ALL else, however, had not departed yet from the wilful life that seemed openly disgraced—for, although Annie had been found on the door-step in the darkness, there were still true hearts beating with anxiety for her. And of these the truest might have been found that evening at supper together in the kitchen of the Farm—a special supper in honour of the lodger, for Tim had been away, and had returned that night.
He sat in the great kitchen, which at this time of the night was shuttered, for always at nine o’clock the house was closed and barred. The ceremony might have been omitted on that evening, for it was a stifling, breathless night, and the closing of the shutters seemed to shut in the heat. But Mr Robson was great on some ceremonies, he had his own notions of forms and propriety.
No matter! the kitchen at any rate was bright enough, for the big lamp was lighted, and the candles in the brass candlesticks; and an ample meal was spread upon the kitchen table, prepared by the skilful hands of the farmer’s wife. The farm-boy was there, and little Molly, and Mr Robson, his wife, and Alice, as well as Tim—they did not always have supper together, but Mrs Robson had said that they should ‘all have a spread’ that night. She was possibly aware that they would have a subject for conversation, for the best of women like to gossip now and then; though her husband would have disclaimed that taste on his own account, for he was accustomed to say that he did not like idle talk.
He had the appearance of a fine old gentleman, Farmer Robson, as he sat in his usual place with his broad back to the fireplace, his ordinary position in winter as well as summer, for village backs can endure a surprising amount of heat. The accident which had injured his limbs had left him his faculties, and he was still shrewd on farming matters, although, perhaps on account of the idleness permitted to an invalid, there was a look of peaceful repose upon his face—a broad-featured face to which age had been kind, since it was now crowned with the beauty of snowy hair. A life of comparative indolence, without the restlessness induced by education (which even in times of indolence will not permit the mind to be still), is a fine, quiet reservoir for the facts and maxims that can be stored easily through uneventful days. Mr Robson had not been reckoned more wise than other men until the accident which made him an invalid, but he was now considered to be a village sage, whose sayings could be quoted as of authority. As this reputation caused him to be visited it must be owned that it gave occasion sometimes to ‘idle talk;’ but then these gossipping visitors had the advantage of receiving the wisdom that they came to hear. In fine, Mr Robson, in spite of his affliction, might be considered a happy, peaceful man—an affectionate husband besides, and a most doting father, who ascribed the virtues of his daughter entirely to himself. Alice sat by his side now that she might wait on him, for this duty belonged to her at every meal.
Mrs Robson, who sat at the other end of the table, with her daughter opposite, and her husband on her left hand, was not pleased to see Alice so pale and quiet that evening, as if she had not recovered from the anxiety of the day. ‘If she’d ’a been downright fond of Annie Salter I might ha’ understood it,’ the farmer’s wife reflected; ‘though, e’en then, she ought to ha’ more spirit than to appear to be in mournin’ for a girl as has made hersel’ an open shame an’ sin. She’s troubled perhaps about Nat, because she’s known him so long; but I daresay the lad’s like his sister, no better nor he ought to be. I never did like his bein’ up here every night; but Miss Gillan seems done wi’ him, and that’s as well.’ In all which reflections, though they were made without much pondering, the farmer’s wife was more accurate than she knew.
On the other side of the table to the farmer sat Tim, Molly, and the boy-about-the-place, who on that evening was allowed to stay to supper, because he had been kept so late at work. The boy was small, dull, light-haired, with an overweighted look, which was due perhaps to the poverty of his home; and he did not even rouse himself to pay attention to little Molly, although she would have been more than ready to accept such interest. For little Molly, although unprovided with novelettes to train her feelings, was always in love with someone at the Farm; her affections had already been reached by Nat, Tim, and the farm-boy besides Mr Gillan who was ‘a gentleman.’ Molly had been at Board School, but she remained quite ignorant, without even a knowledge of the laws of right and wrong, always ready for bribes and little pilferings, such as stolen lumps of sugar, when Mrs Robson’s back was turned. She sat on this occasion between Tim and the farm-boy, who were neither of them disposed to look at her, although she made timid offerings of salt and mustard, which were not received with much apparent gratitude. Tim was pale, and inclined to be silent and absorbed; he was glad that the farmer’s daughter seemed disposed to be silent too.
Poor Tim! The shock of unexpected tidings that morning had occurred just before he set out for the Farm, and was doubtless the reason that he came back to its shelter without being visibly improved by his holiday. He could not get rid of a ceaseless, foolish regret that he had not been the man to find Annie the night before; ‘for then there needn’t ha’ been no gossip over her, sin’ I’d never ’a breathed a word to any soul.’ Alas! the gossip was only too well started now, although he shrank from the thought of it as from the touch of fire; murmuring always, ‘If I could ha’ found her; if I only could ha’ found her—they’ll make her a byword now in all t’ place.’ With these inward voices to hear, it is not to be wondered at that Tim sat silent, and ate as little as he could; and that he appeared to be even more thin than usual, although his wound had healed without leaving a second scar. Of all the company he was the most absorbed, though Alice was almost as down-cast as himself.
There was one other present who must not be omitted, the black dog who had been brought up on the Farm; and who, as a recognised favourite, wandered round the table, thrusting a cold nose into the hand of anyone who would receive the gift. Peter was of the correct colours, black and tan, with a curly coat, and also a bushy tail; but he had a peculiarity which the farmer could not forgive—his ears, instead of drooping, stood straight up on his head, and were capable, in moments of excitement and agitation, of being laid back after the manner of a horse. He wandered about, and distributed his favours, but to Alice he attached himself more particularly, although she only bestowed on him such absent notice as we give to the child who would fain disturb our thoughts. For Alice was visibly lost in thought that evening, in spite of the surprise and vexation of her mother. There was one at the table who was not surprised or vexed—Tim felt more in sympathy with the farmer’s daughter than he had ever been before.
Perhaps it may have been true that he had never observed her before, for Alice was a maiden whom it was possible not to observe; and even those who had been long acquainted with her were not always able to describe her face—her charm consisting chiefly in the minuter details, the quiet tones of her voice, or the order of her dress. To-night she looked downcast, but that made her face more expressive, and Tim observed it with a new interest. At any rate, they were not all triumphant, there was one who was grieved and anxious like himself.
‘Why, ye’re not eatin’ much, Tim,’ said Mr Robson across the table; ‘have some of the cheese, it’s rare and good, I can tell ye. Ye’ve not brought much appetite back wi’ ye to the Farm; have ye left it all wi’ t’ lasses of the town?’ Mr Robson considered a mild jest of this sort to be a concession to the weakness of the young, and therefore not to be included under the head of ‘idle talk.’ His wife, however, took up the subject more seriously; she had perhaps her own reasons for pursuing it.