else has departed.




CHAPTER XXIII

ALICE AND TIM MAKE RESOLUTIONS


ALL else, however, had not departed yet from the wilful life that
seemed openly disgraced--for, although Annie had been found on the
door-step in the darkness, there were still true hearts beating with
anxiety for her. And of these the truest might have been found that
evening at supper together in the kitchen of the Farm--a special supper
in honour of the lodger, for Tim had been away, and had returned that
night.

He sat in the great kitchen, which at this time of the night was
shuttered, for always at nine o’clock the house was closed and barred.
The ceremony might have been omitted on that evening, for it was a
stifling, breathless night, and the closing of the shutters seemed to
shut in the heat. But Mr Robson was great on some ceremonies, he had
his own notions of forms and propriety.

No matter! the kitchen at any rate was bright enough, for the big lamp
was lighted, and the candles in the brass candlesticks; and an ample
meal was spread upon the kitchen table, prepared by the skilful hands
of the farmer’s wife. The farm-boy was there, and little Molly,
and Mr Robson, his wife, and Alice, as well as Tim--they did not always
have supper together, but Mrs Robson had said that they should ‘all
have a spread’ that night. She was possibly aware that they would have
a subject for conversation, for the best of women like to gossip now
and then; though her husband would have disclaimed that taste on his
own account, for he was accustomed to say that he did not like idle
talk.

He had the appearance of a fine old gentleman, Farmer Robson, as he sat
in his usual place with his broad back to the fireplace, his ordinary
position in winter as well as summer, for village backs can endure a
surprising amount of heat. The accident which had injured his limbs had
left him his faculties, and he was still shrewd on farming matters,
although, perhaps on account of the idleness permitted to an invalid,
there was a look of peaceful repose upon his face--a broad-featured
face to which age had been kind, since it was now crowned with the
beauty of snowy hair. A life of comparative indolence, without the
restlessness induced by education (which even in times of indolence
will not permit the mind to be still), is a fine, quiet reservoir for
the facts and maxims that can be stored easily through uneventful days.
Mr Robson had not been reckoned more wise than other men until the
accident which made him an invalid, but he was now considered to
be a village sage, whose sayings could be quoted as of authority. As
this reputation caused him to be visited it must be owned that it gave
occasion sometimes to ‘idle talk;’ but then these gossipping visitors
had the advantage of receiving the wisdom that they came to hear. In
fine, Mr Robson, in spite of his affliction, might be considered a
happy, peaceful man--an affectionate husband besides, and a most doting
father, who ascribed the virtues of his daughter entirely to himself.
Alice sat by his side now that she might wait on him, for this duty
belonged to her at every meal.

Mrs Robson, who sat at the other end of the table, with her daughter
opposite, and her husband on her left hand, was not pleased to see
Alice so pale and quiet that evening, as if she had not recovered from
the anxiety of the day. ‘If she’d ’a been downright fond of Annie
Salter I might ha’ understood it,’ the farmer’s wife reflected;
‘though, e’en then, she ought to ha’ more spirit than to appear to be
in mournin’ for a girl as has made hersel’ an open shame an’ sin. She’s
troubled perhaps about Nat, because she’s known him so long; but I
daresay the lad’s like his sister, no better nor he ought to be. I
never did like his bein’ up here every night; but Miss Gillan seems
done wi’ him, and that’s as well.’ In all which reflections, though
they were made without much pondering, the farmer’s wife was more
accurate than she knew.

On the other side of the table to the farmer sat Tim, Molly, and
the boy-about-the-place, who on that evening was allowed to stay to
supper, because he had been kept so late at work. The boy was small,
dull, light-haired, with an overweighted look, which was due perhaps to
the poverty of his home; and he did not even rouse himself to pay
attention to little Molly, although she would have been more than ready
to accept such interest. For little Molly, although unprovided with
novelettes to train her feelings, was always in love with someone at
the Farm; her affections had already been reached by Nat, Tim, and the
farm-boy besides Mr Gillan who was ‘a gentleman.’ Molly had been at
Board School, but she remained quite ignorant, without even a knowledge
of the laws of right and wrong, always ready for bribes and little
pilferings, such as stolen lumps of sugar, when Mrs Robson’s back was
turned. She sat on this occasion between Tim and the farm-boy, who were
neither of them disposed to look at her, although she made timid
offerings of salt and mustard, which were not received with much
apparent gratitude. Tim was pale, and inclined to be silent and
absorbed; he was glad that the farmer’s daughter seemed disposed to be
silent too.

Poor Tim! The shock of unexpected tidings that morning had occurred
just before he set out for the Farm, and was doubtless the reason that
he came back to its shelter without being visibly improved by his
holiday. He could not get rid of a ceaseless, foolish regret that
he had not been the man to find Annie the night before; ‘for then there
needn’t ha’ been no gossip over her, sin’ I’d never ’a breathed a word
to any soul.’ Alas! the gossip was only too well started now, although
he shrank from the thought of it as from the touch of fire; murmuring
always, ‘If I could ha’ found her; if I only could ha’ found
her--they’ll make her a byword now in all t’ place.’ With these inward
voices to hear, it is not to be wondered at that Tim sat silent, and
ate as little as he could; and that he appeared to be even more thin
than usual, although his wound had healed without leaving a second
scar. Of all the company he was the most absorbed, though Alice was
almost as down-cast as himself.

There was one other present who must not be omitted, the black dog who
had been brought up on the Farm; and who, as a recognised favourite,
wandered round the table, thrusting a cold nose into the hand of anyone
who would receive the gift. Peter was of the correct colours, black and
tan, with a curly coat, and also a bushy tail; but he had a peculiarity
which the farmer could not forgive--his ears, instead of drooping,
stood straight up on his head, and were capable, in moments of
excitement and agitation, of being laid back after the manner of a
horse. He wandered about, and distributed his favours, but to Alice he
attached himself more particularly, although she only bestowed on him
such absent notice as we give to the child who would fain disturb
our thoughts. For Alice was visibly lost in thought that evening, in
spite of the surprise and vexation of her mother. There was one at the
table who was not surprised or vexed--Tim felt more in sympathy with
the farmer’s daughter than he had ever been before.

Perhaps it may have been true that he had never observed her before,
for Alice was a maiden whom it was possible not to observe; and even
those who had been long acquainted with her were not always able to
describe her face--her charm consisting chiefly in the minuter details,
the quiet tones of her voice, or the order of her dress. To-night she
looked downcast, but that made her face more expressive, and Tim
observed it with a new interest. At any rate, they were not all
triumphant, there was one who was grieved and anxious like himself.

‘Why, ye’re not eatin’ much, Tim,’ said Mr Robson across the table;
‘have some of the cheese, it’s rare and good, I can tell ye. Ye’ve not
brought much appetite back wi’ ye to the Farm; have ye left it all wi’
t’ lasses of the town?’ Mr Robson considered a mild jest of this sort
to be a concession to the weakness of the young, and therefore not to
be included under the head of ‘idle talk.’ His wife, however, took up
the subject more seriously; she had perhaps her own reasons for
pursuing it.

‘I should be right down glad, Tim, to hear ye’d a lass,’ she said; ‘it
’ud help to settle ye an’ keep ye straight in life. For why don’t
ye think a bit about a sweetheart? there’s pretty lasses where’er ye
choose to go.’

‘Ah, there’s one pretty lass here,’ observed Mr Robson, solemnly, ‘as
won’t be so quick in counting sweethearts now--it’s a poor thing when a
young ’oman makes hersel’ into a talk, so as all t’ lads may have idle
words on her. There won’t be a steady one now as’ll own her for a
wife--an’ yet she’s well-lookin’ eno’--a poor tale that!’

‘I never did think her not so very pretty--’ Mrs Robson could not
restrain herself any longer--‘not no prettier nor many as doesn’t think
such a deal of ’emselves. But howso that be, it makes no differ now, no
honest lad’ll marry her, as my husband says.’

She would have added more, but she found herself restrained by the
sight of the excitement that was too visible in Tim, and which gave to
his face such a flushed and bright-eyed look as had never been known to
appear on it before. He tried to eat, and then he tried to drink; he
got up from his chair, and then sat down again, and then rose once
more, and stood before the mall. It was evident that he was struggling
with conflicting feelings; but one rose above the rest--and then he
spoke.

‘If it’s Annie Salter as ye be speakin’ on,’ he said, ‘ye be not so
quite so right, Mrs Robson, as ye think. I’d marry her to-morrow if
she’d give me t’ chance, an’ yet I reckon mysel’ an honest man. I won’t
believe none of all these tales an’ words--not until I hear ’em from
her own lips. God bless her! t’ prettiest lass in all t’ village, an’
t’ best; I won’t be the lad to be cryin’ shame on her!’

There followed--silence. The air seemed to vibrate, as if some
particles of excitement were lingering in it still. The pleasant
kitchen, which had such cheerful meals, had not been witness to such a
scene as this before.

‘Well, Tim,’ said Mrs Robson, ‘I won’t say nought to yer taste--like
goes to like, as they tell me--ye can choose best for yersel’. But, as
ye seem to ha’ done wi’ supper, I think we’d best retire.’ She got up
accordingly, and at once dismissed the farm-boy, and with a few sharp
words, sent off Molly to her work; and then, offering her husband his
crutches, though this was the business of her daughter, she assisted
him in his progress from the room. Her stateliness appeared greater
than the occasion warranted, but her lodger was not in the mood to
reflect upon it.

Tim was left in the room with Alice, who had taken out her knitting,
and had seated herself in her father’s chair upon the hearth, without
looking towards him, or attempting to say a word, but still obviously
with no inclination to depart. Through the silence in the room he felt
her sympathy, and he drew his chair up to the hearth, and sat by her.
The summer night stillness was on all the house--a low sound of singing
came from Miss Gillan’s room. The two young companions raised
their heads to hear; then they turned to each other, and their
glances met.

‘Oh, I’m so glad Nat does not come here,’ cried Alice, suddenly; ‘I
can’t bear these people--I hate for ’em to be here.’

Her sudden passion might have astonished her companion, if his own
thoughts had not entirely occupied him at the time; and if her words
had not chimed suddenly and strangely with the vague suspicion that was
weighing on his heart. He looked at her with an almost startled
expression, but his surprise was due to his own thought, and not to
hers.

‘Alice, tell me it all,’ he whispered, almost hoarsely. ‘I’m her friend
.... ye can trust me .... I will not tell on her.’ And then, as he saw
by her face that she had not understood him, he could contain himself
no longer, and poured out all the rest. For at that moment he was
overwhelmed, distracted, he knew not which way to turn, or what to do.

‘I’ve told her all I’ve said to ye, I did;’ he said, when he had
repeated what he had told once to Jenny’s daughter; ‘an’ she would have
it as she’d had nought to do wi’ him, though she didn’t deny as he
might ha’ thought on her .... I don’ know what to think on it, I don’t
.... It comes to me .... as he’s a gentleman .... as he may ha’
deceived her .... ha’ told her he would make her a lady, thinking no
such a thing .... She mightn’t ha’ known his ways; poor child, poor
child, she doesn’t know t’ world .... she’ll know it now .... An’
for me, I’m in a hunder minds, I don’t know what to do .... I’ve
thought as I’d go to him, but then he’s away, they say .... An’ she’s
ill, an’ has fever, an’ I’ve no right to ask her questions, for all as
I don’t mean nought but what’s good to her .... God forgive me, I might
feel even glad that she was shamed if it ’ud make her turn a thought
down to me at last.’

‘Turn a thought down to me’--the words were sufficiently pathetic from
the young man who had been proud and upright all his life--the hard
life that might have been easily excused if it had fallen from neglect
and ill-treatment into evil. And not less pathetic was the unwonted
stir of passion that would not allow him to sit down, but forced him to
pace about the room. Alice remained seated on the hearth, with her
knitting on her lap; but, as he moved about the room, she followed him
with her eyes. A woman is never so little inclined to reticence as when
a man confides to her friendship his trouble and his love--the sense of
security from misconstruction brings with it a feeling of freedom that
is almost dangerous. Alice remained silent--it was her nature to be
quiet--but the desire to comfort was rising in her heart.

So when Tim, tired of pacing, came to the hearth again, and sat down by
her side, she put out her hand, and, without looking at him, laid it on
his arm. It was but the softest movement, lightest touch, but the
slightest touch is electric when it conveys sympathy. For one moment
she waited, with her hand still on his arm; and then, without removing
it, she spoke.

‘Ye must go to her, Tim,’ said Alice, very gently, and yet with
decision in her gentleness; ‘ye must tell her as ye come to her as a
friend .... that ye will help her if ye can .... It may be as she’ll
confide in thee, she have known thee long. Wait only a bit while till
her fever is better, and then go to her, an’ speak.’ With another quiet
movement she removed her hand; and, taking up her strip of red
knitting, began to work again.

‘Ye’re a good girl, Alice,’ cried Tim, in gratitude--a gratitude all
the more intense because it had something in it of surprise--‘I never
imagined, it wasn’t in my thoughts, as ye’d be so kind to me .... and
to her. I see as ye love her, I didn’t know that before, I’d have
spoken to ye of her before now, if I had. An’ she’s worthy of love,
whate’er they say on her; we’ll not be the friends not to stand by her
now.’

‘Oh, but it’s not on Annie I’m thinking,’ cried Alice, suddenly; ‘ye
mustn’t think better on me nor I deserve .... I am sorry for her ....
indeed, indeed I am .... but she’s not been my friend, and I can’t
think most on her. It’s Nat .... he feels it so .... it’s so bad for
him ....’ and her eyes filled with tears. Tim sat still, and looked at
her with a sudden, great surprise--the discovery of an interest of
which he had not been aware before; for, indeed, it is even possible
that he may, unconsciously, have been led to the idea of another
preference. The farmer’s wife had taken so much interest in him--he
could not but be aware of the fact, although he had never asked himself
to what cause that interest was due.

‘Is it Nat as ye be thinkin’ on?’ he asked, still with surprise, and
even with a feeling of vexation which he could not have accounted
for--‘t’ lad’s well eno’; I’ve heard no harm on him, a well-lookin’ lad
as t’ Squire fancies to. I don’t think ye need make a trouble out of
him, a good working boy as there isn’t a better in t’ parish--but, if
ye think that a word might do him good, ye’ve been his friend long, an’
it’s not hard for ye to speak.’ He had echoed to her the advice she
gave to him, but at the moment they were not aware of it. For some
minutes they were both silent, whilst the sound of the distant music
rose and fell, its vibrations distinct through the stillness of the
summer night.

‘Oh, but it does make a differ, I know it does,’ cried Alice,
passionately, putting up her hands to her ears; ‘she talks to him, and
flatters him, an’ makes believe to care about him; there’s a change in
him that has come sin’ he knew her. If it’s true, as ye say, that t’
brother wanted Annie--there’s a pair on ’em then, an’ they’ve both on
em’ done harm. I wish as Mrs Salter’s children had never known ’em, or
as they’d never come to our house to work their harm from here.’
Her unwonted trouble sent a quiver through her frame, and the black dog
pressed against her, and looked at her with surprise; whilst Tim rose
to his feet, without knowing that he did so, with a confused instinct
of ending the scene or giving help. That might have been made into the
subject for a picture--the big, lighted kitchen, the table still spread
and covered, the two young companions in their attitudes of distress
and earnestness, and the black dog with quivering ears and listed eyes.
The distant echoes of Mrs Robson’s footsteps warned Tim that he must
not delay to speak at once.

‘Look ye, Alice,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I’ll tell the best I can. And
we’ll do our best, you an’ me. I don’t understand any part of this.
Maybe the Lord’ll make it all clear some day--I can’t say. But you an’
me, we’ve got to help ’em both, if we can, Mrs Salter’s boy an’ girl;
we’d do as much as that for t’ mother’s sake alone, t’ poor mother as
has had such a deal of trouble all her days. Let’s take hands on that,
Alice, and we’ll do our best .... and good-night.’

Their hands met for an instant, and then they separated, and, with as
few words to others as possible, went upstairs to their rooms--in each
heart alike a desire to give assistance that was as pure as human
frailty and self-interest would permit. If Tim’s brave defence were due
only to his love, if Alice’s sisterly anxiety were influenced by other
feelings too, it is at any rate certain that the friendship of
each was pure and steadfast, and likely to endure the strain that
trouble brings. For trouble was coming, the friends were not
deceived--the clouds which had always lowered over Jenny Salter’s quiet
home were threatening to overwhelm it at length in utter ruin. The
beginning of evil had seemed hard enough--but we are more impressed
with the danger of the future than of the present when we stand in
darkness before the storm has fallen.




CHAPTER XXIV

NAT IN DESPAIR


THE rest must follow--was already on its way, in as sure a course as
that of the golden autumn days--and already with speculations
concerning Jenny Salter’s daughter were mingled others with regard to
her son. For the lad was altered, that could not be denied--the
disgrace of his sister seemed to have wrought a change in him.

Indeed it would be difficult to express in sufficiently vivid words the
alteration that was observed in Nat--a change all the more apparent
from the strength and youth which continued persistently to belong to
him. His hair was still crisp, with a tendency to curl, his colour
still bright with heat and harvest-work; and beneath the broad straw
hat, convenient for harvest-time, his face was as handsome as it had
ever been. But he seemed careworn, was restless and abstracted, started
when he was called, preferred to work alone--to his features had come
that look of ceaseless trouble which does not often accompany the
trouble of the young. The disgrace of his sister might account for this
alteration, but there appeared to be much that was strange in it
all the same. Poor Nat! he could not have told, even if he had asked
himself, how much of his own trouble was caused by his sense of
the continual suspicion under which his sister lay--the abiding
home-grief, which was renewed every evening by the sight of her
obstinate silence and his mother’s dumb despair. It was that sense of
disgrace which aggravated the knowledge that he himself deserved
disgrace; the double weight was a load intensified, a burden that had
become unendurable. At night, when he awoke, he could hear himself
muttering; but in the day-time his pride supported him, and his misery
was dumb. For he had no friend to whom he could confide his trouble,
and the atmosphere of his home-life had not been one of confidences.

Yet there was danger! he had felt it from the moment when he knew that
the Squire was dissatisfied with the letter he had received from Mr
Lee, that he had laid it on one side as a matter in need of
explanation, and that he was determined to speak to Mr Lee on his
return. The letter _might_ have been opened, he could not be sure that
it had not been; and in any case investigations were dangerous--for he
was aware that the slightest suspicion on the part of his employer
would be sufficient to alter the conduct of the Squire. Meanwhile the
continued kindness with which Mr Mallory treated him supplied the burn
of a perpetual reproach; and there were moments when he could have
found it in his heart to throw himself at his master’s feet and confess
his fault. He could not--the fault belonged also to another, and he
could not betray another in the attempt to save himself.

So struggled his feelings during the course of harvest-work, whilst
blue sky shone down upon the golden fields, and gleaners with children
by their sides made up their bundles, and men and boys shouted above
last loads of corn. It was only when harvest was over, and the days
became short and grey, that he began to be torn with another pain. Miss
Gillan had never seen him since a too-well-remembered evening; she had
never again sent for him to the Farm. At first to poor Nat this seemed
only natural; but, as time went on and there came no sign from her, the
desire to see her became a craving pain.

Oh, he had made up his mind in the first rush of penitence that he
would never go to the Farm again, that if she asked for him he would
send a refusal, and that he would break resolutely from her influence.
And now there was no need for so much determination, for it was evident
that she did not care for him. And all his resolve became lost in the
craving; ‘If he could only see her and speak to her again!’

Through a warm, cloudy morning in September when the Fens were grey,
shadowy, and misty sunlight lay on the village streets, whilst far in
the eastern sky was an ominous tinge of red--through these signs of
approaching tempest Nat found his way once more to the Farm. He was
trying to justify himself by many reasons--the poor dog, crawling back
to his owner’s feet. Oh, he could not do without her, though he had
tried to do so; it would be enough if he could see her face again.

The back-door was open, and he could hear the sound of music--she was
in the old kitchen, and was playing dances there. Nat trembled to feel
how fast his heart was beating, so that he could scarcely pronounce the
words that asked if she were within. In another minute little Molly
brought back her message--Miss Gillan was obliged to him, but she would
not need him again. Nat did not answer, he felt that he could not
answer; without looking back he turned away at once.

He was engaged to do harvest-work, but he knew that labour was
impossible--he went out into the fields and wandered there for hours.
When he returned home in the evening, he found that a message had
preceded him--Mr James Robson had sent to ask Jenny why her son had not
appeared; and had added, moreover, that the lad was getting ‘strange
and idle,’ and that he wished the mother would ‘say a word’ to him.
Jenny did say a word, she even said many words, with the cold severity
that was her manner of greatest displeasure; and she ended by refusing
to let Nat have his tea, telling him that she could not afford to give
him meals for which he did not work. No doubt, it would have been
better if she had avoided that childish punishment, but the sore weight
of her own troubles lay upon her heart; and, moreover, it is not always
easy for a mother to be certain whether to treat a lad of seventeen
like a man or like a child. Nat found himself next morning too sick and
depressed to eat; but he would not make any complaint, and went
doggedly to his work--not relieved when he was told by his master
before the other boys and men that a ‘moocher’ deserved a thrashing,
and, if he were _his_ son, would get it too. Mr James Robson intended
to give a kindly warning, but a proud nature does not receive warnings
well; and although Nat set to work with stubborn earnestness, his
resolution only issued from pride and despair. He knew indeed that it
would not be difficult to regain his credit as long as he continued to
be the Squire’s favourite; but even that thought was a bitter
consolation, which could not comfort him in his temporary disgrace. If
he should ever fall from the favour of the Squire, he would not again
hold up his head amongst his companions.

Poor Nat! If any artist had passed by the harvest-field he must have
been struck by the sight of his youth and strength, of his well-formed
arms with shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and of the beauty of his
flushed, sunburnt face. But this picture, so ready for an artist’s
hand, was under conditions which might render it less desirable--though
the mental torments under which the lad was writhing had not been
able to work much outward ravage yet. For the first time Nat felt drawn
to forbidden pleasures, to anything that would still the raging thirst
of life--he longed to enter the lighted public-house, to sing and dance
there, and drink away his fear and shame. His old pride restrained him,
that pride of old respectability which is too often the only safe-guard
left. He would wait till he saw if the Squire had any suspicion; after
_that_ it would not matter what became of him.

And then, on an autumn evening, as he went by the wall of the Farm,
going down into the village after his work for the Squire, the little
door in the wall opened suddenly before he reached it, and Tina Gillan
came out, without seeing him. She was in black, except for a knot of
red ribbons in her hat; she walked with uncertain steps as if she were
quivering. In this strange, restless manner she went down the road;
and, at some distance, Nat cautiously followed her.

It was a grey evening, and there was a stormy wind. About the streets
lay straw fallen from the loads of corn; the dead leaves had been
whirled into drifts, or lay scattered upon the path; the rising ground
in the distance was dull with purple mist. A mournful time, as full of
suggestions of trouble as the restless, black figure that went down the
village street, that passed the old tree with its yellow, withering
leaves, and pushed open with difficulty the heavy church-yard
gate. Nat followed her--she went down the church-yard path, and turned
through the open door into the church, into the dim church where she at
length stood still, and in which his footstep at length became audible.
In another instant she had turned round, and then turned upon him, with
the wildest gestures, and with wild, flashing eyes.

‘Oh, have you come here to taunt me,’ cried Tina, ‘to repeat to me
again what my brother’s letter tells, to remind me how clever you have
all been in deceiving me, so that he has been able to disgrace and ruin
us both? It was a fine scheme you concocted with my brother--you and
your sister, the low, hateful, village hussy--but if it brings shame to
us I can assure you that at any rate it will bring no good to you. If I
had known more I need not have wished for the Squire’s letter, in order
to try and discover what my brother would not tell me! Mr Lee will not
forgive us, you need not think he will; you will not be able to squeeze
money out of him!’

She put out her hands as if she would have torn him; and, as she did
so, Nat seized her in his arms. He was so much excited that he did not
know what he did ... he poured out protestations .... he grasped her
arms with his hands. And, even at that instant, he became aware in his
turn of a footstep--Alice Robson was standing in the dim church by his
side.

A terrible moment! He felt blind and faint, he could not resist the
escape of Tina from his grasp; with a blind movement he put out his
hands, and leant on the font to keep himself on his feet. And as he
leant against it, in darkness and bewilderment, he heard the voice of
his old companion.

‘Oh what have you done, Nat, what will become of you? Mother came to
fetch her hymn-book, she has heard and seen everything.’

No answer. The lad slowly raised himself from the font, and stood with
his head bent, looking down upon the ground. For once, Alice was
excited, and could not restrain herself, although he had not so much as
looked at her. For, whatever the meaning of this intimacy might be, she
could not imagine that it would bring aught but ruin to him.

‘Oh, if she was good and would do you good,’ cried Alice, ‘I wouldn’t
say a word to you, I’d be glad as you was glad. It’s not so, it isn’t,
she’s bad, she flatters you, she tries to persuade you as she cares for
you. What’s this as she’s been telling you about a letter? you haven’t
been doing any wrong to the Squire for her?’

‘So you’ve been a-spyin’, Alice Robson,’ Nat screamed out in a
frenzy--the overmastering frenzy, which is the result of rage and
shame; ‘you do things as t’ dirt in t’ street ’ud be ashamed to own,
and then speak to me as if ye was t’ parson, an’ had t’ right to
preach. I’ll make ye t’ laughing-stock of all t’ lads, I will! I’ll
tell ’em as ye cared about me though I’ve never cared for ye! Ye’ve
gi’en me a lot o’ preaching as ye thort must win my heart, but I’ve
never had a grain o’ love for ye--did ye ever think I had?’

He flung out the words as men fling blows in darkness, intent upon
striking and hurting if they can; and, as if borne backwards by the
violence of his passion, the farmer’s daughter retreated, and leant
against a seat. For one instant her face was averted, and he could only
see that she trembled; but then, with no visible effort, she turned to
him again. Her voice sounded gentle, restrained, in the intense silence
of the church; it was evident that she had regained her self-control.

‘Nat,’ said Alice, gently, though with a slight quiver in her tone,
‘there was mother with me, she’s heard and seen everything. Ye had
better speak to her, ask her to be quiet; she might do ye harm with the
village and the Squire.’

It is impossible to say what there was in her tone and manner that made
these words have the sound of a farewell, but he understood them--he
knew that a sense of duty would not allow her to leave him without a
warning even then. She was turning away, but she changed her mind, and
stood still, leaning her hand upon the back of a seat; her voice was as
gentle in its utterance as that of a child, who wishes to confess a
fault. ‘I’m sorry I’ve given you trouble,’ those soft tones said to
him; and she went on to the great doors, reached them, and was gone.
Her footstep was only just audible on the stones, but it had the sound
of the departure of a friend.

And he--left alone in the darkening autumn evening, which was all the
more dark and still within the church--he flung himself over the backs
of the nearest seats, and lay there with his arms hanging down, and his
face towards the ground, a shadowy, strangely extended figure in the
gloom. He did not move, he was too miserable to move, he could not
rouse himself to either tears or prayers. Some tears gathered slowly at
length, so slowly that they could not fall--he dropped to his feet, and
stole out into the night.




CHAPTER XXV

TIM AND ANNIE


WHILST Nat lay alone in the dark church the lamp had been lighted for
the evening in his home, and in the room with yellow rafters Tim sat by
Annie’s side. It was the first time he had seen her since the summer
morning when he had gone to visit her with anxiety in his heart. That
anxiety had now become unspeakable pain and dread; but it was at least
some comfort to be by her side again.

And that comfort was all the greater because Annie was so gentle, so
much more gentle than he had expected her to be. Her old fierceness
appeared to have deserted her; she had the patience, the languor of an
invalid. Upon her shoulders her beautiful hair was resting--she excused
herself for its condition by saying that she had been too weak to
fasten it--and her wan, delicate cheek leant upon her hand as she sat
and looked into the fire. Tim had never seen her in such a mood before;
he sat down by her side, but he could not speak to her.

‘Mother’s gone out,’ said Annie, speaking softly, ‘I don’t know when
she’ll be back. But it won’t be long .... I’m not sorry. I wanted to
think. I can’t think while she is near.’ And then, as if afraid that he
would misunderstand her and be vexed, she raised her dark eyes almost
timidly, and looked at him. ‘It _is_ good of you to come and see me,
Tim,’ she said.

Tim felt his heart throb, and a lump rose in his throat; he did not say
a word, but he held out his hand to her. Her left hand was the nearest;
and, taking hold of it, his eyes caught sight of the gleam of her
wedding-ring. As he started, he knew that she had observed his glance.
Very gently she tried to draw away her hand, but he held it tightly,
though he did not look at her.

‘Annie--Annie?’ the words sounded like a cry; they were an appeal, a
question that he could not express otherwise. She did not attempt now
to release her hand, but she put up her other hand and veiled her eyes.

‘Do they talk much of me .... in the village?’ she whispered; and he
could see that slow tears were falling down her face. He could not
answer otherwise than by his silence; no words seemed gentle enough to
express what that silence meant.

‘They say I’m a bad girl .... they say I’ve shamed my mother .... I
know they say so, though mother will not tell me so .... They willent
forget as they found me o’ the door-step; I shall never have any credit
here again.’

‘Annie, tell me you’ve done no wrong,’ cried Tim, with a sudden effort,
which expressed itself first by a convulsive gulp; ‘I wouldn’t find
fault wi’ you, whatever you told to me; but I’ll believe you if you say
you’re not to blame.’ His words had the agony of a final effort--he
still kept her fingers within his own; but his eyes had become afraid
to look at her face. In the instant of silence that followed he was
afraid that he might burst out into some violence of tears.

Perhaps Annie perceived his emotion and wished to comfort him; at any
rate it appeared as if she had made up her mind. She pressed his hand
softly with the fingers that it held, and drew the fore-finger of her
right hand across her wedding-ring. It was a little action, but it
seemed significant; when she saw that he had observed her she raised
her dark eyes, and smiled. And then, after she had drawn away her
fingers from his clasp, she laid them softly within his hand again.
Reassured, though not knowing why he felt more at ease, he clasped them
firmly, and there was silence for a while.

‘Tim,’ whispered Annie at last, with her face turned away .... ‘I
should like to tell ye .... if I could, if I only could .... ye don’t
know, maybe .... there’s times when one must be silent .... that is, if
there’s any one as one loves better than onesel’ .... I didn’t think so
that night when I came back; I was angry; I was mad, I didn’t know what
I did. But I think so now, I can’t help thinking so .... He said
if I wouldn’t speak it would all come right at last; and I was angered,
and I went away from him .... But I won’t speak now; I’ll do that for
him at least .... I keep on waiting till it is as he said .... the
talk’s hard to bear, but I’ll bear that for him ....’

Again after a while, with her face still more turned away, so that the
burning glow was only just visible on her cheek .... ‘It’s not all ....
I can’t tell ye .... there’s a new trouble coming .... I was thinking
of it at the moment when ye came.’

With a renewed effort she turned round her face; he could see the dark,
tear-flooded eyes she bent on him. For a moment only; his own filled
fast with tears, and all became dim, so that he could not see her face.

‘I’m not a bad girl, Tim,’ Annie whispered, softly; ‘I’m not all
unworthy of your goodness to me .... I thought I wouldn’t be able to
speak to ye again; but I’m pleased to have seen ye this once, though
everything is altered now .... Tim, I don’t belong here, only for this
while of trouble .... but I’m glad I can wish ye good-bye before I go.’
She drew closer to him; he held her in his arms; for one instant their
faces touched, both of them wet with tears; then, as if that embrace
were some final leave-taking, he got up, mutely, and at once prepared
to depart. At the door-way he paused, and looked back on her; she stood
leaning against the mantel-piece, and smiled on him. That vision of her
pale face, and of the smile in her dark eyes, remained in his mind as
he went out into the night. But it was as the vision that accompanies
the wanderer when he knows that to its reality he will not return again.

Was that Annie’s thought as she sank back in her chair with a weary
sigh as soon as she was left alone, leaving him to return to the Farm
and its hospitable welcome, to Mrs Robson’s new mysteries, and Alice
Robson’s saddened face?--was there mingled with the remembrance that
she had tried to say farewell to her friend some feeling of separation
and of loss? Perhaps, but at that time she was attempting to be strong,
nerved by the new trial that she could not escape; for it was always
her instinct, like that of others in her family, to meet trial with
pride, if not with fortitude. She bound up her hair, and got the
tea-things ready, before she sat down to wait for her mother and for
Nat .... Tim had tried to be good to her; oh, he had tried to be good;
if she never saw him again she would be grateful still ....

The sense of the new danger, however, was more overwhelming when she
awoke to the remembrance of it in the darkness of the night; and when,
with the memory, there came shame, and pain, and fever as on those
first nights after she had returned to her home. She tried to be still
and to bear it, in the silence of her mother’s room where she was
sleeping now; but the loneliness and misery were too much for her, and
she broke out at last into suffocating cries. Jenny heard her, and
was by her pillow in an instant; but, although she clung to her mother,
she would not confess to her.

‘Oh, mother, it’s coming,’ she sobbed out in the darkness; ‘I know that
it’s coming, and they all will know. They’ll make me a shame and a
by-word in the place--I shall never be happy, whatever happens now. The
Lord might have spared me, He might have helped me in my trouble; but
I’ve been a bad girl, and He won’t give help to me.’

Dark, terrible sentences thus uttered in the night-time without the
confession that gives breaking hearts relief; for, although she sobbed
out these words in her anguish and delirium, the broken sentences were
all the confession that she made. Whatever might be the weight that was
resting on her spirit, it was evident then and through succeeding days,
that with all the strength that was left to her she was determined to
bear that weight alone.




CHAPTER XXVI

IN WINTER NIGHTS


BUT, meanwhile, the village had recovered from its wonder to become
aware of a deeper mystery, and its astonishment and gossip had only
subsided to give place in their turn to a more absorbing interest. For
it is pleasant to find some topic which may serve for conversation
through the long winter evenings whilst we sit beside the fire.

Certainly, if poor Annie’s misery had been only that common story--that
too often repeated story all villages know so well--it could but have
served to make a nine-days’-gossip, and even ill-natured exultation
must in time have died away. Her persistent silence, however, gave rise
to other talk, it seemed like a suggestion of some mystery; and
floating ideas that could be scarce expressed in words began to rise
and to hover round her name. The most likely and probable of the
suggestions that were made was that she was attempting to screen some
village lad, for to all who knew Jenny Salter it could not appear
surprising that her daughter should have inherited a piteous
faithfulness. There were some rumours that spoke of ‘a gentleman,’ but
they were but rumours and had no support in facts.

And, meanwhile, thus developed into a living mystery, poor Annie lived
her secluded life at home, rarely leaving the cottage even to enter its
strip of garden, or to go through the gate into the Thackbusk fields.
She continued altered; she remained wan, gentle, patient, as one on
whose head perpetual sorrow rests; her old pride and fierceness did not
flash for an instant to disturb the habitual sadness of her face. And
yet to a close observer there must have been visible in her eyes a look
of yearning, a strange expression suggestive of some unsatisfied
desire, suggestive also of the possibility that her disposition was
still not without fever or perhaps delirium. If she were waiting for
tidings none seemed to come to her, and the slow days passed on towards
the closing of the year.

It was maliciously observed sometimes by the gossips in the village
that Tim Nicol did not visit one whom he had professed to love, and
that sufficient amusement for his leisure hours could be found within
the boundaries of the Manor Farm. The observation was unfair, for Tim
had never been a constant visitor anywhere, and was now much occupied
at the foundry, which was ‘on overtime;’ and if in his spare moments he
was more at the Manor than before, there were many reasons why he
should not leave its shelter. He had never quite recovered from the
scene at the Rantan, and was obliged to be careful of his health;
and, besides, he was studying for some science classes, for the sake of
which he stayed in the town two evenings in the week. No doubt, when he
was not there he could be found in the Manor kitchen, but then the
kitchen was warm and bright for study, whilst his own little bedroom
was dark and cold above; and, if he had to endure much wisdom from the
lips of Farmer Robson, he could be sure that Farmer Robson would not be
always in the room. Alice was there, almost always, but she sat at her
knitting, and did not speak to him. ‘There never was such a good girl
as Alice,’ Tim reflected; ‘she stays at her work so as you’d not know
she was near.’ For this power of being present and yet inaudible is a
decided virtue in a woman--in the opinion, that is to say, of a man.

So these two were often together--young companions--whilst, without,
the winter evenings were dark and indistinct, or the yard was full of
the pallor of dense grey mist, which hid the light of the rising moon
behind it. Within, all was bright and tending to cheerfulness, and
Tim’s books would be piled on one of the wooden chairs; and, whilst he
made mechanical drawings, or knit his brows in study, Alice’s strips of
red knitting grew longer on her lap. It is so comfortable, in one’s
times of trouble, to be near to another who has suffered like oneself,
and to feel, through the silence of uninterrupted business, the
presence of an unspoken sympathy. But it is the sheep in the fold who
can thus draw near to each other; the wanderers are in darkness and
alone.

Was it wrong then of Jenny that, coming in one evening to get some
butter she had been buying from the Farm, she should stand still on the
threshold of the kitchen, as one who has been struck with sudden
bitterness? The kitchen looked so cosy with its gleaming pots and pans,
the young companions appeared so comfortable, the black dog, who
pricked up his ears at her entry, completed the picture so well as the
guardian of the place. There was no guardian needed for the home from
which she came, the home that had always been one of poverty, the home
in which she must watch her daughter’s increasing misery, and feel
daily that the distance was greater between her and her son. Other
sons and daughters were prosperous, comfortable--there was Alice,
well-dowered, well ‘thought on’ in the place; there was Tim who had
escaped from early trials and hardships, to sit by her side and seem
quite contented there; there was Miss Gillan, ‘all fine in silks an’
lace o’ Sundays,’ already supposed to be the heiress of her uncle in
the town. At that moment, the feeling of the contrast was more than she
could bear, oppressed as she was continually by an increasing sense of
ruin--she hastily completed the errand for the sake of which she had
come, resisted invitations to sit down, and went out into the night. It
was better there, better in the cold and in the darkness, for darkness
and solitude seemed companionship.

Poor Jenny! To those who are struggling with blind efforts in the
night-time, it seems as if any revelation would be desirable. And,
indeed, there was coming to this village mother some knowledge of which
she had not thought or dreamed. But it is not always easy to recognise,
as a light to help and save, the lightning-flash that reveals the
precipice.




CHAPTER XXVII

JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS


ON the night succeeding that of her visit to the Farm Jenny was
returning from Lindum after darkness had fallen. It was New Year’s Eve,
a dark night, the moon had not risen; and the sky behind her lay in
heavy streaks of grey above the line of brilliant lights on the top of
Lindum Hill. Jenny was tired, for she had walked from the town; she had
been to buy dainties for Annie, who became more ill every day; and the
copper or two that would have been required for the railway journey
made it too expensive. And yet she was almost exhausted; she had not
been well herself, and the continual nursing of the last week had left
her no time to rest.

It was to this reason Jenny ascribed the fact that, just as she drew
near to the village, there came over her the most strange desire to
sleep, a desire so burning and so overmastering that to struggle
against it seemed impossible. She told herself, after some efforts
which proved to be in vain, that she would only rest for a moment, for
a moment close her eyes--it seemed excusable to snatch a brief repose,
since so little rest was possible at home. But perhaps she was more
worn out than she had supposed herself to be, for as she set down her
basket she almost dropped by its side--she lay on the slope of the
ditch, half-supported by the basket, which partially raised her right
arm and her head. The position was pleasant, or it seemed so to her
exhaustion; her eyelids dropped eagerly, her head sank, and she slept
....

How long she lay thus she had no means of knowing. She was roused by
the sound of voices which seemed close to her ears. Half-startled, and
yet too weak and stiff to move, she lifted herself against the basket
on which she was leaning. Some time must have passed, for a thick mist
had risen; and the moon, which had not been visible, was now high in
the sky above the dark outlines of village roofs and chimneys, and the
dim mass of the Squire’s trees on the hill. The voices were close to
her, in the field beyond the ditch, and although they were almost in
whispers she could hear every word. Exhausted, scarce conscious as she
was, the sounds stole to her ears before she was even aware that she
had heard them.

‘I tell you, Tina,’ one voice said to the other, ‘there is no need for
all this excitement. I have done what you told me to do, although I
hated to do it. I have seen her--I have seen Annie--Annie Salter,
to-night.’

He had seen Annie--Annie Salter--it was her daughter’s name! A sudden,
tingling thrill passed through Jenny as she lay. She attempted to
rise, but she was not strong enough; she tried to speak, but her lips
seemed to be held. She appeared to be in a dream, lying there in the
darkness, with this strange voice near her that had pronounced her
daughter’s name. And then, through the darkness, she heard the voice
again, its sound more broken and agitated now.

‘I have seen her .... it was hateful .... the most hateful thing I have
done. I should never have done it if it had not been for you .... I
tried to remind her of the time when I first knew her, when I was
staying near Warton, before you came there with me. She would only
answer that I never loved her; she thrust me away when I tried to kiss
her face. She would accept no money for herself or for the child; she
said she would starve rather than take anything until I owned them
both. But she said that she would not betray me .... I might go with
you to my uncle .... I might leave her, as I had done already, to be
alone with her wretchedness.’

‘And why should she not be alone,’ another voice cried, sharp and
piercing, the voice of Tina Gillan, though it seemed strangely altered
now; ‘what other man on earth would have behaved as honourably to her
as you have done? You only ask her to wait--you offer to pay her an
allowance--and this wretched village girl must stand on her
dignity--this detestable hussy, who should feel herself too much
honoured in having her name linked to that of a gentleman! Mr Lee
has asked us .... let us hasten off to him .... when we leave this vile
village all will be well with us.’

‘It ought to be well,’ the other voice replied, in a whisper that
appeared to hiss through the night, ‘though for other reasons besides
that of the hussy of whom you speak with so little reserve to me.... Mr
Lee has been talking to the Squire about that letter .... the letter
that you opened, though you would not tell me till last night .... and
the Squire would have made a tempest about it before now, only that he
has not been willing to accuse the boy. If the matter is inquired into,
and your dear Nat betrays you, I would not give much for your chance
with Mr Lee.’

‘He will not betray me--he dare not!’ cried the other, with a stamp
that echoed upon the frosty ground .... ‘it would not save him from
ruin if he did, and he would be afraid to do any harm to me! Let us go
to Mr Lee; when we are once inside his house, the village and the
Salters may look out for themselves.’

Her voice had risen, and her companion appeared to check it, to draw
her away, to speak in lower tones; through the darkness came the sound
of their retreating footsteps, like echoes becoming fainter in the
night. It seemed to Jenny as if her brain were ringing, as if flakes of
fire fell and shone before her eyes; when she lifted her head giddiness
overpowered her, and she could not attempt to follow them or rise.
Her head fell, she caught at the basket for support, and into the
blackness that followed all sank, and all was lost....

A rumbling cart roused her, and once more she raised her head; the cart
had gone by and she was alone in the night; the moon was shining above
the houses in the village; there were no whispers now in the dark field
by her side. Had she been dreaming, was all she had heard a fancy, what
ought she to think of it, what should she do? She was weak from
exhaustion, and stiff with pain and cold, it seemed almost impossible
to rise; but the tension of her brain made it clear, and keen, and
steady, as the eyes of a brave man who sees a danger near. With
resolute movements she rose up to her feet, remained still for an
instant to control her shaking limbs; and then, with a motion every
moment rendered stronger, set off through the darkness in the direction
of her home. If her children had been prevailed upon to keep their
danger secret, she knew now what to ask them, and they should answer
her.

Without a falter, without any hesitation, she went through the mist and
moonlight on the streets, the strong impression keeping its hold upon
her brain, as if it had been some mechanical impulse guiding her. She
passed the dim outlines of the village-houses, the lighted
public-house; she entered the Thackbusk lane; she did not tremble, not
even from weariness, until she stood once more on the threshold of her
home. As she opened the door a stream of light rushed forth; the
house appeared to be full of people, full of light; a sound of wild
laughing passed through her like a stab, and the whole place began to
reel before her eyes. Exhausted, staggering, with a fearful dread upon
her, she felt the door close behind her, and knew that she stood within
her home.




CHAPTER XXVIII

A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM


‘OH, mother, I’m glad you’ve come,’ Annie’s voice was crying to
her--she could hear her child’s voice, though she could not see her
face--‘I want you to send away all these women as is keepin’ me, that I
may get ready for my wedding-day. I’ve took my hair down so as to be
ready for t’ flowers, but they will hold my hands so as I can’t put it
up; an’ t’ clergyman an’ ladies is all gone to t’ church, an’ I shan’t
be there, an’ they willent wait for me. I’ve waited for ye. I didn’t
think ye’d be so long. I’ve waited for ye to help make me nice to go.’

She attempted to rise, but was held down by two women, who seemed to
have been assuming some guardianship over her; Jenny slowly recognised
the portly Mrs Robson, and the more blooming matronliness of Mrs Jones.
Through all the trials that had pressed on her since her marriage the
poor mother had never known such a sight as this before--her cottage
full of lights and the staring eyes of friends, her daughter delirious,
and her son crouching and ashamed.

Annie was on a chair, with her dress loose and disordered, her arms
held by the two women, and her hair hanging free; she made every now
and then a convulsive effort to get up, which could be scarcely checked
even by those who held her arms. The light on her face showed that it
had a fearful beauty; her eyes were wide, brilliant, her lips hot and
dry, her convulsive efforts at breathing seemed to be more than she
could endure as they heaved through her frame and tossed her shining
hair. The women who held her were not gentle in their movements, but
then her struggles were almost too strong for them.

‘Ah, it’s a poor tale,’ cried Mrs Jones, with due severity--‘a poor
tale when young ’omen behaves theirsens like this.’

‘I haven’t done wrong--I haven’t’--Annie cried in piercing shrieks,
aware even through her delirium of the implied reproach--‘I married him
honest, I did.... I say, I married .... I wouldn’t have gone with him
unless he’d married me. An’ he brought me, he did, to a village nigh to
here; an’ he began talkin’ to me when as t’ night had come; an’ I got
up fro’ bed, and dressed, an’ ran away, ’cause I said I wouldn’t stay
near him if he were ’shamed o’ me. An’ he wants me to be silent .... he
wants me to be silent ....’ her voice died away into low, gasping sobs;
and then, with a cry; ‘I am a wicked girl, I can’t keep fro’ talkin’,
t’ fever burns me so.’

‘I hope ye see now what she’ve come to, Jenny Salter,’--Mrs Robson
felt that it was her turn to give advice--‘with her pride an’ her
obstinacy, an’ her evil way, as set hersel’ up above t’ village lasses.
Ah, it’s a good tale if she doesn’t break thy heart; there isn’t a
mother in t’ village as ’ouldn’t be ashamed to own her now.’ With
unconscious dexterity she had touched the only chord of pride that
could vibrate even yet through poor Jenny’s misery.

‘Get out wi’ ye, all of ye,’ cried Jenny, starting forward, her thin,
Madonna face glowing with wrath; ‘what call have any of ye to get into
my house, to look in at my daughter, an’ say hard words to her? There
isn’t a mother as won’t be proud to own her yet, she’s better nor any
of yours, or ye’d not be hard on her. If Nat had t’ spirit of a man, or
even of a lad, he’d not ’a let ye in to say such things to me.’

‘An’ for what shouldn’t the boy call for help,’ cried Mrs Robson, ‘when
ye wasn’t yersel’ in a hurry to get back fro’ t’ town? He’s not so
proud as his mother is, maybe, an’ he hasn’t no call to be so, if all’s
true as I’ve seen and heard. I was just a-speakin’ to him as ye come
in, Mrs Salter, an’ a-tellin’ of him as I ’ud tell ye all; I think it’s
as well ye should know about your chil’en, as seem mighty well able to
keep what they do from ye. No, I won’t stand no whisperin’, Alice, I
intend to speak this once; it’s not for t’ lad’s good as I’ve kept
still so long. I’ve seen him mysel’ in his goings on wi’ Miss
Gillan, an’ if t’ Squire knew he’d lose his place for it. I’d ’a spoken
afore, but Alice begged an’ prayed; I’m too good a mother, that’s t’
long an’ short of it.’

‘So you’ve had your secrets,’ cried Jenny, sharply, suddenly, turning
round upon Nat, who crouched in his corner still; ‘it’s not for nothing
then as ye’ve been so idle lately, a-worretin’ about as ye couldn’t eat
y’ food. Ye’ll be like the father; ye’ll be my misery; but one house
sha’n’t hold us both, if ye don’t submit to me.’ In the heat of her
bitterness she had no sense of injustice; her anger was perhaps a
relief to her misery.

But Nat sprang from his corner with the sudden, violent anger into
which his impatience could be kindled by reproach, his cheeks flushed
into feverish beauty, and his lips shaking with the emotion that
quivered through his young frame like starts of pain. ‘It’s allays the
way--it’s been allays so,’ he said; ‘ye care for my sister, but ye
willent care for me. It’s nothin’ to ye as she’s the talk of all t’
village, as she’s shamed an’ disgraced you till she’s well-nigh mad
with it. So long as it isn’t me ye can forgive, though I’ve done no
harm, I’ve been allays good to ye. T’ Squire’ll do me justice; he don’t
think harm on me; he’ll give me money so as I can get away from you. I
won’t be your son nor care for ye no longer, ye doesn’t deserve to have
a son like me.’

He had spoken so fiercely that he was quite past hearing that during
his words there had been a knock at the door; but now, with a start, he
realised that it was open, and that dark figures were standing in the
winter night beyond it. A sudden silence fell upon all within the
place; even Annie’s struggling and chattering were hushed. For it was
Tim Nicol who stepped into the cottage, with a face as dark with
anxiety as a night before a storm.

‘I’m come for ye, Nat; t’ Squire has sent his servants; but they asked
me if I’d be the one to say t’ word. They thought as I knew ye, and
your mother an’ your sister, as it might happen to come more light from
me. T’ Squire has sent; he wants to ask ye a question; there’s a five
poun’ note lost, an’ he wants to ask of it. I trust, for the sake of
Heaven, as ye’ll contrive to clear yoursel’; but come quickly now, for
there’s no escape for ye.’

For one dreadful instant Nat felt the cottage reel, and lights,
darkness, people, were hidden from his sight; and then through that
blindness he heard the sound of a fall, and knew that his mother was
lying upon the floor near him. He could not speak .... could not answer
his accusers .... could only catch hold of Tim to support himself on
his feet; and speechless, staggering, without a word to defend himself,
was half-supported, half-dragged into the night. The door was closed
.... there was silence in the cottage .... Jenny lay on the ground,
without strength to raise herself. The accumulating misery that
had been gathering so long had risen at length like a flood and
she had sunk....


‘Oh, dear Mrs Salter,’ whispered Alice in her ear, as she sat on the
floor and held Jenny in her arms--‘do raise your head now, I’ve sent
’em all away; there isn’t any one here besides my mother and me.
Annie’s lyin’ upstairs; she seems to be quieter now; an’ my mother’s
with her, an’ I’m alone wi’ ye .... an’ oh, do tell me if there’s aught
I can do for ye, whilst ye are waitin’ to have more news o’ Nat. T’
Lord is good,’ Alice murmured with streaming eyes, ‘He gives a blessing
to them as wait for Him.’

‘Ye’re a good girl, Alice,’ Jenny thanked her quietly, as, having
risen, she began to move about the room--‘I’m glad to think ye’ll be in
the house with Annie to take care on her whilst I am away. My bonnet
an’ shawl are on a chair there, will ye give ’em to me? My head’s a bit
tired still, but I’ve a deal to do. No, don’t stop me, I must go out of
t’ house. I’m goin’ to them as has robbed me of my children, they shall
give me to-night an account of all they’ve done.’

No words would restrain her, her pale face was resolute; with trembling
fingers she fastened her bonnet and shawl, allowed Alice an instant in
which to cling to her, and then turned to the door, and went out into
the darkness. Some mechanical impulse appeared to be her guide--or
perhaps some sense of an effort that should be final and supreme--if
there were those who had done harm to her children they should give
account to the mother of the things that they had done. With steady
fingers she closed the door behind her; and, weak yet resolute, went
out into the night.




CHAPTER XXIX

THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT


WHILST Jenny was making her solitary way through the darkness, the
library at the Hall had been lighted with wax candles, and Nat was
standing there before Mr Mallory. It was a more quiet scene than that
of the tumult at the cottage, but to an observer it must have appeared
to be still more fraught with doom.

For let us try to imagine it for a moment--the dark room, the wax
candles, the pale face of the Squire in his usual seat by the table,
the ill-concealed delight of the butler who stood behind him, the
interest of the two footmen who guarded the criminal. And that
criminal! a boy from whose face, hard, reckless, sullen, all beauty and
even all that might interest had fled, whose whole nature appeared to
be absorbed in the silent resistance which opposes itself to inevitable
doom. A self-evident wrong-doer, a convicted criminal, this son of a
respectable mother, who had been himself respectable. And this was the
lad who had been the Squire’s favourite, the boy whom the Squire’s
little son had played with, and had loved!

‘If I had not known you for so many years,’ said Mr Mallory, in
the relentless tone Nat had never heard from his lips before, ‘I would
not have treated you so mercifully, but I would have sent for the
police, and let them deal with you. This matter would have been
investigated earlier, but Mr Lee has been absent from the town; and,
although he made some allusions to an enclosure he had sent, I never
supposed it was of money that he spoke. I was writing about you at that
time to Mr Lee. I have not the least doubt that you were aware of it.
It is possible that you opened his letter from idle curiosity without
any suspicion that money was within it. Confess everything to me. It is
your only chance. It will be of some advantage to you to be kicked from
the premises instead of being sent to gaol.’

The Squire pronounced all these words--even the last--in the same cold,
even tone, as if he would not disturb himself enough to have anger in
his voice; and the dark eyebrows that always seemed so black beneath
his white hair were not drawn lower than usual on his eyes. But the
lines of his face, which were always fine and subtle, appeared as hard
as if they had been graved with an instrument; and, to one who had been
accustomed to be treated by him with the utmost gentleness, his tone
and glance must have been like a scourge of steel. A proud nature is
not won in this manner to repentance and confession; but Mr Mallory was
hardly in the mood for inducing penitence.

‘Did you open my letter?’ he asked, after a pause, with a glance
which was not that of a dreamer now. There was time for the delight of
the butler to become more strongly marked before the low answer was
audible in the room.

‘No, sir, I did not.’

They were the first words Nat had spoken since he had been brought into
the house, and he spoke in a tone that was in accordance with the
expression of his face, the hard, sullen tone of defiance and despair.
But it must be understood that, during the time that he was silent,
burning waves and struggles had been passing through the boy, a doubt
whether he should attempt to clear himself by revealing a tale that
would be held incredible. He shrank inexplicably from pronouncing
Tina’s name; he was not sure that his statement about her would be
believed; he was convinced that any attempt to connect her with his
fate could only end in involving her in ruin with him. And he told
himself--the poor fool! he could tell himself even then--that if he
betrayed her she would _never_ speak to him again, and that it was
even yet possible that of this dreadful action she might be as innocent
as he was himself. If he had been himself absolutely guiltless the
shock of the suspicion might have made him reckless about her; or if he
had been secure that he could clear himself he might possibly have
prevailed on himself to leave her to ruin. But on every side there
appeared to be destruction, and he was not conscious of any desire to
drag her down with him. His own fate was sealed, he knew that he
had been condemned from the moment that he attracted the suspicion of
the Squire.

The wax candles burned as if they were burning in a dream; the footmen
stood by him, ready to lay hold on him; and then, after a pause that
was not so long as it seemed, he heard the voice of Mr Mallory again.

‘You did not open my letter?’ said the Squire, in the tone of one who
does not attempt to seem credulous. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to
answer a few more questions. Was this letter given to you at the house
of Mr Lee?’

‘Yes, sir, it was.’ There had been a pause before Nat could speak.

‘And it had been opened then?’

‘Not as I know on, sir.’

‘You brought it to me?’

‘Yes, sir--’ but with hesitation.

‘Was it opened in your presence?’

‘No, sir, it was not.’

‘It was not opened,’ said Mr Mallory, who spoke much faster now; ‘the
seal was not taken off, and was not again replaced, replaced with a
much larger drop of sealing-wax, and pressed with the seal that you
take about with you?’ His tone and his manner were so terrible that Nat
lost his self-command, and broke out into tears.

‘We will have no whimpering,’ said the Squire, sternly. ‘Come, sir,
control yourself, and answer one more question--Did you seal this
envelope with your own hands, or did you not?’

‘I did not, sir,’ cried Nat, in a voice weak with crying, and in a
tumult of agitation that cannot be described, uncertain whether he
should not fling himself before his master, and, revealing to him all
that had happened, implore mercy at his feet. But the tempest of rage
that broke at once upon him swept away all his strength like a thread
before a storm. The Squire did not often lose his self-command, but on
this occasion his self-command was gone.

‘You liar!’ he cried, ‘you ungrateful vagabond! Look at this!’ and he
flung on the table the letter which he had held. ‘Will you dare to deny
that it has been sealed with your seal, the seal which you dropped, and
left in my room to-day? Oh, the seal is a plain one--you counted
upon that--but the size is the same, the crack in the corner
corresponds--you were very clever, no doubt, you imagined yourself to
be clever, but you were not quite so clever as you supposed yourself to
be! Come, sir, make your statement. We will have no more lies from you.
Did you seal this letter again with your seal, or did you not?’

A moment of doom!--but if Nat had possessed the courage either to deny
boldly or to confess the truth, he might even then have produced some
reaction in his favour, or have made it at any rate more difficult for
him to be condemned. He could not--at that moment there swept over him
like a tempest the remembrance that Tina had given back his seal
to him, and the sense of her perfidy, the conviction of her guilt,
rushed on him like a flood he had no power to stand against. He could
only declare with violent, broken words that he had not taken the
money, he had not!--the protestations appearing to be that final
vehemence which serves as the last outbreak of lying and despair. With
a movement of frenzy the Squire put out his hand; but, recollecting
himself, he drew it back again, drawing in his lips at the same time
with an expression of disgust. And then, pushing away his desk with a
motion of disdain, as if even that action gave him some relief, he rose
from his seat and paced about the room. The eyes of his servants
followed him, although they did not speak; no doubt they were expecting
the order that had not been given yet.

The clock ticked, the wax candles burned, there was no cessation of the
footsteps of the Squire. It seemed to the miserable culprit, who stood
with hanging head, whilst the sound of each footstep trod upon his
nerves, that the summons of a policeman would be more than he could
bear, that he must make some desperate effort to save himself from
doom. And still the footsteps paced up and down the room, and no voice
broke the silence to pronounce the words of condemnation.

We ascribe merciful actions to the merciful, and Mr Arundel-Mallory was
not a man of mercy; the kindness and even consideration that were
habitual to him proceeded rather from indifference and courtesy than
from lack of relentlessness. And yet it must be recorded that in these
instants, whilst he walked, the Squire found himself more oppressed
than he would have thought to be; this lad, his favourite, must have
been closer to his heart than he had imagined--this relic of the past,
and of the son whom he had lost. He did not like to be sensible of the
triumph of his butler, it seemed as if that exultation were a
reflection on himself; his mind wandered also to a remembrance of the
wretched boy’s poor mother, who was so much respected, and who kept her
home so neat! And then he thought how in that last day of the fever, in
the last words that could be distinguished from his lips, his little
boy, in the wandering of his delirium, had chattered of the boy who
came to play with him. It seemed, indeed, as if it were weakness not to
punish, especially when the miserable wretch deserved punishment so
much! But then it might be possible to inflict pain and shame enough,
without that punishment of a prison, that is held to be the last
disgrace. And with this thought, with a firm and steady motion, the
Squire came back to his chair, and sat down there again. He felt that
he must resign himself to the loss of a sum of money, but he had never
been a man who valued money much.

‘Listen! _You!_’ he said, with a movement of his hand to enforce
attention. ‘And do not attempt to say a single word! I am entirely
satisfied that it was you who stole my money. No doubt it is spent now.
I will not ask for it. I ought to send you to prison. It is my duty to
do so. But I cannot forget that--that Willy cared for you.’ His voice
trembled strangely, but he recovered himself; and went on in a tone
that did not tremble again.

‘Do you know what I will do to you? You shall be soundly thrashed in my
presence, and then turned out of my house with your shame and disgrace.
I will not hide the story from the village or your mother--from this
time you must find employment where you can. Get one of my whips.
Stripes that he will not forget will be the best medicine that you can
give to him.’

‘If they dare to touch me,’ cried Nat, in an overwhelming frenzy, as he
felt his arms grasped by the footman who remained, ‘I will never go
back to my home; I will drown myself to-night.’ The words sounded in
his ears with the ring of desperation, but he could see only a slight
smile on the thin lips of the Squire.

‘Ah! drown yourself?’ Mr Mallory murmured languidly, ‘I do not think
that a liar and a thief has spirit left for that.’ And then, as he saw
that the footman had returned, he gave a sign to the butler to begin.

It was over. The butler, who was a powerful man, had fulfilled his task
with the most complete good-will, but it must be owned that Nat had
not opposed to him the smallest resistance of movement or of sound. He
stood now, still quivering with the pain of his punishment, and turned
to the Squire such a pale face and such burning eyes that, although he
was aware of the absurdity of the sensation, the Squire could not
refrain from a thrill of uneasiness. Checking it, he raised his head,
with a languid shrug of his shoulders, and told his servants to turn
him out, and to close the house. The burning eyes of the boy rested
still upon his face to the very last instant as he was dragged away. He
was dragged from the room, and forced roughly through the passages, and
thrust through the side-door, and out into the night. He could hear the
sound of the bolts that were closed behind him: he was left to be in
the darkness and alone.




CHAPTER XXX

BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT


AND now let us attempt to realise his position--the position of Nat,
alone, and in the night, condemned, chastised, his teeth ground in
helpless fury, dismissed from his employment, and left henceforth to
contempt. The first few instants were like delirium, he knew not what
he did or what he meant to do, until his head struck against one of the
shadowy trunks of the trees, and the pain of the blow restored him to
himself. He was not quite certain that he had not tried to hurt
himself, but it had been only a half-conscious action, at any rate, and
he was conscious now. With his hands raised to his head to still the
pain and throbbing, he leant against the tree in the darkness, and he
thought.

‘He says I am afraid,’ said Nat, ‘afraid--afraid.’

He did not think any longer. He gathered himself together, and
found his way as he could amongst the trees--as he could, because the
night was of more than usual darkness, and the singing in his brain
still almost blinded him. But every moment seemed to restore his
consciousness--a strange consciousness of a purpose that held him
tenaciously. By the next night, or even before the morning came, they
would not be able to say that he was afraid to act. They would be
sorry, nothing else would make them sorry, but when he had done this
they would be sorry then. And he would do it before more time was over;
in one way or another, it would not be difficult.

If anything had been needed to keep his purpose firm it would have been
the continual smart of pain, which stung him perpetually to unbearable
frenzy, and rendered him physically almost unfit to walk. He got out,
however, from the trees to the road; and as his head grew quieter, and
it became more possible to see, he could look down upon the gloom that
lay in front of him, and two station-lamps shining like eyes through
the night. He was trembling with pain, but he could not make any pause,
he would go on quickly until it all was done.

Oh, how would it have been possible for him to go back to his mother,
the mother who despised him, who had never cared for him? She would be
sorry now that she had not loved him like his sister. He was glad that
he would vex her, that she would be grieved for him at last. All sorts
of strange sounds were floating through his brain, but he had not time
to attend to them, not time. If only no one appeared on the road to
interrupt him, he felt that he would be driven to madness if there
were any obstacle.

No! the night was dark, there was no one on the road, the trees and the
roofs of the village were confused into gloom; only, far to the left,
beyond long miles of darkness, the lights of the city shone upon the
hill. He would not go round by the pathway to the station, for fear
lest he might still meet some passer-by, but climbed into the wide
field, shadowy in the night-time, and ran across it with footsteps that
were noiseless on the grass. By the station he climbed into the road
again; the station-lights were bright on the lines and the canal, and
he was almost afraid to cross the railway, for fear lest he should be
seen and recognised. But in the station there was no visible human
being; he crossed the lines quickly, and was not stopped or disturbed;
and, going through the little white gate upon the path, he stood in
front of the river, flowing onwards through the night. The sight was a
shock, and brought his heart into his throat, but he had made up his
mind, and he would not be frightened now.

He stood on the path, and thought--before him were many lights, the
lights of the distant city, and the signal-lights on the way, whilst a
steady glow from the station signal-box cast the shadows of window-bars
along the path. He could not help being afraid that he might be seen by
the signal-man; and, in any case, the path to the town was too public a
place for him; so he found his way round to the rougher path and
grass on the other side of the signal-box, and crept along beneath the
platform of the station, which was raised to some height above the
river-bank. All was dim and confused; but lights shone from the
station, and he wished to get quite away from any light, so he went
creeping onwards till he was beyond the platform, and the distant
country lay in gloom and stillness. There again he paused; behind him
were brilliant lights, but he looked only once at them, and then turned
his face away; he preferred the dark country with confused outlines of
trees, and the wan river flowing between banks shadowy in the night. He
must make preparations--he took comforter and handkerchief, in order
that he might bind with them his ankles and hands; he could not swim,
but he thought it possible that he might struggle, and he wished to
render it certain that no struggles could save his life. Ah! the sound
of footsteps! with his ankles bound together, he lay down on the grass
that he might not be seen. Some men must be passing upon the
railway-bank above; they would go by directly, and then his task would
soon be done. But the men did not pass, they lingered to end their
conversation, and through the darkness their voices reached to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘I say, Jim,’ it was the voice of our old acquaintance, Bill, ‘I can go
on tellin’ ’ee now as there’s no one near to hear. I wish as I’d not
got this bit job to do, or I’d ’a followed Mrs Salter to the town. It
did make me skeared to see her white an’ bruised, an’ not a man near
her to give help to her.’

After a while; ‘I says to her, says I, “Mrs Salter, an’ where be ye
goin’ upon this stormy night?” an’ she says, “Don’t stop me, I’m goin’
on to t’ town, to see ’em as has harmed my chil’en, that they may give
account to me. I’ll help my chil’en,” she cried, an’ she bursted out in
tears. (I can’t bear t’ wimmin’s cryin’,’ added Bill, in parenthesis).
‘“He may push me agen t’ wall an’ say he’ll kill me, but I’ll foller
him to t’ town, an’ see him there.”’

Again after a while, ‘I says to her, “Mrs Salter, an’ aren’t ye a bit
afraid o’ being kilt?” but she cries out to me, “Oh, you’ve not had no
children, or ye wouldn’t know what it was to be afraid. They’re as dear
to me one as the t’other,” she says, all a-cryin’ still, “they’ve lain
in my arms, an’ I’ve fed ’em from my breast; they’re my lad an’ my
girl, though t’ world cries shame on ’em; an’ I’d sooner be kilt mysel’
than do nought to help ’em now.” An’ I says to her, “_Go_, then, Mrs
Salter, though I don’t understan’ what ye mean; go then, if ye must,
an’ t’ Lord be wid’ ye as ye go!” an’ she seemed to rush past me, she
was in such a takin’; an’ she went down t’ river path, an’ away into t’
night. I hope as she’ll come to no harm, though I be skeared, for she
seem so alone i’ t’ darkness, wi’ no one near to help. She be a good
mother, she be, poor Jenny Salter, though t’ lass an’ t’ lad have
not done well by her.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The voices had died away along the path, and the sound of the footsteps
too had died away, when the boy, who had been prostrate upon the grass
beneath, rose up in the darkness, and sat upon the ground. There was no
light by which his features could be seen, or that light might have
shone upon an altered face. He only knew that his eyes were full of
tears, and that through that blindness there shone a newer life. With
steady hands he undid the bandage he had tied, and arranged his
comforter once more round his neck--his life should have steadier
purposes in future than that of obeying and following his own insanity.
With tearful eyes, but without any articulate confession, he let
himself kneel for an instant on the grass; and, then, with a heart full
of the strength that turns remorse to penitence, he prepared to follow
his mother to the town. It should not be in vain--oh! it should not be
in vain--that he had heard those words which he felt were meant for
him. It might yet be possible to find his mother in the darkness; and
when he had found her he would stay with her.


No doubt it would have been better if poor Jenny could have had her son
by her side during her lonely walk in the night-time, but nearly an
hour had passed now since her light footsteps made soft echoes on the
path between the river and the town. She had gone on through darkness,
looking straight in front of her, as if her glance could embrace the
distant city, with a far more definite purpose than might have been
imagined from her slight figure, and fixed, straining eyes. The
darkness was nothing, pain and weariness were nothing, the throbbing of
the bruise on her head, or the loneliness of night, she might remember
these things when they were over, but at present they were scarcely
able to touch her consciousness. In one way or another she would save
her children; after that it would not matter what became of her.




CHAPTER XXXI

DRESSING FOR DINNER


AND, whilst poor Jenny was pursuing her lonely way through the
darkness, one whom she deemed her enemy was in a very different
case--Miss Tina Gillan, at that moment dressing for the evening, in an
apartment of Mr Lee’s house at the top of Lindum Hill. It was a large
room that had been prepared for her, the darkness and lights of the
valley were hidden by closed blinds, there was a blazing fire which
made cheerful, dancing radiance, and her dress for the evening was laid
out upon the bed. After the cold, dark drive in an open carriage from
the village, this seemed a haven of warmth, and rest, and peace. Only
Tina was not quite pleased that no maid had been provided--it would
have been so luxurious to have a lady’s maid!

She stood now in the centre of the large, lighted room, with a
crimson wrapper beneath her rippling hair, and surveyed all the place
with her bright, glancing eyes, and then threw herself in the armchair
to make trial of it. Everything was complete, and of the best and
softest--armchair, bed, sofa--there was no fault to be found. And
she had been admitted to her uncle’s house at last, and this was the
beginning of luxury. Only she was glad that the closed blinds shut out
the valley, its lights and its blackness displeased her, though she did
not know why they should.

And yet--oh! was it not natural that she should wish to turn from the
wide-reaching blackness pierced by many points of light, now that she
was at last in the shelter she had longed for, far removed from old
hardships and wanderings? Every glance at the room told of comfort and
riches--and comfort and riches meant everything else as well--they
meant ease, safety, soft living, daintiness, rich dresses, fine lovers,
theatres, music, all the rest! All sorts of possibilities were between
her hands. It would be at length of some use to be beautiful! The old
life of shabbiness, hardships, shifts, and recklessness might be cast
on one side--it could be discarded now.

Who was that woman who had asked to see her brother, as they started,
and for the sake of whom James had left her with the carriage, and had
gone back into the yard, returning to her with a face so dark and
terrible that she had not dared even to speak to him until they reached
the town. It could not be _that one_, because he had already seen her,
and had come to some understanding with her--so he said--but it might
be some relation, indignant and suspicious, some reptile who knew they
were going and who wished to have a bribe! James always made a
pretence of being soft and kind, but she did not believe he could be
outwitted easily; in all that she knew of his dealings, especially with
women, she had found him to be still more unscrupulous than herself. He
had indulged himself from his childhood onwards, and it is impossible
to do so without being unscrupulous. This most recent, most wretched
entanglement might have been easily avoided, if during their time of
probation he had possessed the slightest self-restraint.

Indeed the habitual recklessness of the brother and the sister had
never been more displayed than during those few months of village
life--that short time of waiting upon the pleasure of their uncle,
during which they had every inducement to be cautious and
self-restrained. Ah, bah! that was true, thought Tina; but those
village months were over, they had left that ‘detestable hamlet, that
pest-house of the Fens’--and now that they found themselves in the
midst of pleasures it would be more natural to be self-controlled. At
length they were really in the house of Mr Lee; it would not be easy
for them to be removed; every day would make it more difficult as each
day would make less anxious the dangers that their imprudence had
gathered round their feet. Mr Lee once charmed! that was the whole
brunt of the matter, and Tina had never been without skill in charming
men!

She rose to her feet, and stood upright, pretty Tina! her arms clasped
behind her back, and her face very slightly raised, whilst her
eyes appeared to be flooded with eager light and hope, in which there
was only the least trace of terror left. Upon the bed lay her new black
evening dress, her black silk slippers, and her great, embroidered
fan--her cheeks were so brilliant and burning that they would need no
touch of rouge, nor her dark eyes the slightest assistance to make them
bright enough. Was that the drawing-room door? there were sounds of
footsteps, voices!--how strange that the least noise was enough to make
her start! She would be quick, and dress, and go downstairs for the
evening, it would be better for her brother to have her woman’s wit by
his side. This evening once over, this dear, nervous, terrible evening,
their position would be more certain, and they could feel secure.

So she thought, but whilst she hastened to get ready, and whilst
downstairs James Gillan sat by Mr Lee, and whilst he was making
apologies for the lateness of their arrival the door of the
drawing-room opened unexpectedly. It was the servant who entered, but
before she could make any explanation, she was preceded by an intruder
who had followed behind her unperceived--a poor woman, poorly dressed,
quiet, and shabby, who stood in the midst of the room and courtseyed
there. Mr Lee rose to receive her with annoyance on his face; and
behind him, unperceived by him, James Gillan also rose--with a pang at
his heart that smote, that stabbed his breath, and for the moment
took away the power of speech. The sword had fallen!--he felt that
it had fallen--he had not time to consider how ruin might be averted
even then.




CHAPTER XXXII

IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE


‘IF you please, sir,’ said Jenny, and, as she spoke, she courtseyed
again, ‘if it’s so as ye are Mr Lee I have come to speak with ye. I’ve
been speakin’ to this gentleman as they say is your nephy, an’ he won’t
listen to me nor make answer to what I say. But I’ve followed him to
the town, so as I may see him in your presence, and tell before ye all
I’ve to say to him.’

There was silence. The hearts of both men--even of the uncle--must have
been beating quickly, for both were panting, and did not reply. Jenny
stood in the midst of the room, very pale, and perfectly quiet, but
with a self-possession that would have been impossible in her shrinking
girlhood--the self-possession that comes with years and trials. Her
dress showed signs of her long walk, but it could not conceal that her
figure was slight; and her close black bonnet was no unfitting setting
for her Madonna-like, worn, troubled face. For years and wretchedness
had left her still a lovely woman, and it is possible that Mr Lee
may have been aware of it. He did not speak; he had flung himself back
in his arm-chair, and, with his chin upon his clenched hand kept his
harsh face turned to her. Through the moments that followed the most
intense silence reigned; but Jenny was gathering her strength, and
after a while she spoke again.

‘It’s a few months ago, sir,’ she said, still addressing Mr Lee, ‘it
was just before harvest time that my daughter Annie, my only daughter,
went away from her home one night. And then, on the next night, very
late, almost on to mornin’, she was lyin’ on my door-step as if she’d
not no strength to move. And I took her in, an’ she’d not tell me what
had chanced. But on one of her fingers there was a wedding-ring. And
the neighbours they talked; they said strange things of her an’ me. But
I couldn’t get her to confess, although I tried ever so. It was only
to-night, sir, as I’ve been given cause to know who the man might be as
took my child from her home.’

After another minute, ‘It’s perhaps I wouldn’t have courage to come to
your house, sir, an’ say these things to you, if your niece and nephy
had left one o’ my two children to stay in my home an’ comfort me for
the t’ other one. But your niece she got hold o’ my boy--I didn’t know
that till to-night--an’ she’s got him to give her a letter as you wrote
to t’ Squire. An’ t’ Squire’s sent for him. An’ they say he’ll be
disgraced. He’s my only son, sir, the only one I have. The father’s a
bad one, an’ has been a bad husband; an’ t’ boy an’ t’ girl are all
that I have left.’

Again after a pause; ‘I’ve been speakin’ to your nephy. An’ he pushed
me agen t’ wall. Ye may see t’ bruise upon my face. An’ he said he’d
kill me. But I don’t care for that. I’d be killed a hunderd times over
to save t’ girl an’ boy. He ought to tell me if he’s t’ husband of my
daughter. An’ he oughter do something to save t’ boy from harm. I’ve
come to ye, sir, as I may speak to him before ye. He can’t hurt ye so
easy, sir, as he hurts me.’

Her low voice appeared to thrill through the room, in which the most
breathless, the most intense silence reigned. Jenny had used all her
strength in order to get through her speech, as one who upon his last
venture pours all the wealth he has. But she was upright still, and
composed, though very pallid, and through her pale lips her breath came
quietly. The servant was gone, although the door stood open, and in the
room were only the two men she had addressed; Mr Lee, who sat in his
armchair with his face turned away; and James Gillan, with rigid
features, fixed lips, and glaring eyes. He seemed to have been swept
from his usual self-possession, appalled by this spectre which stood in
front of him; and now through the silence there came words stern and
terrible as the formal questions that precede the uttering of doom. It
was Mr Lee who spoke, but he did not rise from his seat, and even as he
spoke he kept his face turned away.

‘Do you know this woman?’

The question had been asked, and as it compelled an answer the unhappy
young man made some stammering reply--he faltered that on the woman’s
own showing he was a stranger to her; and that it was hard to be
obliged to reply to the lies a stranger told. His answer was
immediately succeeded by a question, more stern, more relentless even
than the first.

‘You have not known this woman. I will take your word for it. Have you
been also a stranger to this woman’s daughter?’

If James Gillan had been allowed a minute, a few moments, in which to
make up his mind whether to lie or tell the truth, his skill in
deception, always greater than his courage, might have risen to the
occasion even then. Appalled as he was, overwhelmed by this unexpected
accusation, he could not decide immediately what course would be best;
and, having opened his mouth as if he were forming some reply, he let
it drop helplessly, and remained without a word. Mr Lee went on
speaking as if he had received an answer; perhaps he thought that the
silence might be accounted a reply.

‘And since we’re in the midst of discussions, Nephy Gillan, what is
this tale of a letter that we’ve heard?’ He spoke the words sternly,
but they came as a relief. His nephew seized on the diversion eagerly.

‘Oh, _that!_ .... I don’t know .... it may have been some mischief of
my sister’s .... my sister is a wild girl and is sometimes fond of
tricks .... I will answer for it, sir, that there is nothing serious in
the matter as in this other accusation that has reference to myself
.... In any case, my sister will be able to reply, if she were here now
I have no doubt she would answer you.’

He had scarcely spoken when the door, which had been left partly open,
was suddenly flung forwards as far as it would go; and Tina, who had
been standing at the entrance with the housekeeper, appeared at the
threshold, and swept into the room. Her rich black silk dress rustled
after her as she advanced; she seemed to be beside herself with rage,
or fear, or shame; she advanced at once on her brother and on Jenny, as
if with her little hands she would seize them both. But Mr Lee
interposed with the manner of the master of a house, and laying a hand
on her arm, turned her round to him. His manner, his voice, were very
quiet and stern, as those of one who is in no doubt what to say.

‘My niece,’ he said, ‘ye will go back to your room. I haven’t the time
to speak to ye just now. My housekeeper, I see, has been listening at
the door, and I’ve not the least doubt she’ll show the way to ye. You,
sir, I will trouble ye to come with me to my study that I may confer
with ye on these matters that we’ve heard. Madam, I must ask ye to wait
here a few minutes, before very long I’ll come to ye again.’

With a hand on the arm of each, and a manner not to be disputed,
he turned with his niece and nephew from the room--Jenny following them
with her eyes, but remaining perfectly passive, standing there in her
worn, black dress like some image of despair. Outside the door he
released the arm of Tina, and paused to lock the door, and then to take
out the key; and then, without paying any further attention to his
niece, he turned to the young man, and addressed a few words to him.

‘I must ask you, sir, to come with me to my study, that I may confer
with ye on these matters. I can’t make no decision that I can tell ye,
till ye’ve said your say, and I’ve heard ye to the end!’




CHAPTER XXXIII

ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE


IF James Gillan had possessed an amount of courage equal to the skill
for which we have given him credit more than once, he might have been
able to make some resistance to calamity, even now when he beheld
before him the uttermost of ruin. He could not. He had been weakened,
physically and morally, by the self-indulgence in which he had lived
all his life; he was shattered by the prospect of the ruin of his
hopes, was visibly trembling, and scarcely fit to walk. Wild, whirling
visions scattered each other in his mind as he followed his uncle
through the dark passages, remembrances of the fatal marriage-night
that had resulted in his separation from his bride. He cursed the
violence, the impatience of her conduct, the contempt she had poured on
his proposal of years of secrecy, as before now he had cursed the
beauty which had so fatally enchained him that it had even induced him
to deal honourably. For he had considered his marriage to be an act of
supremest virtue, an atoning action for other actions in his life; and
not the price that a man who has uncontrolled desires flings down
to obtain a wish not otherwise attainable. It was that sensation of
having been honourable that made him so little disposed to be
honourable now.

And yet, as he followed his uncle through the passages he did ask
himself whether it might not be better for him to tell the truth, and,
if he had nerved himself to that nobler course, he might even then have
averted a tragedy. He could not!--it was not in his nature to take so
straight a path, and at the moment the risk appeared too great; he
would deal rather in faltering words and half-confessions until he
could make out on which side safety lay. For the sake of Annie!... but
he need not consider Annie; he had already done far too well to her!

Thus, tempest-tossed, shaken, with no definite resolution, he found
himself once more in his uncle’s library; dark now, except for the
candle that Mr Lee held in his hand, and which he set down on the table
as he threw himself into a seat. The question that was to be expected
came immediately and sternly, as James Gillan also sank into a chair.
Oh, if he had been allowed a moment’s breathing-time, it might have
been possible for him to decide!

‘Well, sir, I’ve no minutes to waste; I must ask ye for your answer.
I’ve heard the woman. What have ye to tell me for yourself?’

Oh, how was it possible, thus taken unprepared, to know in what
direction an answer should be framed, to be certain of anything,
except that denial was dangerous and that equal danger attended the
disclosure of the truth? The nephew murmured with pale, trembling lips
that a man must not be judged too severely for the follies of his
youth, that he had been brought up to a wandering life, an unsettled
education, but that he was willing to repair any harm that he had done.
His uncle caught up the words, almost before he had completed them,
with another question that came faster than the first.

‘Oh! ah! Follies. Follies. I’ve not a doubt of it. But folly is a word
that may mean an inch or may mean an ell. I have to ask you, sir, and I
charge you to tell me honestly, to what extent has your folly, as you
call it, gone?’ And then, as no answer came, he proceeded very slowly,
with eyes and lips that were fixed and resolute.

‘There’s some folly, sir, that is easily bought and paid for. It can be
forgotten, and no harm is done. There is other folly that clings to a
man through life, and takes away from him every chance of raising
himself. A low match, sir, that’s what can’t ever be got over. I’ve had
reason to know for myself that marriage is a serious thing. I should
like to ask ye, nephy Gillan, if you’re inclined to tell the truth, if
the folly ye speak of has gone as far as that? For if it has, I
consider ye a ruined man. I tell ye candidly before ye answer me!’

It was too much. James Gillan sprang suddenly to his feet, with a mind
no longer in doubt, nor a manner that was wavering, and poured out his
words on each other, fast and faster, as if he were striving to thrust
inward shame aside. ‘Why, sir,’ he cried out. ‘I hope you don’t suspect
me of binding myself so seriously without any reference to yourself, at
the very time when I had come down to this neighbourhood with the
intention of knowing you and being close to you! I have only to tell
you of some foolish trifling which perhaps went further than I had
intended it to do, but for which I am willing to pay any sum that may
be demanded in order to satisfy the woman and the girl.... And now,
sir, that I have, as I hope, explained myself, I must ask for the
decision that you have promised me. These events may, I hope, be
explained and cleared away. But what must I do meanwhile? Where shall I
go?’

‘If you ask me the question,’ said Mr Lee, in a low voice and very
slowly, ‘I think I shall be able to tell you, sir, where you may go!’

He spoke with composure, but he kept pushing back his chair so as to be
further from that on which his nephew sat--the young man, who sat
looking at him, with his eyelids more raised than usual--the charming
glance few were able to resist. Mr Lee kept his eyes on his face as if
he were fascinated, with the same slow, steady movement still pushing
back his chair, till the side of it grated against the corner of
the table, and, as if the jar roused him, he sprang up to his feet. In
another instant his words burst forth with vehemence, the rush of a
torrent that could no longer be restrained.

‘Ah, scoundrel, hypocrite, I have let ye have your tongue that ye might
have leave eno’ to convict yourself! So ye call it a foolish trifle to
’tice a young girl from her home, and then to desert her, and leave her
to misery! Why, sir, I _married_ when I didn’t want to marry, because
the lass believed as I’d made love to her, and ye come and boast to my
face of the girl as ye have ruined, and ask me what ye’re to do and
where to go. By the Lord that looks down upon ye and such like vermin,
I think that I’m able to tell ye where to go. Ye may go to the devil,
sir, your most fit companion, and his home, which is surely the fittest
place for ye!’

He spoke, and at the same instant he advanced upon his nephew, with
clenched hands, a vein-swollen forehead, and eyes darting from his
head; and, as if pressed back by force, though no hand was laid upon
him, James Gillan found himself retreating from the room. Shattered,
overwhelmed, as one suffocated by nightmare, he heard his uncle roar to
the servants to bring him his hat and coat, and, with that vision of
fury still pressing on behind him, he was forced from the front-door,
and out into the streets. It was all a dream .... there before him lay
the valley .... a heavy pall of darkness, with innumerable points
of light .... the night-wind was rushing, his brain rushed in its
company, he could not remember what he should have said or done. Oh! he
could not go back, there was no use in confession, he could never
redeem his reputation now!

Wild sensations tossed, surged in him, as he staggered along without
knowing where he went, as if all that was evil in him had risen,
overpowered him, and was holding carousal, and high festival. He would
go down to Annie, the siren who had ruined him, and seize her in her
beauty, and tear her limb from limb--he could have laughed and sung at
the prospect of his vengeance, and felt inclined to rush or to dance
along the streets. He would go down to the river--ah! to the
river-side--and drink with some old companions before he went on to
her; he would be merry, would be warm and bright enough before he
started on his dark walk through the night. The streets were strange
.... the red sky on his left hand, on which were the darkness, the
innumerable points of light .... the few lamps at intervals on the
other side of the way .... the black dog whom he pushed with his feet,
and who started off into the road. He went down the hill .... he would
get to the river-side, though his brain was whirling as in delirium ...
he could see Annie, hear her, could grasp her with his hands, although
he was certain that she was miles away. He went always onwards ....
no one saw him in the darkness .... the red lights were dancing, as if
they laughed at him.

Is it possible that there are mysterious communications of which we in
our ignorance are not aware, electric forces that can reach from
distant places, and summon us by unconscious magnetism? Annie did not
know, never realised what happened; but she remembered afterwards that
she found herself forced to leave her bed, that she rose from where
they had laid her, slipped by her sleeping watchers, and passed through
the cottage, and out into the night. It seemed to her that her lover’s
voice was calling, that his arms were stretching out to her from far
away, that she was summoned to protect him from some immediate danger,
from which only her presence could save him. She passed through the
sleeping village, and crossed the railway lines, and found herself by
the river, on the path leading to the town, with the lights of the city
before her on the hill and in the valley, and the river flowing in pale
course through the night. She could remember these things afterwards,
but not what she had thought, except that her mind was delirious,
feverish, that she was haunted by some agony that she would be too
late, and kept crying out that the distance was long, and that she was
too weak to run. And yet the lights became closer by degrees--she could
see them burning beneath the bridge that crossed the water--could
see the lamps at intervals on the other side of the river, and the
quivering streams of light that ran down into the depths. At her side
were the foundry-buildings .... and there, beneath the foundry arch,
and the lamp that hung in it, was a black, strange swarm of men ....
she could hear their voices, which came confusedly through the noise of
the rush of the lock, and the silence of the night .... She drew close,
closer, could hear the words they said .... that ‘he must have been
drinking, by what some folk had seen’ .... could see them bend over
something that lay upon the ground .... could distinguish the
countenance of a villager, and by him her brother’s face. And then, all
at once, as the crowd made way for her, her senses came back with a
rush, and she understood it all .... the night-time, the staring eyes,
her own loose dress, streaming hair, the amazement of the by-standers
.... on the ground, her husband’s face .... For one instant she saw,
and then everything forsook her, she could hear herself scream ....
then her limbs gave way, and she fell.

And, as she fell, sinking, as it seemed, in unfathomable darkness,
scarcely conscious of the arms put out for her support, she could hear
a voice at her ear, speaking low and clearly, with a sound as of words
that we hear even through our dreams. It seemed to be speaking of her,
to be explaining who she was, to tear from her misery the last
poor veil away. She heard the words; and then, as if nothing further
could be borne, her consciousness deserted her and she knew no more.
‘_This is Annie, Jenny Salter’s daughter, who lives by the Thackbusk!_’




CHAPTER XXXIV

A PARTING IN THE STREET


THE words which rang in Annie’s ears were heard also by her brother,
who stood almost unrecognised amidst the crowd of men, bewildered,
gasping, scarcely knowing where he was, or that all was not some
confusion of a dream. The terrible sight of the body taken from the
river which had encountered him as soon as he reached the town, the
more terrible recognition of its face, the realisation of a death that
had nearly been his own--these things were overwhelming enough without
the appearance of his sister, inexplicable as that was, unlooked for by
any one, and yet affording, to other eyes besides his own, a clue that
might serve to unravel a tragedy. He wished to help her, but he could
not move his limbs, he appeared to be rooted to the ground on which he
stood; but strong arms were round her, and the workmen who supported
her seemed disposed to treat her with pity and tenderness. He saw her
carried past him, pallid as a corpse, with the lamplight on her white
face and streaming hair. He heard them say she was ‘only in a
swounding; that in a little while she would be right again.’ And
then, when he would have followed her he found that he could not stir;
he could only watch, as if fascinated, all the preparations that
surrounded one who would not wake and be ‘right.’ There were doctors
present who had been summoned hastily; there were workmen eager to be
relating all they knew; he could hear their voices, and the sound of
women’s murmurs, and the tale that the better informed poured out upon
the rest--this tale of the man who had been his sister’s lover, who was
the brother of one whom he had loved. They said he had been drinking in
a public-house like a madman, that he had risen suddenly and rushed out
into the night, and that some, following him, had heard a sound in the
water, and hastened, terrified, to the river’s edge. The catastrophe
might have been an accident--none could be sure that it was not--they
could only say that in the darkness it had been impossible to discover
him at first, and that, when he was found and dragged up from the
river, the light on his face showed at once that he was dead. The
doctors talked of some injury which his head had received, but the time
he had been in the water was long enough to account for death--and Nat
realised, with feelings which cannot be described, that another had
gained the fate he had desired. For an instant he saw the dead form on
a shutter, and then, in its turn, it was carried past him and away. And
then, as the crowd of people hastened after it, he knew that Tina
Gillan was standing by his side. He had felt her touch on his arm, and
recognised it; and, as he turned his head, he saw her face.

She was strangely attired, in a black silk evening dress, with necklace
and bracelets upon her neck and arms, and over these things a black
cloak lined with fur, which hung loose except where it was fastened at
her throat; whilst an old black hat had been flung upon her hair, which
was elaborately arranged, and glistening with pins of golden filigree.
It did not seem strange to Nat that he should find her at his side--he
was too much bewildered to be surprised that night--nor, considering
the sight on which she had been looking, could he be amazed at the
expression of her face--her eyes wide and wild, her cheeks and forehead
twitching, whilst her limbs shook so that she could scarcely keep upon
her feet. She clung to his arm, and kept muttering to him to ‘take her
away from the river, to take her away from it,’ and, himself in such a
condition that he was scarcely able to obey her, he half clung to her,
half supported her to the streets. At the bridge he stood still, but
fresh restlessness seized on her, and her low voice began muttering in
his ear again.

‘Take me away from the river. I cannot bear to see it. I am going mad.
Take me away from it.’

Yielding to her impulse, he went with her down a street, not knowing
where to take her, or where to go himself, save that she kept
muttering that he was to ‘take her from the water,’ and that the
horror of the water seemed to accompany them--the river with its
darkness, and streams of quivering light, its black foundry arch, and
dark, strange swarm of men. He paused at length, however, in a
dimly-lighted street, and attempted to gather his strength and speak to
her; his voice sounded hoarse and horrible to himself, he had never
imagined it could have such a sound. But, although he was almost
unnerved by the tightening clutch of her fingers, he was able at least
to say a few words audibly. ‘Tell me what I am to do, Miss Tina, tell
me what I am to do. I will take you wherever you like. Where must I
go.’

Tina only muttered, ‘Take me away from the river-side. I cannot bear
it. Take me right away from it.’

He saw that she was not in a condition to be still, and moving again,
went with her down the street, the horrible throbbings of his heart and
limbs becoming in some degree less overpowering as he moved. The street
was dimly lighted; there were not many people; no one seemed to pay any
attention to them. They crossed it, and turned into another that was
smaller, darker, with a long dark line of wall on one side of it; it
was close to the railway, and he could hear the rush of some distant
train going onwards through the night. He made for the wall, scarcely
knowing why he did so, and leant against it, whilst she clung by his
side. It was dark there, and silent, and no light shone upon them; the
street was deserted, there were no passers-by.

‘Well, are you satisfied?’ cried Tina, springing from him, and yet
clutching the front of his jacket with her hands. ‘You have killed my
brother. I have seen it. He is dead. Are you satisfied now? Have you
had your will with us?’

He could feel the clutch of her fingers on his jacket, as he had been
feeling their grasp upon his arm; the thrill seemed to stir him from
his head to his feet, and to take away from him all power to answer
her. But she wished for no answer, her voice went on speaking rapidly,
its wild tone quivering like a cry that is suppressed.

‘Do you know what has happened to me?’ she said quickly, with a laugh.
‘I’ve been turned off this evening from my uncle’s house. Dismissed
like a beggar! He would not even see me. He says I may go to London,
and amuse myself there again. Ha! ha! I’ll shame him,’ cried Tina, as
she ground her teeth together. ‘I’ll let no one forget that I am his
sister’s child.’

Her terrible passion, her wild eyes, grinding teeth, would have been
dreadful enough under any circumstances--they were unspeakably horrible
with her brother’s death so recent, uttered with such vehemence in the
dark, silent night. Nat tried to speak, but his faltered words, ‘Miss
Tina,’ were swept away almost before he had uttered them. And still
she kept clinging and clutching at his jacket, as if but for its
support she would have fallen on the ground.

‘Ha! ha! I’ll shame him, see if I don’t,’ cried Tina. ‘I’ll do harm to
him, and I’ll do injury to you! It was your mother came to the house
this evening, and was clever enough to bring us all to ruin. You
haven’t spared me. You have told about the letter. I couldn’t expect
that you would be good to me. I’ll hurt you. I will. You have brought
us to destruction. My brother is dead .... he is dead .... and you
shall die!’

‘Miss Tina,’ cried Nat, and his breath was lost in sobs. That seemed to
startle her; for a moment she was quiet. Seizing on that instant, he
wrestled with his agitation so as just to be able to speak--he could do
no more than that.

‘Before God, Miss Tina, I’ve done no harm to thee. I’ve not said a word
o’ ye, not to t’ Squire. If my mother knew anything as she’ve told to
your uncle, I don’t know who she knew it from--it’s not from me. I’ve
been beaten and shamed. I’ve been turned out from my place. They say
I’ve stole money. I don’t know the rights of it. I went down to t’
river to-night to drown mysel’. There isn’t no hope in all t’ world for
me. But I can’t bear to see ye .... so alone .... so left alone ....’
the sobs caught his breath, so that he could scarcely speak .... ‘I’ve
got three shillen .... if ye will take ’em from me ... it’ll be the
last thing as I can do for ye.’

He took out the money, and she took it in her hand, and then let it
drop through her fingers to the ground. The clink of the money sounded
strange in the night. They did not speak to each other. They scarcely
seemed to breathe. And then, with a passionate movement, she threw her
arms round him, and broke out into weeping, with her head upon his
breast.

‘Poor Nat!’ she cried out to him, ‘Nat, Nat--poor Nat!--and so you
would be giving your last poor coins to me. I don’t want them, dear. I
can get work to do in London. I won’t do more hurt to you, who are the
only friend I have. Nat, I will confess to you. I opened the Squire’s
letter, although I knew it was wrong--I did, I did!--And the bank note
dropped out, and I never noticed it, until I had fastened the letter
and given it to you. I’m a wicked girl. I didn’t care if I did you
harm--I wanted to see what Mr Lee wrote of James and me .... and now
James is .... dead .... and I’m a wanderer again, and I must go to
London, and live by my singing there .... I must stay here to-night
.... though I know that James is dead .... I knew it from the first
.... he is dead .... oh, he is dead .... and then I will get away from
this place and the river--and you will never see me, or hear of me
again.’

After a while, still clinging to him, ‘I will write to the Squire,
and send him the note. It doesn’t hurt _now_ if I do harm to myself,
and if I tell him the truth I hope it will do you good .... And you
mustn’t think hardly of me, poor, foolish .... though I have been
naughty, and have led you into wrong .... I must kiss your hand ....
oh, I cannot help my crying .... I want to tell you that you have been
kind to me .... Oh, don’t tremble so much, dear, I cannot bear to feel
it .... I have no other friend in the world .... good-bye, good-bye
....’ Blind, suffocated, almost past all consciousness, he felt that
she slipped from his arms, and then she was gone.

An hour later, in intensest midnight blackness, through which the
lights in the streets shone at intervals, Nat found his way through the
night-time, with faltering footsteps, as one scarce waked from a dream.
He must find his sister, his mother, and give them what help he could;
in time he might be able to think how to help himself. The great bell
had tolled, and now every bell was ringing .... he must get back to the
river .... he went on through the night.




CHAPTER XXXV

THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE


SO down into darkness sank that New Year’s Eve, with its half-revealed
story, its completed tragedy, leaving town and country provided with
surmises, and stirred with much talk, and a store of opinions. The
history of the nephew and niece of Mr Lee, their flight in the
darkness, the river-side tragedy, the appearance of the wretched girl
by the body of her lover, her story and that of her brother, the
conduct of Mr Lee to both--the tidings of all these things spread far
and wide, and made the talk of the whole of the neighbourhood. There
were thrilling statements about a secret marriage, and a separation
said to have taken place upon a wedding-night; there was a story also
about an opened letter, which, in its turn, could cause excitement. The
village of Warton was naturally triumphant, because it knew the
parties, and could give its own opinions; it was only by degrees that
its triumph became mingled with a sense of dissatisfaction that was
certainly natural. For, although it was evident that there had been
wrong-doers, it appeared that all the wrong-doers would not meet
with punishment--there were some, on the contrary, who would even
be _rewarded_, as if they had behaved themselves like honest folk. Poor
village! it is hard when tales have not a moral, and where Nemesis does
not attend where she is due--although we may always console ourselves
by reflecting that the stones of vengeance grind after secret laws, and
that it is probable that by some means or other all wrong-doers _do_
arrive at punishment. We would be more contented, no doubt, if we saw
that sight visibly; our sense of justice is not satisfied with less;
but then, in this world where so much is always hidden, we must take
the actions of vengeance, as we take other things, on trust. With these
few words, offered humbly, as an excuse for the good fortune that fell
to the share of some culprits we have known, let us leave the village
to virtue and indignation, and visit those culprits for the last time
in their home. That home had been saved from destruction--it had reason
to be thankful--but we will not be certain that it was triumphant. For,
although it is doubtless a good thing to be rescued from a battle,
there are pale ghosts that wait even on our victories.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the last night of the May of that year whose commencement we have
seen, Nat and Annie were sitting together in their home--in the
yellow-raftered room which had echoed to the clamour of the Rantan less
than a year before. It is true that Annie ought not to have been
sitting up so late, but Nat was with her, and in a few hours he was
going away, and some silent impulse on one side and on the other, made
the brother and sister desire to spend that evening side by side. Annie
also was leaving; she had no excuse for remaining now; she had only
asked to be allowed to remain in her old home until her child was born.

They sat together silently; the lamp was on the table; now and then the
young mother rocked the cradle with her foot. It was perhaps the same
impulse which made them wish to be together that held their lips, and
kept them quiet, although side by side. For it was impossible that old
memories should not be stirred to-night, connected with others as well
as with themselves. The next day, which would witness the departure of
Nat for new employment, would be the wedding-day of Alice Robson and of
Tim.

‘They’ll have a fine day,’ said Annie, very softly--she had not spoken
on the subject before, but she knew she would be understood--these were
the first words that had passed between the brother and sister since
their mother had left them and they had been alone. ‘I’m glad to think
so, they’ve been so good and kind, such kind friends to us, though it
will be different now. Tim came to see me last night. I was very glad
to see him. He thought me altered, I know, for he looked so hard at
me.’

Nat did not answer--it may be that he remembered why, on his part,
he could not go to see the bride; it must have been shame that
brought the colour to his face, for he had been pale and heavy-eyed
before. But the feeling that his sister had been communicative,
although she had always previously been more than reserved to him,
stirred him with a sense of answering sympathy. He spoke with an
effort, he had not spoken much that evening since he had come back from
his visit to the Squire. Both his mother and sister had understood
without difficulty why he should be silent with regard to that
experience.

‘I’ve seen t’ Squire, Annie,’ he said now, with an effort. ‘It’s been
very cutting. Ye know that I went to him? I’ve never seen him sin’ that
last night o’ the year. He seems to be older, even in that little time.
He said he was glad Mr Lee had given me learning, that Mr Lee had told
him I should be a good business lad. And he wasn’t angry. He talked as
if he was sorry--as he’d been more hasty nor he should ha’ been wi’ me.
But I couldn’t answer him a bit, I was so afeard o’ crying--I think
I’ve not felt so bad in all my life.’

Annie moved her chair in the least degree closer to him, whilst the
glance of her dark eyes rested on his face, her eyes which had grown so
large, and sad, and gentle, during all these months that she had been
an invalid. He understood the movement, and after a while he went on
speaking, with the manner of one who is relieved to be able to speak.

‘It seems to make a differ--my going away to London, although I’ve not
been much at home all these months. I was so close at Lindum, an’ I
could think of home, even when I was at office-work or classes, or the
rest. It won’t be the same when I’m at Westminster, in that big place
o’ business where there’s so much to do--now that t’ home ’ll be gone,
an’ mother’s weak an’ poorly, an’ ye’ll be livin’ wi’ her an’ Mr Lee.
It’s cut me a deal too, to be thinkin’ about father--they say he’s real
silly sin’ his illness, an’ll not be himsel’ again--he’ll have to be
allays in some kind o’ keepin’, although they don’t think as he’ll be
dangerous. I’m thinkin’--I’m his son--I felt desperate last winter--it
wouldn’t ha’ ta’en much to make me drink like him. It makes me afraid
to go away to London--afraid like and sorry when I think what last year
has been.’

‘Nat,’ said Annie suddenly, ‘I mind me of a day when Alice took me to
be with her at a class--it’s been on my mind sin’, the confessin’ an’
t’ prayin’, an’ then t’ hymn-singin’ an’ all t’ rest of it. You an’
me’s both sorry .... I think that we are sorry .... shall we kneel down
together an’ say a prayer to-night?’

‘I’d like to,’ he answered, readily enough, ‘only I don’t understan’
what sort o’ prayer to say. We can’t make up prayers like as t’
preachers do. An’ t’ prayer-books is all together at t’ church. There’s
the General Confession,’ he added, as a new idea struck him; ‘we’ve
heard that often, I should think we remember it. It’s all about
being sorry, an’ doin’ better, an’ t’ like. I should think it’s
possible that it might do for us.’

‘Then we’ll have it,’ said Annie, agreeing readily, ‘we’ll kneel down
together side by side upon the rug. You may say the words first as if
you was t’ preacher, an’ I’ll be repeatin’ them as t’ people do. It’ll
do me good .... I’m sure I’ve been bad eno’ .... it’ll maybe make my
heart a bit lighter that’s such a weight to me.’

They arranged a chair, and knelt by it side by side, the brother and
sister, still so young in years, and yet with such evident traces of
recent trouble that their young faces had assumed an older look. Nat’s
features were already in the transition-time, and some of the charm of
his boyish grace was gone; but Annie was yet more lovely than before,
though her illness had left her pale and delicate; and the black dress
that hung so loosely on her figure set off the bright hair which had
not yet a widow’s cap. They knelt together with their clasped hands
almost touching, and after a pause of a minute Nat began; the simple
gravity of his boyish earnestness breathing as with new meaning the
familiar words:

‘_Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed from
Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and
desires of our own hearts. We have offended against Thy holy laws...._’

So far he proceeded, and then a great sob caught his breath, the
familiar words had become all too painful. Annie waited an instant to
see if he would recover; then her soft voice took up the words, and he
followed her:

‘_We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we
have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no
health in us;_’

‘_But Thou, O Lord_,’ proceeded Nat, to whom she left the precedence,
‘_have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare Thou them, O God,
which confess their faults. Restore Thou them that are penitent;
According ... According ..._ Annie,’ cried out Nat, in the greatest
agitation, ‘I don’t remember how it goes! I don’t remember how it
goes!’

He remembered well enough, but he had become unnerved; and in his
emotion the familiar words were lost. Annie quieted him with a touch
upon his arm; and went on speaking as if there had not been a pause.

‘_According to Thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus our
Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for His sake; That we may
hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, To the glory of Thy
holy Name. Amen._’

And Nat repeated after her, ‘_Amen._’

For a minute they waited, and then rose up from their knees; and Nat
took his sister into a close embrace; it was not possible for words to
pass between them in that moment when their kisses met, and each face
was wet with tears. Then they separated; and, moving quietly about
the room, he began to put together some things that he would need.

‘Nat,’ cried Annie, with a sudden impulse, ‘you shall be the baby’s
godfather.’

He stood still, looking at her, and she went on, speaking rapidly;
‘I’ll get some one in the village here to stand for you. An’ when you
come home .... you can tell me about t’ boy .... if I don’t bring him
up right you can let me know. Mr Lee’ll be the t’other, I daresay; but
that won’t be the same; I shall be glad to think as you will be near
the child!’

Was that like Annie, so proud and self-sufficient, so scornful of the
brother with whom she had shared her youth? Nat was very much touched,
so much moved he could not speak; he went to the baby and kissed it,
and then turned to her again. For a while he stood by her, and held her
in his arms--his grasp had already the strong clasp of a man.

‘We’ll be better children,’ said Annie, as soon as she could speak.
‘An’ we’ll do better by mother as has been so good to us. The doctor’s
feared she won’t be so strong again; but we’ll try to do well by her,
we owe her that! Oh, I must be going; I am too tired already; but I’m
glad to have seen you this once, Nat, good-night.’

They kissed and separated; and the next day, in the morning, Nat said
farewell to his relations, and set off for the town; not again,
perhaps, to be brought so close to his sister as in the white heat of
penitence which for a while had made them one. Yet never in vain
is it for two human souls to be brought thus near together before the
throne of God; that evening must have remained as a sanctifying
influence in the minds and the lives of Annie and of Nat. They were not
soon to meet; he went to work in London; and Annie was to share with
her mother the home of Mr Lee.

That morning passed on, and before the strokes of noon the whole air
was full of the sound of wedding-bells. Alice Robson and Tim Nicol had
a bright day for their marriage; and many were the friends who came to
see the sight. Neither Jenny nor her daughter were present at the
wedding--there were reasons why their absence was not astonishing; but
they had sent their warmest good-will to the bridegroom and the bride,
and with that a tea-service; and they received some wedding-cake. This
marriage might not perhaps make old friendship closer, but their
friends had been faithful to them all the same, and no tenderer
memories cling about our days than those of the friends who have stood
near our distress. Such faithfulness merits the best that earth can
give, and even on earth it gains a sure reward.


And so our story draws to its close at length--the story of an episode
in village-life, not of occurrences altogether ordinary, and yet not
unlike much that passes day by day. In Warton the memory of the Salters
was enduring, and the remembrance also of the events with which we
have concerned ourselves--mingled, as I have said, with some natural
dissatisfaction at a certain incompleteness of justice to be discovered
in the tale. I have said that such discontent was natural--but, for my
own part, I am not strictly just, and, however certain of the necessity
of traps and cats, am liable to inclinations in favour of the safety of
the mouse. And, for such reasons, I cannot bring myself to be sorry
that the children of Jenny, though not always wise or right, had their
feet restored to the paths of peace and comfort, and even to higher
hopes than their birth warranted. I think the possession of these
new-found relations did much to bring happiness to Mr Lee, shaken by
the tragic event of his nephew’s death, and by the uncertainty in which
his niece’s life was lost. The old man made efforts to discover Tina
Gillan, but they proved fruitless, and at length he sought no more.

Poor Jenny! It seems to me I see her now, in the position of Mr Lee’s
house-mistress and friend, a gentle creature, with a timid, patient
manner, with quiet movements, and soft hair streaked with grey. Her
memory had never entirely recovered from the physical strain of one
dreadful New Year’s Eve; for her health had been broken before by many
troubles, and it was not possible for her to regain her former
strength. But she understood that her children were honoured and were
happy, under the friendship and patronage of the Squire and Mr
Lee, and that years only brought an added tenderness to the behaviour
of her boy and girl to her. If she was glad it was with a quiet
happiness--she knew not how she had deserved it, or, how it had come to
her--only that her bark had floated at last into peaceful waters, after
many years of clouded, troubled life. Perhaps Nat understood--Nat,
happy, useful, honoured, with an ever-widening education, and with ever
higher hopes; or perhaps Annie knew--beautiful, admired, and
prosperous, in spite of the shadow of sorrow that rested always on her
face; her children had more education than herself, and could
understand better how things should come to be, could look back on the
timid love that had trained and tended them, and in their worst moments
had risen, and proved itself strong to save. Such love, unobtrusive,
unpraised, unknown to fame, may be found in our homes through the whole
length of our land; unrewarded sometimes--but the ‘Infinite Pity is
sufficient’ for even the ‘infinite pathos’ of a mother’s life.


I was standing the other day by the side of a low tombstone, grey,
green with age, lying horizontally in the grass, with winter bareness
round it, itself chipped and defaced, without any inscription visible,
and only a faint mark of a cross. And I remembered how in the summer
months I had been attracted to it by a sight that made another kind of
suggestiveness--the little blue speedwells which, springing close
to it, converted it into harmony with their loveliness. So tender, so
gracious, with such power to consecrate, are such influences as the
mother’s love, which lay their soft colours against the hard stones of
our lives, and transform that which might else seem sad and broken into
beauty.

THE END




Transcriber’s Note


This transcription is based on scans made available by the British
Library:

  https://historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-000841726

The following changes were made to the printed text:

• p. 15: a young work an was leaning outside the railings of the
chapel--Changed “work an” to “workman”.

• p. 69: thee think’st a deal o’ thysel;’--Moved the apostrophe after
the semicolon to before the semicolon.

• p. 93: he drew down his eyebrows into a more decided frown.’--Deleted
the closing single quotation mark.

• p. 101: there was at last a sound of foot-steps--Changed “foot-steps”
to “footsteps”.

• p. 106: have you seen t’ Thackbusk when its late at night--Changed
“its” to “it’s”.

• p. 124: an’ was not t’ mother’s son.’--Deleted the closing single
quotation mark at the end of the sentence.

• p. 143: he did not know how to spend his money ,... and if these
young relations would submit to him--Changed the comma after “money” to
a period.

• p. 147: ‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an’ it please
ye,--Deleted the apostrophe after “an”.

• p. 152: she veiled with one hand whilst she held out the other--Added
a period to the end of the sentence.

• p. 154: her mother had not heard her foot-steps on the stairs--Changed
“foot-steps” to “footsteps”.

• p. 193: ‘Why, ye’re not eatin’ much, Tim, said Mr Robson across the
table--Inserted a closing single quotation mark after the comma after
“Tim”.

• p. 193: ‘I should be right down glad, Tim, to hear ye’d a lass,’ she
said; it ’ud help to settle ye--Inserted an opening single quotation
mark before “it”.

• p. 209: ‘Oh,’ if she was good and would do you good,’ cried
Alice--Deleted the closing single quotation mark after “Oh”.

• p. 264: Thus, tempest-tossed, shaken, with no definite resolution, be
found himself--Changed “be” to “he”.

Inconsistencies of spelling and hyphenation were not changed, except
where otherwise noted.