‘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.