‘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.