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,’