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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1cb68cd --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66367 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66367) diff --git a/old/66367-0.txt b/old/66367-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e29f9db..0000000 --- a/old/66367-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7246 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jenny, by M. A. Curtois - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Jenny - A Village Idyl - -Author: M. A. Curtois - -Release Date: September 23, 2021 [eBook #66367] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Paul Haxo from images graciously made available by - Historical Texts and the British Library. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JENNY *** - - - - - -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. - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JENNY *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- padding-top:0.25em; - padding-left:0.5em; - padding-right:0.5em; - margin-right: 1.5em; - margin-left: 1.5em; - margin-top: 2em; - font-size: 88%; - background: #eeeeee; - border: solid 0.1em - } -h3.tnote { - letter-spacing: 0; - font-style:italic; - font-size: 110%; - font-weight: bold; - padding-top:0em; - padding-bottom:0.4em; - line-height:100%; - margin-bottom:0em - } -div.tnote p { - padding-left: 0; - padding-top: 0.25em; - margin-left: 0; - } -ul { - margin-top: 0.5em; - margin-bottom: 0 - } -li { - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - } -div.tnote p.link { - padding-left: 0; - text-indent: 0em; - text-align: center; - padding-top: 0.4em; - line-height: 100%; - padding-bottom: 0.4em - } -</style> -</head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Jenny, by M. A. Curtois</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Jenny</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:1em;'>A Village Idyl</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: M. A. Curtois</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 23, 2021 [eBook #66367]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Paul Haxo from images graciously made available by Historical Texts and the British Library.</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JENNY ***</div> -<div class="image"> -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" width="80%" title="" /> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter titlepage" id="Title_page"> -<h1> -JENNY -</h1> -<p class="subtitle"> -A Village Idyl -</p> -<p class="by"> -BY -</p> -<p class="author"> -M. A. CURTOIS -</p> -<p class="author1"> -<i>Author of</i> ‘<i>Elf-Knights</i>,’ ‘<i>Tracked</i>,’ ‘<i>My Best Pupil</i>,’ <i>&c.</i> -</p> -<div class="epigraph_container"> -<div class="epigraph"> -<p class="epigraph"> -‘Nothing but the Infinite Pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of -human life.’<br /> -<span class="epi_credit"> -—John Inglesant.</span> -</p> -</div> -</div> -<p class="publisher"> -<i>London</i><br /> -<span class="smallish">EDEN, REMINGTON & CO., PUBLISHERS</span><br /> -<small>HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN</small> -</p> - -<hr class="tp" /> - -<p class="center reallysmall"> -ALL RIGHTS RESERVED -</p> -<p class="center nobottom"> -1890 -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="Contents"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" class="toc" summary="Table of Contents"> -<tbody> -<tr> -<td colspan="3"><h3 class="toc">CONTENTS</h3></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdr_chap nobottom"><span class="reallysmall">CHAP.</span></td> - -<td class="tdr nobottom"> </td> - -<td class="tdr nobottom"><span class="reallysmall">PAGE</span></td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">I. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_01_toc"><a href="#Chapter_01_hdg">IN THE TRAIN</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">1</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">II. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_02_toc"><a href="#Chapter_02_hdg">IN THE VILLAGE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">8</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">III. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_03_toc"><a href="#Chapter_03_hdg">A RANTAN</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">17</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">IV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_04_toc"><a href="#Chapter_04_hdg">THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">24</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">V. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_05_toc"><a href="#Chapter_05_hdg">AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">31</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">VI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_06_toc"><a href="#Chapter_06_hdg">THE NEXT MORNING</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">46</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">VII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_07_toc"><a href="#Chapter_07_hdg">TIM</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">53</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">VIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_08_toc"><a href="#Chapter_08_hdg">A MORNING CALL</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">60</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">IX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_09_toc"><a href="#Chapter_09_hdg">AT THE FARM</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">72</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">X. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_10_toc"><a href="#Chapter_10_hdg">AN AFTERNOON VISITOR</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">84</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_11_toc"><a href="#Chapter_11_hdg">THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">103</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_12_toc"><a href="#Chapter_12_hdg">A CLASS MEETING</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">111</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_13_toc"><a href="#Chapter_13_hdg">THE RETURN OF THE FATHER, AND THE LAST OF THE RANTAN</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">123</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XIV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_14_toc"><a href="#Chapter_14_hdg">IN SUMMER DAYS</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">130</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_15_toc"><a href="#Chapter_15_hdg">MR JAMES GILLAN MEETS HIS UNCLE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">135</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XVI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_16_toc"><a href="#Chapter_16_hdg">AN OMINOUS CONFLICT AND A FINAL RESOLVE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">140</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XVII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_17_toc"><a href="#Chapter_17_hdg">A PLEASANT EVENING</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">147</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XVIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_18_toc"><a href="#Chapter_18_hdg">A TERRIBLE NIGHT</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">154</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XIX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_19_toc"><a href="#Chapter_19_hdg">NAT AND THE SQUIRE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">157</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_20_toc"><a href="#Chapter_20_hdg">A BETRAYAL AND A FALL</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">165</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_21_toc"><a href="#Chapter_21_hdg">LYING ON THE DOOR-STEP</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">178</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_22_toc"><a href="#Chapter_22_hdg">IN THE HOME NEAR THE THACKBUSK</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">183</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_23_toc"><a href="#Chapter_23_hdg">ALICE AND TIM MAKE RESOLUTIONS</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">188</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXIV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_24_toc"><a href="#Chapter_24_hdg">NAT IN DESPAIR</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">202</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_25_toc"><a href="#Chapter_25_hdg">TIM AND ANNIE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">212</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXVI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_26_toc"><a href="#Chapter_26_hdg">IN WINTER NIGHTS</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">218</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXVII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_27_toc"><a href="#Chapter_27_hdg">JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">223</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXVIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_28_toc"><a href="#Chapter_28_hdg">A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">229</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXIX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_29_toc"><a href="#Chapter_29_hdg">THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">236</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXX. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_30_toc"><a href="#Chapter_30_hdg">BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">245</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXXI. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_31_toc"><a href="#Chapter_31_hdg">DRESSING FOR DINNER</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">252</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXXII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_32_toc"><a href="#Chapter_32_hdg">IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">257</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXXIII. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_33_toc"><a href="#Chapter_33_hdg">ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">263</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXXIV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_34_toc"><a href="#Chapter_34_hdg">A PARTING IN THE STREET</a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">272</td> -</tr> - -<tr> -<td class="tdrch">XXXV. </td> - -<td class="tdl" id="Chapter_35_toc"><a href="#Chapter_35_hdg">THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE </a></td> - -<td class="tdrpg">280</td> -</tr> -</tbody> -</table> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_01"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-1">[1]</a></span> -</p> -<p class="title"> -JENNY -</p> - -<hr class="tp" /> - -<h3 class="first" id="Chapter_01_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_01_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER I</span><br /> -<br /> -IN THE TRAIN</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-2">[2]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-3">[3]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘<i>Well</i>,’ she exclaimed, ‘not finished yet!’ The tradesman’s wife heard -her, and heaved a placid sigh. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah!’ she breathed out softly, ‘<i>and it never will be.</i>’ Her manner was -that of one who pronounces some final verdict. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-4">[4]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-5">[5]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-6">[6]</a></span> by the Thackbusk, and was Rob Salter’s -wife. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -As she stepped on to the platform of the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-7">[7]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_02"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-8">[8]</a></span> -</p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_02_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_02_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER II</span><br /> -<br /> -IN THE VILLAGE</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-9"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[9]</span></a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-10">[10]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-11">[11]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-12">[12]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-13">[13]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-14">[14]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-15">[15]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-16">[16]</a></span> 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!’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_03"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-17">[17]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_03_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_03_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER III</span><br /> -<br /> -A RANTAN</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-18"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[18]</span></a></span> the <i>Moral</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-19">[19]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -‘We are the Society—’ -</p> -<p> -‘Go it, Bill, go it,’ cried the lads in great excitement; ‘don’t spare -the langwidge, let’s have yer tongue a bit.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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—’ -</p> -<p> -‘Go it, Bill, then, go it,’ shouted all the lads in chorus. ‘We’ll all -support yer; give it ’em well; ’ooray!’ -</p> -<p> -‘—— ye all,’ cried Bill, beginning to swear in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-20">[20]</a></span> 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!’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -Bill ascended once more, but his ardour was gone. His speech came with -abruptness, snappily, in this wise: -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-21">[21]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-22">[22]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-23">[23]</a></span> to look after them; then it disappeared, and was not seen -again. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_04"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-24">[24]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_04_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_04_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER IV</span><br /> -<br /> -THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -I<small>N</small> 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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-25">[25]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-26">[26]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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’<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-27">[27]</a></span> 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!’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-28">[28]</a></span> mother and sister rested on him meanwhile, -with the silent opposition that is most hard to bear. -</p> -<p> -‘I want some tea,’ muttered Nat, with his hands in his pockets, -resolved to make the best of his position. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-29">[29]</a></span> able to rouse her -wrath. To-night she was sore with anxiety, shame, and pain; and, in -their own fashion, the gentle take revenge. -</p> -<p> -‘Ay, go off,’ she said; ‘that’ll be some comfort at least. If father -was here he’d hasten thy steps for thee.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-30">[30]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_05"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-31">[31]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_05_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_05_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER V</span><br /> -<br /> -AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -N<small>AT</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-32">[32]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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 <i>do</i> talk so of her, all the lads do!’ -</p> -<p> -With gleaming eyes, and a keen sense of<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-33">[33]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-34">[34]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-35">[35]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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.... -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-36">[36]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-37">[37]</a></span> had paused with her hand -upon the door, as if uncertain whether to proceed or not. -</p> - -<div class="verse_container"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘Whither upon thy way so fast,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">With morn scarce reddened, or darkness past?’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> - -<p class="i0 stanza">‘I am called to find a bridal bower,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">Where I may be free from hatred’s power,’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> - -<p class="i0 stanza">‘And where wilt find that bridal bower?</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">Ah! where wilt find that bridal bower?’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -‘If you please, miss, there’s a young man as wants to speak to you.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> - -<div class="verse_container"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘I am called to the river deep and wide,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">Where I and my love may rest, side by side,’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> - -<p class="i0 stanza">‘If thou so black a weird must dree,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">A curse is on thy love and thee,’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-38">[38]</a></span> again -the song vibrated, more wild and mournful still. -</p> - -<div class="verse_container"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘The curse be on them who thus have blest,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">Thy love shall find no earthly rest,’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> - -<p class="i0 stanza">‘Yet cold the river, and dark the night,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">And I fain would flee towards the light,’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> - -<p class="i0 stanza">‘My heart is cold, and my brain on fire,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">They are cold and burned with vain desire,’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<div class="verse_container"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘Ah! if one ray could shine again,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">I might be saved from death and pain,’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> - -<p class="i0 stanza">‘Let me alone, I dare not stay,</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>Christabel, Christabel</i>)</p> - -<p class="i0a">The voices are calling, I must away!’</p> - -<p class="i2">(<i>As dawns a summer’s morning</i>).</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -‘There, there!’ cried Miss Gillan, springing from her seat, with a -lightness and activity such<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-39">[39]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh! tell me who you are, and why you have come,’ she cried;’ I have -been so dull all<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-40">[40]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-41">[41]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘What is your name?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Nat Salter,’ he said, surprised at her altered manner, but too much -surprised to be offended yet. -</p> -<p> -‘Salter .... Salter .... I remember that name .... Do you know my -brother—have you come to speak to him?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘You have not come up here to receive a letter; you will not take away -a letter when you go?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-42">[42]</a></span> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘Is your sister pretty—do the village people think so?’ She seemed -somewhat amused to see him blush. -</p> -<p> -‘Some folk does, miss,’ answered Nat, with difficulty. She drew her -lips close and tight as she heard the words. -</p> -<p> -‘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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-43">[43]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-44">[44]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-45">[45]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_06"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-46">[46]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_06_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_06_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER VI</span><br /> -<br /> -THE NEXT MORNING</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -N<small>AT</small> 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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-47"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[47]</span></a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-48">[48]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-49">[49]</a></span> -however, that he was not to be let go, so he resigned himself with as -good a grace as he had. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-50">[50]</a></span> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -But Nat remained silent, as if he had not<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-51">[51]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-52">[52]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_07"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-53">[53]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_07_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_07_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER VII</span><br /> -<br /> -TIM</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -W<small>HO</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -This was his story. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-54">[54]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-55">[55]</a></span> wish to rear the -infant, Tim was left to the mercies of his uncle’s home. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -And now let us for a moment, think<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-56">[56]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-57">[57]</a></span> 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: <i>so</i> is everyone that is born of the Spirit.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-58">[58]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-59">[59]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_08"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-60">[60]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_08_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_08_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER VIII</span><br /> -<br /> -A MORNING CALL</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HAT</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-61">[61]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-62">[62]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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? -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-63">[63]</a></span> -‘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 <i>him</i>, no one in the village was without a good word for Tim! -</p> -<p> -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 <i>swain.</i> It may be, notwithstanding, that Annie did -not doubt—a beautiful girl is generally conscious of her power, and -the daughter was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-64">[64]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-65">[65]</a></span> 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! -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-66">[66]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-67">[67]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘<i>Do ye know him, Annie?</i>’ 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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-68">[68]</a></span> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-69">[69]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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 <i>had</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-70">[70]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-71">[71]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_09"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-72">[72]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_09_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_09_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER IX</span><br /> -<br /> -AT THE FARM</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-73"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[73]</span></a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-74">[74]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-75">[75]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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!’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-76">[76]</a></span> heart of Mr Lee. For Tina was going -with her brother to visit her relation—the uncle whom she had never -yet beheld. -</p> -<p> -‘I am sure he will be an old fogey,’ cried Tina, with a pout, ‘and that -anything pretty will be wasted upon <i>him;</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-77">[77]</a></span> could dress up in silk, and -do all things that I like!’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-78">[78]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-79">[79]</a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-80">[80]</a></span> 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!’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-81">[81]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-82">[82]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -Here, amidst the bright sunlight, and the shadows of the roofs, the -Robson’s pony-carriage<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-83">[83]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_10"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-84">[84]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_10_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_10_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER X</span><br /> -<br /> -AN AFTERNOON VISITOR</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -S<small>OME</small> hours afterwards occurred an extraordinary event; a visitor -appeared at the front-door of the Farm. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-85">[85]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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 <i>you’re</i> the lady, though you’re standing in -the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-86">[86]</a></span> porch, it’s not in my mind as I’ll have such luck as that!’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Why, <i>I’m</i> 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 <i>are</i> 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!’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-87">[87]</a></span> -‘I’m sure, sir,’ she said, ‘an’ it’s right enough you are—these <i>be</i> -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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -He paused to laugh with his loud guffaw, his two entertainers remaining -silent at his side. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-88">[88]</a></span> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-89">[89]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-90">[90]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-91">[91]</a></span> 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: -</p> - -<div class="verse_container"> -<div class="verse slightlylarge"> -<p class="i0 padleft1"> -‘F<small>OR</small> <small>THE</small> <small>LOVELY</small> T<small>INA</small>,</p> - -<p class="i2 padleft1"> -F<small>ROM</small> <small>ONE</small> <small>OF</small> <small>HER</small> S<small>LAVES</small>.’ -</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah, ha! My niece—the young lady that lives here—this is her room, -you say?’ Mrs Robson assented with humility. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-92">[92]</a></span> -‘And this—all this—<i>rubbish</i>—this belongs to her?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-93">[93]</a></span> like to say—my niece is an orphan, but she can take care -of herself.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘The boy, my nephew! you must know him by now; doesn’t he live here -with his sister?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -‘He’s in the town most-whiles, sir,’ murmured Mrs Robson, with a -hesitation that was more<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-94">[94]</a></span> marked than before. Alice stood meanwhile -by her mother, grim and silent; these questions on the absent did not -commend themselves to her. -</p> -<p> -‘In the town—ah! yes—I daresay—what does he do there?’ -</p> -<p> -‘I don’t know, sir.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Hum—hum—’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-95">[95]</a></span> to -meditate, and then turned round again to the farmer’s wife. -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-96">[96]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -It was a picture to be remembered, and that he did not forget—that -sight of the hill in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-97">[97]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-98">[98]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p class="break2"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-99">[99]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-100">[100]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-101">[101]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-102">[102]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_11"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-103">[103]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_11_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_11_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XI</span><br /> -<br /> -THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-104">[104]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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 ...’ -</p> -<p> -The deep sigh with which she broke off did not escape her companion, -and Alice looked up<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-105">[105]</a></span> anxiously. Annie did not resent the glance, she -appeared to welcome it; at that moment she must have felt in need of -sympathy. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-106">[106]</a></span> on us have trials; an’ I’m sure it’s true, -so I suppose it must be so.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-107">[107]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-108">[108]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-109">[109]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-110">[110]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_12"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-111">[111]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_12_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_12_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XII</span><br /> -<br /> -A CLASS MEETING</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-112"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[112]</span></a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-113">[113]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -He appeared to be taken with nervousness, a circumstance which -surprised the members,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-114">[114]</a></span> 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 <i>something</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -Ah! the Voice, the Voice in our hearts that comes to us from above, -that speaks in our ears<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-115">[115]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-116">[116]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘Jane Smithson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with -you.’ -</p> -<p> -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 <i>so</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-117">[117]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘Alice Robson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with -you.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-118">[118]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-119">[119]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-120">[120]</a></span> 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?’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-121">[121]</a></span> 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. -</p> - -<div class="verse_container2"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘When the weary, seeking rest, to Thy goodness flee,</p> - -<p class="i0a">When the heavy-laden cast all their load on Thee,</p> - -<p class="i0a">When the troubled, seeking peace, on Thy name shall call,</p> - -<p class="i0a">When the sinner, seeking life, at Thy feet shall fall ...</p> - -<p class="i0a">Hear then, in love, O Lord, the cry, from heaven, Thy dwelling-place on -high.’</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -The voices ceased, the members knelt, prayed silently, rose again, the -Class meeting was over.... -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-122">[122]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_13"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-123">[123]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_13_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_13_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XIII</span><br /> -<br /> -THE RETURN OF THE FATHER AND THE LAST OF THE RANTAN</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -Y<small>ES</small>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-124"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[124]</span></a></span> -face aflame. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -And Rob faltered with tears that t’ boy had a fine spirit—he was <i>his</i> -boy, an’ was not t’ mother’s son. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-125">[125]</a></span> touched a drop sin’ I was -here. But <i>ye</i> will kiss me—an’ then ye’ll come wi’ me—an’ we’ll make -our fortunes, an’ get away fro’ here.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-126">[126]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-127">[127]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘Ye needn’t fear, missus,’ cried our old<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-128">[128]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-129">[129]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_14"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-130">[130]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_14_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_14_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XIV</span><br /> -<br /> -IN SUMMER DAYS</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-131">[131]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -And yet ... -</p> -<p> -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—<i>that</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-132">[132]</a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-133">[133]</a></span> falls. And -yet—dare we say that any feet are safe from peril—we who are aware of -the countless snares of life? -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -So matters were going on that August afternoon when Mr James Gillan -mounted his horse in the Manor yard, whilst the pigeons<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-134">[134]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_15"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-135">[135]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_15_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_15_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XV</span><br /> -<br /> -MR JAMES GILLAN MEETS HIS UNCLE</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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! -</p> -<p> -Mr Lee, on his part, had found no difficulty<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-136">[136]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-137">[137]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-138">[138]</a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-139">[139]</a></span> very great change -after all, but Mr Lee was always accustomed to cling to all purposes -with tenacity. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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.’ -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_16"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-140">[140]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_16_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_16_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XVI</span><br /> -<br /> -AN OMINOUS CONFLICT AND A FINAL RESOLVE</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -‘I <small>HAVE</small> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. ‘<i>Oh, -would it have been better</i>,’ this was the cry of the conflict, ‘<i>if I -had made up my mind to that, and had not come here at all?</i>’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-141">[141]</a></span> some real instruction too, to which ye can turn -your heads and hands to-day.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-142">[142]</a></span> that all that ye think ye may expect from me?’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-143">[143]</a></span> 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 .... -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-144">[144]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-145">[145]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘The old snake,’ muttered James Gillan, in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-146">[146]</a></span> 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 <i>him</i>—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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_17"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-147">[147]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_17_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_17_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XVII</span><br /> -<br /> -A PLEASANT EVENING</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -O<small>N</small> 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. -</p> - -<div class="verse_container2"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘O where are you going with your love-locks flowing,</p> - -<p class="i0a">On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’</p> - -<p class="i0">‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,</p> - -<p class="i0a">We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -‘What is that?’ asked Nat, startled by the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-148">[148]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘<i>This</i> 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. -</p> - -<div class="verse_container2"> -<div class="verse"> -<p class="i0">‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,</p> - -<p class="i0a">Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’</p> - -<p class="i0">‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’</p> - -<p class="i0">‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body, which waits the eternal term.’</p> - -<p ><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-149"><span class="slightlylarge">[149]</span></a></span></p> - -<p class="i0 stanza2">‘Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:</p> - -<p class="i0a">This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell’s own track.’</p> - -<p class="i0">‘Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting:</p> - -<p class="i0a">This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’</p> -</div> -</div> - -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-150">[150]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-151">[151]</a></span> 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.... -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-152">[152]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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 -<i>life.</i>’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-153">[153]</a></span> raise, she -whispered that he was her friend, her <i>only</i> friend. The words lingered -like music in his ears as he went out from the Farm into the dark -village-streets. -</p> -<p class="break2"> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_18"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-154">[154]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_18_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_18_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XVIII</span><br /> -<br /> -A TERRIBLE NIGHT</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -Y<small>ES</small>—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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-155"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[155]</span></a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-156">[156]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_19"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-157">[157]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_19_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_19_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XIX</span><br /> -<br /> -NAT AND THE SQUIRE</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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 <i>lad.</i>’ -</p> -<p> -Still human pity is produced by impulses<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-158">[158]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-159">[159]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>wild</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-160">[160]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-161">[161]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah, yes .... I know .... your mother .... an honest woman ....’ he -murmured over his writing, for he had bent his head<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-162">[162]</a></span> again; and then, -when he had finished and laid aside his pen, he added a few more words -with a gentle utterance. -</p> -<p> -‘You are in trouble to-day?’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, sir, we are.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Would you rather not be sent into the town? Is there anything else you -wish to do? Tell me.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I can’t do no good, sir; I’d as lieve be there as here.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You do not wish then to be near your mother?’ -</p> -<p> -‘No, sir.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Have you had any news yet .... of your sister?’ -</p> -<p> -‘No.’ -</p> -<p> -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,’<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-163">[163]</a></span> he said to -himself inwardly; ‘the boy is an honest lad, and I will do what I can -for him.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -The boy left the room, and the Squire sat down and wrote. It was a long -epistle, addressed to his old friend, Mr Lee. -</p> -<p> -‘.... 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.’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-164">[164]</a></span> -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? -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_20"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-165">[165]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_20_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_20_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XX</span><br /> -<br /> -A BETRAYAL AND A FALL</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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.’<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-166">[166]</a></span> ‘She wouldn’t ’a cared if it had -been <i>me</i>;’ 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; <i>he</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-167">[167]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>must</i> keep his word to Miss -Gillan even if he were disgraced for it. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-168">[168]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -He walked on again. He felt calm, happy, his mind was at rest. And -then, all at once, a reaction seized him once more. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-169">[169]</a></span> -outside of it that she <i>wished</i> to see—it was only an idea, a fancy -that she had, she would not do anything to bring him into disgrace. -‘She <i>likes</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-170">[170]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="break2"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-171">[171]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="break2"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-172">[172]</a></span> is to say, if the ‘downhill path’ will allow of ‘turning -back.’ -</p> -<p class="break2"> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-173">[173]</a></span> moment came -she might have been terrified, if only .... only .... it had not been -all so quickly done. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-174">[174]</a></span> the old kitchen, and stole upstairs to her -room. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-175">[175]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -Tina wept; and at some distance the companion of her danger was -returning with an<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-176">[176]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-177">[177]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_21"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-178">[178]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_21_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_21_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXI</span><br /> -<br /> -LYING ON THE DOOR-STEP</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -I<small>F</small> 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? -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-179">[179]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-180">[180]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-181">[181]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘I came to Mrs Salter,’ she said, ‘with the best intentions—<i>with the -best intentions</i>,’ 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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘Ah, Jenny’s a proud spirit,’ chimed in Mrs<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-182">[182]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_22"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-183">[183]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_22_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_22_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXII</span><br /> -<br /> -IN THE HOME NEAR THE THACKBUSK</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-184">[184]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-185">[185]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-186">[186]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-187">[187]</a></span> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_23"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-188">[188]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_23_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_23_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXIII</span><br /> -<br /> -ALICE AND TIM MAKE RESOLUTIONS</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -A<small>LL</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-189">[189]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-190">[190]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -On the other side of the table to the farmer<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-191">[191]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-192">[192]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-193">[193]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘I should be right down glad, Tim, to hear ye’d a lass,’ she said; ‘it -’ud help to settle ye<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-194">[194]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-195">[195]</a></span> 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!’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-196">[196]</a></span> heads to hear; then they turned to each other, and their -glances met. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-197">[197]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-198">[198]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-199">[199]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-200">[200]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-201">[201]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_24"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-202">[202]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_24_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_24_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXIV</span><br /> -<br /> -NAT IN DESPAIR</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-203">[203]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>might</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-204">[204]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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!’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-205">[205]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-206">[206]</a></span> 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 <i>his</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-207">[207]</a></span> 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 -<i>that</i> it would not matter what became of him. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-208">[208]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -A terrible moment! He felt blind and faint,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-209">[209]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh what have you done, Nat, what will become of you? Mother came to -fetch her hymn-book, she has heard and seen everything.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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!<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-210">[210]</a></span> 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?’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-211">[211]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_25"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-212">[212]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_25_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_25_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXV</span><br /> -<br /> -TIM AND ANNIE</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -W<small>HILST</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘Mother’s gone out,’ said Annie, speaking softly, ‘I don’t know when -she’ll be back.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-213">[213]</a></span> 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 <i>is</i> good of you to come and see me, -Tim,’ she said. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-214">[214]</a></span> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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 ....<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-215">[215]</a></span> 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 ....’ -</p> -<p> -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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-216">[216]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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 .... -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-217">[217]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_26"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-218">[218]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_26_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_26_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXVI</span><br /> -<br /> -IN WINTER NIGHTS</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -B<small>UT</small>, 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-219">[219]</a></span> that spoke of ‘a gentleman,’ but -they were but rumours and had no support in facts. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-220">[220]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-221">[221]</a></span> sympathy. But it is the sheep in the fold who -can thus draw near to each other; the wanderers are in darkness and -alone. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-222">[222]</a></span> cold and in the darkness, for darkness -and solitude seemed companionship. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_27"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-223">[223]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_27_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_27_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXVII</span><br /> -<br /> -JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -O<small>N</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-224">[224]</a></span> 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 -.... -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -He had seen Annie—Annie Salter—it was her daughter’s name! A sudden, -tingling<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-225">[225]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-226">[226]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-227">[227]</a></span> 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.... -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-228">[228]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_28"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-229">[229]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_28_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_28_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXVIII</span><br /> -<br /> -A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -‘O<small>H</small>, 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-230">[230]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘Ah, it’s a poor tale,’ cried Mrs Jones, with due severity—‘a poor -tale when young ’omen behaves theirsens like this.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘I hope ye see now what she’ve come to,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-231">[231]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-232">[232]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -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.’ -</p> -<p> -He had spoken so fiercely that he was quite<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-233">[233]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-234">[234]</a></span> been gathering so long had risen at length like a flood and -she had sunk.... -</p> -<p class="break2"> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-235">[235]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_29"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-236">[236]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_29_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_29_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXIX</span><br /> -<br /> -THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -W<small>HILST</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -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! -</p> -<p> -‘If I had not known you for so many years,’<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-237">[237]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘Did you open my letter?’ he asked, after a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-238">[238]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘No, sir, I did not.’ -</p> -<p> -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 <i>never</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-239">[239]</a></span> sealed, he knew that he -had been condemned from the moment that he attracted the suspicion of -the Squire. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, sir, it was.’ There had been a pause before Nat could speak. -</p> -<p> -‘And it had been opened then?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Not as I know on, sir.’ -</p> -<p> -‘You brought it to me?’ -</p> -<p> -‘Yes, sir—’ but with hesitation. -</p> -<p> -‘Was it opened in your presence?’ -</p> -<p> -‘No, sir, it was not.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘We will have no whimpering,’ said the Squire, sternly. ‘Come, sir, -control yourself, and answer one more question—Did you seal<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-240">[240]</a></span> this -envelope with your own hands, or did you not?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-241">[241]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -We ascribe merciful actions to the merciful, and Mr Arundel-Mallory was -not a man of mercy; the kindness and even consideration<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-242">[242]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘Listen! <i>You!</i>’ he said, with a movement of his hand to enforce -attention. ‘And do not<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-243">[243]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-244">[244]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_30"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-245">[245]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_30_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_30_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXX</span><br /> -<br /> -BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -A<small>ND</small> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘He says I am afraid,’ said Nat, ‘afraid—afraid.’ -</p> -<p> -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.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-246">[246]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-247">[247]</a></span> would be driven to madness if there -were any obstacle. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-248">[248]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-249">[249]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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). -‘<span class="lftspc">“</span>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.”<span class="lftspc">’</span> -</p> -<p> -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, “<i>Go</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-250">[250]</a></span> Jenny Salter, though t’ lass an’ t’ lad have -not done well by her.’ -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="break2 nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-251">[251]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_31"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-252">[252]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_31_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_31_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXXI</span><br /> -<br /> -DRESSING FOR DINNER</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -A<small>ND</small>, 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! -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-253">[253]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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 <i>that one</i>, 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-254">[254]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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! -</p> -<p> -She rose to her feet, and stood upright, pretty Tina! her arms clasped -behind her back,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-255">[255]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-256">[256]</a></span> 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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_32"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-257">[257]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_32_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_32_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXXII</span><br /> -<br /> -IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -‘I<small>F</small> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-258">[258]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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’<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-259">[259]</a></span> has been a bad husband; an’ t’ boy an’ t’ girl are all -that I have left.’ -</p> -<p> -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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-260">[260]</a></span> -‘Do you know this woman?’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘You have not known this woman. I will take your word for it. Have you -been also a stranger to this woman’s daughter?’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘Oh, <i>that!</i> .... I don’t know .... it may have been some mischief of -my sister’s .... my sister is a wild girl and is sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-261">[261]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -With a hand on the arm of each, and a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-262">[262]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -‘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!’ -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_33"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-263">[263]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_33_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_33_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXXIII</span><br /> -<br /> -ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -I<small>F</small> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-264"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[264]</span></a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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! -</p> -<p> -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! -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -Oh, how was it possible, thus taken unprepared, to know in what -direction an answer<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-265">[265]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-266">[266]</a></span> -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?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-267">[267]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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 <i>married</i> 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!’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-268">[268]</a></span> 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! -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-269">[269]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-270">[270]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-271">[271]</a></span> 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. -‘<i>This is Annie, Jenny Salter’s daughter, who lives by the Thackbusk!</i>’ -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_34"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-272">[272]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_34_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_34_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXXIV</span><br /> -<br /> -A PARTING IN THE STREET</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -T<small>HE</small> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-273"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[273]</span></a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-274"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[274]</span></a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘Take me away from the river. I cannot bear to see it. I am going mad. -Take me away from it.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-275">[275]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -Tina only muttered, ‘Take me away from the river-side. I cannot bear -it. Take me right away from it.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-276">[276]</a></span> -side. It was dark there, and silent, and no light shone upon them; the -street was deserted, there were no passers-by. -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-277">[277]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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!’ -</p> -<p> -‘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. -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-278">[278]</a></span> shillen .... if ye will take ’em from me ... it’ll be the -last thing as I can do for ye.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -After a while, still clinging to him, ‘I will<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-279">[279]</a></span> write to the Squire, -and send him the note. It doesn’t hurt <i>now</i> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_35"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-280">[280]</a></span></p> - -<h3 id="Chapter_35_hdg"> -<a href="#Chapter_35_toc"><span class="large spaced2">CHAPTER XXXV</span><br /> -<br /> -THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE</a> -</h3> -<p class="first"> -S<small>O</small> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-281"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[281]</span></a></span> punishment—there were some, on the contrary, who would even -be <i>rewarded</i>, 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 <i>do</i> -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. -</p> -<p class="break"> -*<span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span><span class="lftspc_brk">*</span> -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-282">[282]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -Nat did not answer—it may be that he remembered why, on his part, -he could not go to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-283">[283]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-284">[284]</a></span> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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?’ -</p> -<p> -‘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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-285">[285]</a></span> 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.’ -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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: -</p> -<p> -‘<i>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....</i>’ -</p> -<p> -So far he proceeded, and then a great sob<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-286">[286]</a></span> 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: -</p> -<p> -‘<i>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;</i>’ -</p> -<p> -‘<i>But Thou, O Lord</i>,’ proceeded Nat, to whom she left the precedence, -‘<i>have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare Thou them, O God, -which confess their faults. Restore Thou them that are penitent; -According ... According ...</i> Annie,’ cried out Nat, in the greatest -agitation, ‘I don’t remember how it goes! I don’t remember how it -goes!’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘<i>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.</i>’ -</p> -<p> -And Nat repeated after her, ‘<i>Amen.</i>’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-287">[287]</a></span> quietly about -the room, he began to put together some things that he would need. -</p> -<p> -‘Nat,’ cried Annie, with a sudden impulse, ‘you shall be the baby’s -godfather.’ -</p> -<p> -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!’ -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -‘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.’ -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-288">[288]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p class="break2"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-289">[289]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-290">[290]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="break2"> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-291">[291]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="end"> -THE END -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter tnote" id="Transcriber_Note"> -<h3 class="tnote" id="tnote">Transcriber’s Note</h3> - -<p class="tnote"> -This transcription is based on scans made available by the British -Library: -</p> -<p class="link"> -<a href="https://historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-000841726"></a> -historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-000841726 -</p> - -<p class="tnote"> -The following changes were made to the printed text: -</p> -<ul> -<li> -p. 15: a young work an was leaning outside the railings of the -chapel—Changed “work an” to “workman”. -</li> -<li> -p. 69: thee think’st a deal o’ thysel;’—Moved the apostrophe after -the semicolon to before the semicolon. -</li> -<li> -p. 93: he drew down his eyebrows into a more decided frown.’—Deleted -the closing single quotation mark. -</li> -<li> -p. 101: there was at last a sound of foot-steps—Changed “foot-steps” -to “footsteps”. -</li> -<li> -p. 106: have you seen t’ Thackbusk when its late at night—Changed -“its” to “it’s”. -</li> -<li> -p. 124: an’ was not t’ mother’s son.’—Deleted the closing single -quotation mark at the end of the sentence. -</li> -<li> -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. -</li> -<li> -p. 147: ‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an’ it please -ye,—Deleted the apostrophe after “an”. -</li> -<li> -p. 152: she veiled with one hand whilst she held out the other—Added -a period to the end of the sentence. -</li> -<li> -p. 154: her mother had not heard her foot-steps on the stairs—Changed -“foot-steps” to “footsteps”. -</li> -<li> -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”. -</li> -<li> -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”. -</li> -<li> -p. 209: ‘Oh,’ if she was good and would do you good,’ cried -Alice—Deleted the closing single quotation mark after “Oh”. -</li> -<li> -p. 264: Thus, tempest-tossed, shaken, with no definite resolution, be -found himself—Changed “be” to “he”. -</li> -</ul> -<p class="tnote noindent"> -Inconsistencies of spelling and hyphenation were not changed, except -where otherwise noted. -</p> -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JENNY ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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