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.