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.