‘So you’ve been a-spyin’, Alice Robson,’ Nat screamed out in a frenzy—the overmastering frenzy, which is the result of rage and shame; ‘you do things as t’ dirt in t’ street ’ud be ashamed to own, and then speak to me as if ye was t’ parson, an’ had t’ right to preach. I’ll make ye t’ laughing-stock of all t’ lads, I will! I’ll tell ’em as ye cared about me though I’ve never cared for ye! Ye’ve gi’en me a lot o’ preaching as ye thort must win my heart, but I’ve never had a grain o’ love for ye—did ye ever think I had?’
He flung out the words as men fling blows in darkness, intent upon striking and hurting if they can; and, as if borne backwards by the violence of his passion, the farmer’s daughter retreated, and leant against a seat. For one instant her face was averted, and he could only see that she trembled; but then, with no visible effort, she turned to him again. Her voice sounded gentle, restrained, in the intense silence of the church; it was evident that she had regained her self-control.
‘Nat,’ said Alice, gently, though with a slight quiver in her tone, ‘there was mother with me, she’s heard and seen everything. Ye had better speak to her, ask her to be quiet; she might do ye harm with the village and the Squire.’
It is impossible to say what there was in her tone and manner that made these words have the sound of a farewell, but he understood them—he knew that a sense of duty would not allow her to leave him without a warning even then. She was turning away, but she changed her mind, and stood still, leaning her hand upon the back of a seat; her voice was as gentle in its utterance as that of a child, who wishes to confess a fault. ‘I’m sorry I’ve given you trouble,’ those soft tones said to him; and she went on to the great doors, reached them, and was gone. Her footstep was only just audible on the stones, but it had the sound of the departure of a friend.
And he—left alone in the darkening autumn evening, which was all the more dark and still within the church—he flung himself over the backs of the nearest seats, and lay there with his arms hanging down, and his face towards the ground, a shadowy, strangely extended figure in the gloom. He did not move, he was too miserable to move, he could not rouse himself to either tears or prayers. Some tears gathered slowly at length, so slowly that they could not fall—he dropped to his feet, and stole out into the night.
[CHAPTER XXV
TIM AND ANNIE]
WHILST Nat lay alone in the dark church the lamp had been lighted for the evening in his home, and in the room with yellow rafters Tim sat by Annie’s side. It was the first time he had seen her since the summer morning when he had gone to visit her with anxiety in his heart. That anxiety had now become unspeakable pain and dread; but it was at least some comfort to be by her side again.
And that comfort was all the greater because Annie was so gentle, so much more gentle than he had expected her to be. Her old fierceness appeared to have deserted her; she had the patience, the languor of an invalid. Upon her shoulders her beautiful hair was resting—she excused herself for its condition by saying that she had been too weak to fasten it—and her wan, delicate cheek leant upon her hand as she sat and looked into the fire. Tim had never seen her in such a mood before; he sat down by her side, but he could not speak to her.
‘Mother’s gone out,’ said Annie, speaking softly, ‘I don’t know when she’ll be back. But it won’t be long .... I’m not sorry. I wanted to think. I can’t think while she is near.’ And then, as if afraid that he would misunderstand her and be vexed, she raised her dark eyes almost timidly, and looked at him. ‘It is good of you to come and see me, Tim,’ she said.