JENNY

A Village Idyl

BY

M. A. CURTOIS

Author of ‘Elf-Knights,’ ‘Tracked,’ ‘My Best Pupil,’ &c.

‘Nothing but the Infinite Pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of human life.’
—John Inglesant.

London
EDEN, REMINGTON & CO., PUBLISHERS
HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

1890

JENNY

[CHAPTER I
IN THE TRAIN]

THE chimes of the cathedral had just announced the hour of six when the train left the station, and passing the tall chimneys which were overshadowed by the cathedral towers steamed out into the country beyond the town.

The July day was sinking into evening, an evening light that was soft and mellow in spite of the line of stormcloud above the cathedral. It was the first bright day that had been known for many weeks, and all available hands had been turned to work upon the hay which, green and damp still from recent experiences, was lying spread or in haycocks on the ground. Here and there, on soil close to the river’s brink, the masses of purple loosestrife made a glow of colour; or in some uncut field where the grass was short and brown the dark red cows were pasturing quietly; or now and then one, unconsciously picturesque, would be standing on the bank of the river, a distinct picture there. The train steamed onwards with its scanty freight of passengers, between the lines of the river and the canal, in the midst of the quiet fields and the mellow evening light.

The freight of passengers, as I have said, was scanty, for indeed not many had left the town that evening—the foundrymen, even those who lodged in villages, having, for the most part, tramped off to their homes an hour before; whilst, as it was Thursday, and therefore not market-day, no women with market-baskets were to be expected in the train. Some few, however, were returning from their friends; and some workmen had lingered for the advantage of the ‘ride;’ while there was also, of course, a small proportion of those who were journeying to some distant town, some of these being strangers much interested in the cathedral, and others less interested inhabitants of the city. All these different classes of people were represented, at any rate, in one third-class railway carriage—a railway carriage in which we must journey too.

A dark gipsy-looking woman, with fierce eyebrows and eyes, who had a dark little girl by her side, seemed to be a stranger to the town, for she sat by one of the windows and with excited gestures pointed out the cathedral to the child in the corner opposite, whilst she was observed placidly by a motherly tradesman’s wife who was conveying to her daughter in a distant village some parcels of groceries from her husband’s shop. In another corner, neatly dressed and quiet, was a young woman who had the appearance of the wife of a village workman; and opposite to her a lad in working-clothes, pale, grimy, and over-tired, lounged at his ease. These passengers did not appear to know each other, and conversation did not flow easily; with the exception of one or two spasmodic efforts, which fell back rapidly into silence. These had been made by the gipsy-looking woman, who seemed to be one of those people who are disposed to talk.

The first cause of her remarks had been the sight of some scaffolding which had been erected about one of the cathedral towers, and which appeared to excite her very much, for she leant her head out of the window that she might be able to observe it more closely. Then she drew in her head again with a laugh that was short and dry, and an expression that appeared to border on contempt.

‘Well,’ she exclaimed, ‘not finished yet!’ The tradesman’s wife heard her, and heaved a placid sigh.

‘Ah!’ she breathed out softly, ‘and it never will be.’ Her manner was that of one who pronounces some final verdict.

‘An’ yet it must ha’ been many years abuilding,’ the stranger remarked, with renewed contempt, again leaning out of the window, with her eyes fixed upon the venerable towers above the town. Her remark was a challenge, or at least was taken as such, and the tradesman’s wife hastened to explain herself.

‘You see,’ she said, ‘it’s a fack as I have heerd, as all the cathedrals belong to the Roman Catholliks, an’ they keeps the woorkmen always at woork upon ’em, for fear lest the Catholliks should take ’em. For they ca’ant take ’em, as I’ve heerd, till they be done, so them as manages do contrive to keep ’em out!’

This extraordinary historical statement was received with a slight snort but with no incredulity, and the conversation fell once more into silence. The dark woman, however, was not to be daunted, and after a while burst into speech again.

‘I’m a-goin’ a good way,’ she said, ‘nigh to the sea, to a child o’ mine as has been ill; I don’t think they’ve done to her all they should ’a done, an’ I’m going to see to it or know the reason why!’ She did not make this remark to the passenger facing her, but threw it out for the benefit of all who heard, and it seemed to attract the attention of the young woman opposite, who was seated in the farther corner of the carriage. She raised her head, as if she had been herself addressed, and her words came as if against her will.

‘I’ve a child at home as is badly,’ she said, and then she sighed. Her words and manner were both very quiet, but there was something in them so simple and pathetic that they arrested the observation of the others, and for the moment all eyes were turned on her. The stranger honoured her with a bold and steady stare; the wife of the shopkeeper turned towards her with compassion; whilst even the foundry lad, to whom she seemed familiar, let his glance rest curiously upon her for a while. Indeed, it must be confessed with regard to her appearance, that these various eyes might have been worse employed.

She has been described as young, for her slight and youthful figure gave that impression to all who saw her first, but a closer inspection soon revealed the fact that she must have owned between thirty and forty years. Her face, too, was more worn than might have been expected, although it had preserved much of the delicate beauty of its outline—a beauty, however, so unobtrusive in character that it needed some close attention to observe it. She had the simple attire of a village workman’s wife, without any of the fineries in which the wives of workmen occasionally indulge, a gown of dark stuff, although it was summer time, a rusty black jacket, and a close-fitting bonnet of black straw, already old and limp. The lad could have told the others who she was, although he had not much acquaintance with her himself; and he might also have been able to give some explanation of the look of sadness upon her patient face. This was Jenny Salter, who lived in the village of Warton, who lived by the Thackbusk, and was Rob Salter’s wife.

Her appearance was too quiet to maintain the interest she had excited, the curiosity slackened, and the conversation dropped; save when the irrepressible stranger now and then made some remark on the fields or on the cows. Jenny shrank into her corner with her face turned to the window, and her mind occupied with tender yearning over her sick child at home; whilst the lad opposite, who had been disturbed by his looks at her, began turning over in his mind, with some compunction, the thought of a certain ‘rare game’ with which she was connected, and in which, in common with the other lads of the village, he intended to be engaged that night. His compunction did not extend to a renunciation of his purpose, but it made him a little uneasy all the same.

And now the train was beginning to slacken speed, and already could be seen the irregular lines of village roofs, the grey church-tower just peeping above the trees on the hill, and, beneath, the red chapel that had been lately built. With the timidity of a nervous nature, Jenny Salter rose to her feet before the train had stopped, and hastened to take her basket on her arm, that she might be found quite ready to descend. The movement recalled to her something that her dress kept concealed, a bruise on her shoulder that a man’s clenched hand had left.

As she stepped on to the platform of the station, and looked wearily up the river, aglow with evening light, the sight that she saw was one that might have attracted a mind less preoccupied than her own. For the line of storm-cloud was heavy above the cathedral, and beneath was the glory of an intensely golden radiance, against which the hill that was crowned with cathedral towers stood out as a shadow of deepest purple. Jenny looked on these things, but seeing did not see them; she gave up her ticket, and turned towards the village and her home.

[CHAPTER II
IN THE VILLAGE]

THE village of Warton is situated on the river, about three miles from the cathedral town of Lindum, and commands a good view of the cathedral towers, and, from its highest ground, a wide outlook over the Fens. It slopes upwards from the river to the summit of a little hill, on the side of which are the church-tower, and the trees round the old grey Hall; and, to the left, the irregular village street, with its old-fashioned roofs of red tiles, or of thatch, the churchyard gates, and the old village tree beneath which are some ancient stone steps, once surmounted by a cross. Below the hill the road, which is at a right angle to this principal street of the village, pursues on one side its way to the town, at some distance from the triple lines of the river, railway, and canal; and, on the other, winding to a greater distance from them finds its way out into the great stretch of Fenland, which is bordered on the far horizon by the blue line of the Wolds. It is a quiet village, whose inhabitants are more artisan than agricultural; for the town of Lindum, although three miles away, is near enough to supply them with employment, to which the men and lads tramp through the darkness of winter mornings, or the pale light and mists of the earlier summer dawns.

Here, then, in this place had Jenny Salter lived, although she was not by descent a native of the village, for her father, Nat Phillips, had once lived close to London, and had only by accident drifted to the north. He had happened to hear, through a friend, when he was out of work, of some foundry employment that could be found in Lindum, and, the result of his journey proving beyond his hopes, he had settled down in the village near the town. The country people are habitually averse to strangers; they looked with suspicion upon this unknown workman, and would not admit him to any intimacy. It was only when years had proved his harmlessness; and, more especially, after he had married a village girl, that they condescended to be favourable, and could be heard to say that they knew ‘no harm’ of him. By this time, however, the timid, delicate Phillips had become obscured from another cause, he was hidden from sight by the superior qualities of the lady who went by the name of ‘Mrs Nat.’

In many villages there is some admirable woman who acts as a sort of oracle to the rest, who is an authority on all village matters, and rules supreme with a rod to which iron is soft. Mrs Phillips was one of these superior creatures, and as such was recognised in all the place; the daughters of the Rector did not command much more deference, and were not to the same extent called upon to rule—it was enough for them to teach in the Sunday School, to assist in prize-givings, and to pour out tea at entertainments. Mrs Nat had brought some money to her husband with herself; and, besides that, he earned good wages in the town; she was able to appear in a silk gown on Sundays, and her income was not limited by her charities. For it was one of the principles of Mrs Nat not to give away anything to any cause whatever, and all sorts of collectors had all sorts of stories of the results of making appeals to her in her home. A hard, uneducated, vigorous, despotic woman, with much local knowledge and unassailable ignorance, she ruled alike over her husband and her neighbours, kept her home in order, and her children neat, sold the chickens she reared in the town on market-days, and asserted her authority on all occasions without dispute. Her husband, meanwhile, submitted to her sway, left his children and his wages entirely in her hands, read books and newspapers when she allowed him to be quiet, was a competent workman, and a continual invalid. They lived in a house in the lower street of the village, rather larger than those which other workmen owned, with a view from the back-windows of the canal and railway lines, with iron railings in front, and a brass knocker on the door.

In this house had Jenny spent her early years, a shy, timid child, continually found fault with by her mother for being slow, and otherwise attracting little notice from anyone. She had inherited, indeed, from her father the beauty of her face, but it was a quiet beauty, not readily observed; she was a delicate creature, easily tired and frightened, not likely to reign as a belle amongst the lads. The other children of Mrs Nat were boys, bold, black-eyed urchins, who were their mother’s pride, and she had not much affection for the only girl, who was not in any particular like herself. Jenny crept silently about the house, shrank away from scoldings into solitary corners, climbed up on her father’s knee when her brothers were not near, admired her mother, and felt herself dull and slow. At that time, as afterwards, she was willing to accept the estimate that other people formed of her; she early learned that conviction of unworthiness which is scarcely to be unlearned in later life. A gentle creature, timid and patient, she sang her songs low to herself, and was content.

It was not in the least to be expected that poor Jenny would have power over her fate when her fate came in her way, and indeed her mother assumed the complete control, and did not require her to have an opinion for herself. Mrs Nat took a liking to the dark-eyed, handsome, young fellow who, in those days, haunted the house persistently, professing himself willing to leave the sea-coast where he had lived, to settle in the village, and find work in the town. Mrs Nat found him lively, and loved to joke with him; the father was secretly uneasy, but dared not express his doubts; and Rob Salter himself had a fancy for the welcome and the suppers, and the pretty child who was shy when he looked at her. In those days they would often make excursions to the sea, and Rob would be generous and pay for everyone; and Jenny loved the tumbling waves, and the long, low line of sand-banks, and the bare, flat fields that gleamed in the evening light. It was on one of those evenings when he stood alone with her on the shore, and a pale light made a mystery of the sea and sands, that he whispered to her, and it was all arranged. The father and mother were merry as they travelled back that night; it was well for them that they did not live to see the rest.

For it was all settled, and there was a quiet wedding-day, and Jenny returned after two days to a cottage of her own, and it was all so wonderful that she could not imagine how she should ever get over the wonder of it. And yet, after all, it was but a common-place experience, and she settled down, by degrees, to her cottage-home, though the first weeks of her new life were overshadowed by such grief as she had not known before. For Nat Phillips came home with a fever from the town, and his wife caught it from him as she nursed him that night, and in the course of a few days both were dead, and Jenny followed her parents to their grave. She was overwhelmed with grief and bewilderment; she could not imagine herself without her mother’s rule; and the villagers, who had more knowledge than she had of her husband, shook their heads over the thought that the protection of her parents was lost. Of this, however, they said nothing to the young wife; and, perhaps, if they had done so, she would not have understood.

No, she did not understand, and although in that first year of marriage, Rob left his young bride continually alone, although his varied employments seemed to take him in all directions, she was not suspicious, and she did not complain. It was natural that he should not stay with her (‘him so clever!’), of course he had plenty of other things to do; the meekness that had not rebelled at her mother’s harshness was not even surprised at her husband’s indifference. She had something to console her, for before a year was over her little Annie was born, and the next year her little Nat, and the care and affection she lavished on her babies made such an opportunity for love as she had not known before. She had been only just seventeen at the time she married, and was barely nineteen when her last child was born.

And so the years slipped away slowly, one by one, in the simple employments of a workman’s wife, marked by the continual development of the children, and by drunken outbursts too frequently from Rob. But, as years went on he was still less at home, and even when he professed to be there he was not seen there often, though Jenny often sat up for him all the night that she might open the door as soon as his step was heard. No home in the village was kept more daintily, no children were prettier or more neatly dressed, the heavy poverty that pressed continually had nothing repulsive in its outward signs. But the neighbours complained that Mrs Salter kept herself too much apart; she had the reserve of sorrow, and preferred to be alone.

More than eighteen years had passed since Jenny’s wedding day, and she had lived in the same place all the time, for the vagaries and expenses of her husband had never left him able to provide a larger house. At the foot of the hill there is a public-house, and by the side of it is a tiny lane, a lane that is not many feet in length, and is closed by a gate that leads out into the fields. Rob owned the old, whitewashed, red-tiled cottage that was nearest to the gate, with a little garden at the side, between it and the field. It was not large enough for a growing family, but those who are poor must do the best they can.

And, certainly, if there was not much room in the cottage the same thing could not be said of the fields beyond, the wide, marshy fields that stretched down to the canal, and were known as the ‘Thackbusk’ by the village-folk. There were silver-grey willows in those wide-stretching fields, and masses of elder in the summer-time, and above could be seen the red roofs of the village, and far in the distance the grey cathedral towers. The Thackbusk allowed you plenty of room to play; the children of Jenny knew that very well.

But those children were almost man and woman on that July evening when Jenny left the train, and walked alone down the street beneath the hill with the bruise on her shoulder, and a sore weight on her heart. Some red cows passed peaceably by her as she went, with the urchin who drove them loitering behind; and a young workman was leaning outside the railings of the chapel, proud of holding his baby in his arms. Jenny went on alone, with her head bent always downwards, and her mind in her child’s sick-room, and in tender contrivances, and the burdens that were both of memory and foreboding pressing their habitual weight upon her heart till she did not hear the good-evening of a neighbour who stood at his door with his pipe in his mouth. The man’s eyes followed her curiously as she walked, but she did not turn round, so she was not aware of it.

‘Well, mother, you have been a while,’ were the words that greeted her, as she slowly opened her cottage-door at last, not prepared for the fever-worn face that raised itself from the cushions of the great wooden arm-chair on the hearth. ‘You wouldn’t expect to see me here downstairs, but I couldn’t rest after what Mrs Beeton said—she says that they’re going to Rantan us through the village—I wish I was a man, that I might kill them all! We’ll never get over this even’, never, never; we had best leave the place as soon’s this night is done!’

These were not the most cheering words to come as greeting to an anxious heart at the close of a weary day; but Jenny, although they struck her like a blow, was more alarmed for her daughter than herself. With renewed anxiety she laid aside her bonnet, and came to the hearth to bend above her child; and Annie raised slowly her languid, beautiful face, shaken with the sobs that she had till then restrained. We will leave them to cling to each other, and to whisper, and go out into the village street to learn the rest.

[CHAPTER III
A RANTAN]

THE dying sunlight was bright on fields and Fens, and had still a radiance for roofs and corners of walls, when a motley assemblage of men, and lads, and children gathered together by degrees before a public-house. They were in the principal street of the village, some little way up the hill; they had brought with them banners, and sticks, and many pots and pans; and, to judge from the shouts of laughter that echoed continually, the highest good-humour prevailed. The merriment was occasioned chiefly by the lads, some of whom had blacked their faces, whilst some wore their coats inside out; and others had decorated themselves with wigs and whiskers, or had improved their eyebrows by great smears of burnt cork. A prominent figure was a hideous effigy, who was stuffed with rags, and clothed with coat and trousers, with a pipe stuck in his mouth beneath a battered hat, and a great stick fiercely brandished in his hand. This effigy was to be carried in the midst of the procession, the object of it, and the mark for general scorn; this frightful figure embodying the Moral of all the fun and excitement of the night. For this was a Society that had a Moral, as the flags and banners abundantly proclaimed.

These were many and various, but the numerous inscriptions all tended to the same end, or gave the same advice—the object apparently being to terrify those guilty of the special sin that was rebuked. The largest proclaimed the name of the Society, ‘Society for promoting Peace between Man and Wife’—another asked what should be the penalty of wife-beaters, and answered, ‘Lynching,’ in enormous letters of red—whilst a third contained a rude but spirited picture, which represented a criminal being hanged. The others bore similar mottoes, and were composed of odds and ends both of paper and of stuff, and those who carried them appeared highly proud to exhibit their burdens to all who came to look. The enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when the effigy was placed on a ladder and carried shoulder high; it was greeted with howls, and a clash of sticks and pans, and the procession formed hastily, and started on its way. With tumult, shouting, indescribable uproar, the Rantan proceeded on its course up the hill.

It passed the green, with its old steps, and village pump, and the old church, dusky against the dark trees of the Hall, and still wound upwards with clashing of pans and kettles, and incessant hooting and groaning from the lads. At the top of the hill it turned round to the right, where trees looked over the wall of the Manor Farm, and in front of the red school-house before which white lilies gleamed, it came for the first time to a halt. By this time the crowd had become very much augmented, some one or two hundred being assembled now.

The procession had paused, and now were begun some fresh arrangements which appeared to indicate an intended speech, since a young man, most fiercely adorned with burnt cork smudges, mounted up on a white gate to the right hand of the house. But it was not easy to check the enthusiasm of the lads, which expressed itself in brays, and hooting, and clashing of the pans; and for some while he remained on his elevation without any possibility of making himself heard. At last, after frantic waving of his arms, some sort of silence was produced, and he began:

‘We are the Society—’

‘Go it, Bill, go it,’ cried the lads in great excitement; ‘don’t spare the langwidge, let’s have yer tongue a bit.’

‘We are the Society for preserving Pe-ace; we do-ant believe in strife betwixt man and wife; we says when a man’s bin an’ swore like to a woman—’

‘Go it, Bill, then, go it,’ shouted all the lads in chorus. ‘We’ll all support yer; give it ’em well; ’ooray!’

‘—— ye all,’ cried Bill, beginning to swear in earnest, ‘what do ye mean by interruptin’ me? I’ll leather ye when I get ye,’ cried Bill, forgetting his peacefulness; ‘ye young uns shall feel my hands, I tell ye that!’

‘Hold back there, ye fools,’ proclaimed an older man; ‘can’t ye let a man be when he sets forth to speak? There isn’t a grain o’ sense amidst the lot; one ’ud think ye were bred upon folly, and not on milk.’

‘We’re on’y supportin’ of him,’ a lad urged, sulkily, ‘we thort it ’ud do him good to have a cheer. Here, Bill, ye get up,’ for Bill was going to descend, ‘an’ we’ll let be for a while, an’ hear ye out.’

Bill ascended once more, but his ardour was gone. His speech came with abruptness, snappily, in this wise:

‘It’s a known fack as men marry. A man as marries had better live at peace. And him as doesn’t set for to do his dooty had best be taught in this manner so to do. That’s all.’

‘Why, Bill, it’s not over,’ cried out the lads; ‘ye don’t mean to say as ye’ve got done a’ready.’ But Bill was not to be tempted to proceed.

‘A man speaks short,’ he replied, candidly, ‘when he spe-aks to fools. Help me down.’ With that he descended from his elevation, and the Rantan proceeded upon its way again.

It reached in due course the corner of the road, where the sunlight was golden between the trees on the left, and golden radiance and vivid shadows of trees fell in light and darkness upon the Manor wall. And now, down below, could be seen the distant country, bright and dim like some beautiful fairyland, and the long soft shadows upon the field of grass, and on the other side the Squire’s house, grey among the trees. They went down the steep road, shouting, clashing, hooting, the evening stillness rebuking them as they went, and reached the bottom of the hill without any interruption, and turned forthwith into the lower village street. Men and women stood at their gates to see them pass, the mothers holding their babies in their arms; and little children, too young to join in the tumult, babbled at them with great excitement and delight. There were none who objected to the discordant interruption that might have been heard for miles around; the sympathy of the villagers went with it, and no one would have ventured to attempt to interfere. This was partly due to a primitive sense of justice, and partly because Rob Salter had the unpopularity he deserved, but partly also to a sort of pleasure in the excitement, which in the quiet village made a kind of festival. The procession clashed onwards, gathering numbers as it went, and turned down by the public-house to Rob Salter’s home.

So quiet and still! the cottage stood in the shadows, with the evening light upon the gate and field beyond, with bolted door, and with blinds closely drawn—there was no sign of any drunken outbreaks here. But here, as at a resting-place, the procession halted, and gathered together all its strength, and rattled, hooted, groaned, shouted, and clashed, until its hideous clamour might be said to surpass itself. There was no answer, no sign that they were heard, the two women cowered together in their home; and after some five minutes of serenading had elapsed, the procession turned round, and went on its way again. It went along the road to the Fens as if it would get out into the country; and then, once more turning, proceeded up the hill, this time by more devious ways to the left of the village, with fields on one side of it, and the glowing Fens below. To the right, below a wall, there was a deserted stone-pit, all covered and shrouded with ivy and trees, and beneath that wall crouched an unseen auditor, a young lad who lay and listened, but who dared not raise his head. The procession of men would have known him if he had shown his face; he was Nat Salter, who was Rob Salter’s son.

There was another witness of whom they were more aware, for as they passed once more by the bushes of the Manor Farm it was observed by a few amongst the lads that the dark eyes of a girl were peeping from over the fence at them. The boys who observed her whispered amongst each other, and cast furtive glances, and appeared to feel interest; but the demands of business would not allow of delay, and they were obliged to go onwards with the rest. For one moment the dark face was raised to look after them; then it disappeared, and was not seen again.

Unheeding, the Rantan went round and round the village, for the enthusiasm was not exhausted soon; and with tumult, shouting, and some attempts at speeches, the hours of the evening were uproariously worn away. Once, twice more it paused before Jenny Salter’s home, and brayed, and clashed, and groaned out its loudest there; but the cottage remained, as before, closed and dark, and after a prolonged pause each time it went on again. The red, lovely glow that hovered round the horizon turned pale and faded, and the dimness of twilight came, the first stars began to shine out in the sky, and slowly the darkness of night encompassed all. And then the procession poured into a field upon the hill, and there gave vent to some final hoots and groans, and then all dispersed in their several directions, and left the fields and the village to the silence of the night. The boy who had been in hiding by the stone-pit, had waited to be sure that they had all dispersed; he raised his head now, and looked around with caution, and then through the darkness and stillness he stole off to his home.

[CHAPTER IV
THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED]

IN that home the lamp had been lighted for the evening, and the mother and daughter sat in silence at their work, for the timid efforts of poor Jenny at conversation had been negatived by the determined silence of her child. Yet, though Annie had been quiet, it had not been the quietness of resignation, she had trembled and quivered like a frightened animal; and during the uproar that had been three times repeated had been scarcely able to keep herself in her seat. It had not been terror by which she was moved, but rage; a rage that glowed in her eyes and worked in her troubled lips, a condition of feeling that was no doubt assisted by her physical weakness, but which was yet such shattering agitation as only the sensitive can feel. Her face had inherited much beauty from her mother, but it was a more vivid beauty, more easily seen and felt; and in its best moments had never the look of patience that had belonged to her mother in her girlish days. Yet, as I have said, the eyes of any stranger would, no doubt, have proclaimed her the more beautiful of the two.

Jenny sat by the lamp and threaded her needle quietly, her delicate features distinct against the light, the outline of her cheek a little marred by the hollow which had been wrought slowly by age, and care, and time. Her daughter reclined in Rob’s great, red-cushioned chair, her unbound hair lying loosely round her face, to which it served as a more radiant background, for her dark eyes were weary and her cheeks were pale. She always suffered from her own impatience, poor Annie, she had the constitution that vibrates too easily.

But, indeed, both mother and daughter were suffering to-night, and the same trouble weighed on the hearts of both, to an extent that would have surprised those who are ignorant how keenly even the scantily educated can feel. A delicate fastidiousness is not at all uncommon amongst those who shelter beneath cottage roofs; and these two women both felt disgraced and branded by the public ceremony that had rattled out their woes. Jenny bent to this new trial as she always did to trial, with no thought of protesting against her calamities; but Annie opposed to it the fierce impatience which her physical weakness left her scarce able to express. She kept turning from side to side on her red cushions, with the restlessness that is not able to be still.

‘Where’s Nat,’ she asked suddenly when, weary at last of movement, she lay still, perforce, for a moment in her seat; and, as if the question roused a sudden anxiety, Jenny let her work fall in her lap. Indeed, through all the excitement of the evening she had had no leisure in which to think of her son.

‘I can’t think,’ she replied tremulously, in a voice which had her father’s gentleness to lend its soft utterance to the accent of her mother’s ‘folk;’ ‘I haven’t set eyes on him sin’ twelve o’clock, when he came in, an’ took his meal, and went again. Ah! I’m sorry to think he’ll be comin’ through the village; it’s a bad night for him to be out in all the fuss.’

‘He won’t care about that,’ muttered Annie with a toss, for Annie and Nat were very rarely friends; ‘it’s like as he’ll on’y think it a bit o’ fun; he’s no sense to see into things, boys never have! It’s full time he should be findin’ work to do, and not be a-loiterin’ an’ dawdlin’ here; sin’ he’s so proud o’ the notice that the Squire takes o’ him, the Squire had best get him a place, an’ send him off. Here he is.’

For, as she had been speaking, the door had opened; and, as she broke off, Nat came into the room; he came in softly and with a shamefaced expression, as one who is conscious that he is very late. And, indeed, as Jenny laid down her work on her knees, there was something of severity in her eyes as she looked at him.

‘An’ where ha’ ye been, Nat, all this while?’ she asked, ‘a-leavin’ of Annie, as might ha’ wanted ye—I doubt ye’ve not worked on the allotment ground, or done any good wi’ yoursel’ through all the day! There isn’t much use in ye when ye’re out o’ work, ye go off an’ play, an’ there’s an end of all!’

‘Why, mother, I haven’t played up till noon to-day,’ said Nat, ‘and I’m goin’ at the hay to-morrow, ye know I am; there isn’t a lad in all the village as doesn’t like to have a bit o’ game sometimes. I’ve been lookin’ at them to-night,’ and his eyes sparkled; ‘I had a fine sight of ’em, though they didn’t know I was near.’

‘Ye’ve been an’ looked at ’em,’ cried Jenny, rising, with a wrath most unusual glowing in her face; ‘ye’ve been an’ took part in all their wicked ways as bring shame on the father, an’ me, an’ all on us! I didn’t think it of thee, Nat, not e’en o’ thee; ye’re a wicked boy, an’ I’ll not forget thy work.’

‘I told ye so, mother,’ cried Annie from her cushions; ‘I told ye he wouldn’t care, and ’ud think it fun. Ye’ll believe me, perhaps, next time when I speak of him, though ye always take his part whatever comes to us.’

‘I did but hide by the stone-pit,’ muttered Nat, dismayed at the storms that were rushing on his head; ‘there wasn’t an eye of ’em all as saw me, but of course ye find fault wi’ me, ye always do.’

He pulled out a chair, and threw himself down upon it, an expression of sullen resistance on his face, thrusting out his legs in a most determined manner, and screwing his mouth as if he were whistling silently. The eyes of his mother and sister rested on him meanwhile, with the silent opposition that is most hard to bear.

‘I want some tea,’ muttered Nat, with his hands in his pockets, resolved to make the best of his position.

‘The things is locked up,’ his mother replied, ‘and I can’t be troubled to get ’em out for ye. I don’t care to give ye tea when ye do such tricks as them.’

‘All right, I’m not hungry,’ the boy said, with a gulp, as if he were exercising some control upon himself; he had seen, no doubt, the tears in his mother’s eyes, and did not wish to continue the dispute. But Jenny received the remark as an expression of indifference, and her unwonted anger could no longer be restrained.

‘I wish ye would go to bed,’ she cried out to him; ‘I can’t bear the look of ye, indeed I can’t.’ The boy got up in a sulky, slouching way, as if he were delaying the operation as long as possible; an expression which almost served to conceal the fact that, after all, he was doing as he was told. Unlike his sister, who did not practise obedience, Nat generally yielded, although defiantly; his mother, poor soul, was scarce conscious of the fact, she only observed the defiance, as mothers often do. Her daughter was always consistently imperious, but to her daughter she was accustomed to submit; it was the imperfect obedience of her son that, far more often, was able to rouse her wrath. To-night she was sore with anxiety, shame, and pain; and, in their own fashion, the gentle take revenge.

‘Ay, go off,’ she said; ‘that’ll be some comfort at least. If father was here he’d hasten thy steps for thee.’

‘Look here, mother,’ cried Nat, stopping short, and with a gasp, for his nature was as emotional as it was passionate, ‘ye’ve no call to say all these things to me, as if I’d been settin’ on to do ye harm..... What do it matter what t’ village says o’ father? I’m sure he merits the worst as they can say..... But I doubt if I’d stuck to him i’sted o’ ye he’d not send me hungered to bed as ye do now.’ His words were caught suddenly with a sob, and, turning hastily, he ran out of the room. The sound of the door he banged made echoes there, but the two women did not disturb them by their words.

Annie turned round upon her cushions, glad of the absence of her brother, because it left her able to shed a few tears unperceived; whilst her mother bent over the sewing in her hand, with trembling fingers that could scarce guide her thread. With the reaction of a timid and conscientious nature, she was now being seized with terror, uneasy about her boy, and sure that he might be ill if he went for so many hours without a meal. Although quite certain that he would reject any food, she longed to go to his room, and entreat him to come and eat; at the same time being not at all ready to forgive him, for her anger was enduring, although it was not strong. She would have stolen up the stairs to his bedside, but she dared not move with her daughter so near to her.

It is probable that her son would not have received her well; but the attempt at reconciliation might have produced some result; it might, at any rate, have averted an adventure that was to produce enduring consequences. For when poor Jenny, about an hour afterwards, went up to her room to put away her work, she found that the window of the room was open, that the boy’s bed was empty, and that Nat was gone.

[CHAPTER V
AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT]

NAT had rushed up the stairs and thrown himself on his bed with that sense of injury which is so keen at seventeen, and which compels us to find relief in tramping heavily, and flinging ourselves down without taking off our boots. A few passionate tears, however, wore off its sharpest edge, and with renewed vigour he soon sat up again; and it was not without even some feeling of enjoyment that he began to ask himself what was the next thing he should do. His mother’s order did not concern him much; Nat was quick in compunction, and not slow in penitence, but in spite of these qualities it must be owned that he was not the ideal of an obedient son.

An artist might have taken his picture as he sat up on the bed, with his eyes still bright with tears, and a face alive for fun, and his hair as rough as its want of length would permit, for it had crisp ends, although cut too short for curls. A handsome boy! (all the members of his family were good-looking), with deep-set, grey eyes beneath fair, curved eyebrows, and lips which, though small and full, yet found themselves able to close as obstinately as thin lips could do. It was a face undeveloped, passionate, full of contradicting, opposing qualities; a face that was rich in many promises, but whose future must yet remain a problem. Under any circumstances he would not have been easily trained, and his home education had not been satisfactory; he was too young to appreciate what was best in his mother, and his father’s career could only be thought of as a disgrace. We commend such lads’ characters to the instruction of experience; but Experience is an instructor who teaches with the stick.

Guarded at home, educated in a Board School, trained to out-door work, and yet in too many respects unguarded, untrained, uneducated, at this moment sore with anger, and with a pinch of hunger, all ready for adventures, and ripe for mischief, Nat sat up upon the bed and considered what he should do. A lad of his nature does not long reflect; adventures lie ready and can be found easily.

‘I’ll go to t’ Farm, an’ take Miss Gillan’s basket. I’d like to see Miss Gillan, they say such things o’ her! An’ Alice’ll give me a bit o’ cake; I’m sure I’m in want of it, goin’ without my supper! She’ll like be vexed if she knows that mother’s angered, but I can’t attend always to what Alice says. I’ll try an’ see Miss Gillan, although it is so late; they do talk so of her, all the lads do!’

With gleaming eyes, and a keen sense of adventure, he got off the bed and took his cap in his hand, and went to the little window that stood out from the roof to see if he could open it and let himself down from there. It might have been well if he had not undone that fastening, or if his mother had come upstairs, or if he had reflected that he had vexed her once that evening, and that it would be better for him not to vex her again. But the rusty fastening only detained him for a minute, and there was no sound of any footstep on the stairs, and he only thought that he had been already punished, and that his mother and Annie should not triumph over him. So easily, with such heedless footsteps, do we make our own paths to the temptations of our lives.

All was quiet outside when he had dropped from the window; the noise in the village had completely died away; in the west, beyond the great, dim field of the Thackbusk, a pale after-glow from the sunset still lingered. The public-house at the corner was quiet, though it was lighted; he came out of the lane into the lower village-street; and, turning into the principal street, where the Rantan had begun, he began to mount the hill towards the Manor Farm. A wan, blurred moon was shining, the street was dark and dim, from a public-house and from shops there came faint streams of light; there were lounging lads like dark shadows in the corners, or tramping together towards the public-house. In one of the shop-windows there was a light behind rows of bottles, and this threw the shadows of the bottles across the road; they stood in a row on the cottage wall opposite, with a curious effect, like that of an upright regiment. Nat passed by these things, and by the dim steps and church, without stopping once either to loiter or to speak; for he had no wish to join himself to the shadows in the corners, and was glad that the night-time kept his face concealed. It was only when he had reached the top of the street and hill, a more silent part of the world where no wayfarers were, that he turned aside to the fields upon the left, and sat down on a ledge of stone beneath a stile.

All was quiet, the Fens were dark in the distance, there was the soft noise made by cows grazing in the darkness. Nat leant his head against the stile, and lingered—the ledge was a familiar resting-place for Sunday afternoons, but he had never rested here at this time of night before. Perhaps the strangeness frightened him, or his own natural nervousness, for he began to ask himself whether after all he should go on. What should he say to Miss Gillan when he gave back her basket?.... it was so late, she would not understand why he had come.

But oh! he must see Miss Gillan, cried the spirit of adventure; he must know for himself why the ‘folk talked so of her;’ he had heard ‘such a-many stories from the lads,’ and he would like to know if these things were true. For there were many who said that she was ‘quite a beauty;’ and others, that she had come from London, and had been an actress there; and others, that she was a relation of old Mr Lee in Lindum, and that he was going to leave her his money when he died. The village propriety shook its head over her, with the village propensity to surmise the worst, but this spice of doubtfulness did but add to the curiosity that had been excited in the breasts of old and young. And Nat was a boy, with a true boy’s eagerness, and a determination to find out all he could.

Yet he knew that he would be frightened, that he would blush and stammer, that he would stand in her presence and not know what to say, and it was the presentiment of this incapacity beforehand that made him feel hot and foolish even then. Uncertain, half-frightened, undetermined what to do, he slowly rose from his cold seat with a yawn, and it was more from the sense of long use than new desire that his wandering footsteps turned to the Manor Farm. He would see Alice Robson, at any rate he would see Alice.... and it was so cold and dark sitting out here in the night....

In a few more minutes he was standing in the yard of the Farm, with the blurred moon shining from out of the sky at him, and the dog in the distance just stirring at his footstep, and the pump looking a mysterious object in the darkness. His presence was a familiar one, the dog did not bark at him, and his knock brought a servant to the back-door speedily, a small, rough creature of the maid-of-all-work order, who, village lad as he was, treated him with much respect. Oh, yes, he could see Miss Gillan, she was quite sure he could—Miss Gillan was in the ‘owd kitchen,’ she would tell her he was there—he would perhaps come in to the fire and wait there for a bit, for Mr Robson and Miss Alice were not back from Lindum yet. Nat was relieved to hear that his friends had not returned, and yet not quite pleased with himself for being relieved. Declining mutely the invitation to the kitchen, he stood by the back-door without entering, and waited there. The kitchen at his right hand looked warm and bright, but he did not feel any disposition to go in—his eyes followed the servant who went a few steps down the passage, and knocked at a door beneath which was a gleam of light. As if in answer to the timid knock she had given, a burst of music was uplifted from within. Nat stood and listened, seized with sudden astonishment; he had never listened to singing like this before.

It was a wild song, with a monotonous refrain, and the voice of the girl sounded wild, and sweet, and deep, the whole performance did not resemble anything that he had ever heard. At first he thought of the recurring refrains in games, and then he thought of Moody and Sankey’s hymns, and then he was carried quite beyond himself, and could no longer attempt to understand. The servant had paused with her hand upon the door, as if uncertain whether to proceed or not.

‘Whither upon thy way so fast,

(Christabel, Christabel)

With morn scarce reddened, or darkness past?’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

‘I am called to find a bridal bower,

(Christabel, Christabel)

Where I may be free from hatred’s power,’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

‘And where wilt find that bridal bower?

(Christabel, Christabel)

Ah! where wilt find that bridal bower?’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

‘If you please, miss, there’s a young man as wants to speak to you.’

‘A young man!’ cried the deep voice, ‘oh! let him come in, I shall have done my song directly.’ And the song broke forth again.

‘I am called to the river deep and wide,

(Christabel, Christabel)

Where I and my love may rest, side by side,’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

‘If thou so black a weird must dree,

(Christabel, Christabel)

A curse is on thy love and thee,’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

Nat stood at the door, not daring to go farther, and she stopped for a moment to glance round at him. It was but for a moment, and again the song vibrated, more wild and mournful still.

‘The curse be on them who thus have blest,

(Christabel, Christabel)

Thy love shall find no earthly rest,’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

‘Yet cold the river, and dark the night,

(Christabel, Christabel)

And I fain would flee towards the light,’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

‘My heart is cold, and my brain on fire,

(Christabel, Christabel)

They are cold and burned with vain desire,’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

She looked round at him as he stood entranced, and laughed; and then, turning to the piano, poured out the notes again, with the fulness and passion of one who is drawing to a close. The boy stood still, he could scarcely breathe or see, the whole air seemed to be full, to vibrate with the notes she sang.

‘Ah! if one ray could shine again,

(Christabel, Christabel)

I might be saved from death and pain,’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

‘Let me alone, I dare not stay,

(Christabel, Christabel)

The voices are calling, I must away!’

(As dawns a summer’s morning).

‘There, there!’ cried Miss Gillan, springing from her seat, with a lightness and activity such as he had never seen; ‘my song is done, and you shall not be kept waiting longer, and you shall come into the room, and tell me what you want.’ She put out her hands as if she would draw him in, and as he shyly advanced he saw her face. In one respect at least she was like her song, she resembled nothing that he had known before.

She was small and dark, and in a black lace evening dress—it was the first time that he had seen an evening dress—whose sleeves left bare from the elbow her soft, brown arms, and whose lace rested softly upon the curves of her neck. Her hair, which was rippling, and very short and thick, was gathered into a loose, rough crown on her head; there was a golden tint in it in spite of its darkness, and although her eyebrows were very dark beneath. Her dark eyes shone till they seemed to ripple too; her lips, which were not small, were full and very red; and there was a lovely colour in her cheeks, which came and went easily through the darkness of her skin. She seemed altogether full of health and life, of the brilliant spirits of youth and loveliness, the only contradiction rested in her mouth, which could take curious expressions that gave her face an older look. Nat observed this for an instant as she looked steadily at him, but in the next moment her lips were radiant too.

‘Oh! tell me who you are, and why you have come,’ she cried;’ I have been so dull all the evening by myself! I am quite sure that you must have something good to say, but that is because I’m so glad to hear anything at all!’ Her manner was free, but not with village freedom; it did not make the lad shy, but it made him confused. With a feeling of caution to which he was not accustomed, he held out the basket without answering. She took it with surprise as if she had not expected it, and her dark eyes dwelt curiously on the handsome lad.

‘My basket!’ she said, ‘how did you come by that? I have been looking for it since yesterday. The little girl thought she had taken it down the village’—and there came a strange alteration in the expression of her face. Nat observed the change, and it seemed to him an accusation; he hastened to defend his family and himself.

‘Molly brought it down to us yestermorn,’ he said, vexed to find his voice thick and his face hot. ‘Mr Robson had sent some raspberries to us, and we thought that the basket must belong to him. But I saw your name in the corner of it, miss, an’ so I thought as I’d bring it up to you.’

She turned it over with the prettiest little movement, and looked at the name in the corner, and glanced up at him and smiled. ‘T. G. ... Tina Gillan ....’ she read out to herself; ‘it was clever of you to guess that it was mine. And I am sure it was kind of you to bring it up to-night, and you shall have my very best thanks before you go.’ And then, all at once, as if some sudden idea had seized her, she bit her red lips, and looked down, and was mute. When she spoke to him again she did not raise her eyes, and the change in her voice made it sound quite differently.

‘What is your name?’

‘Nat Salter,’ he said, surprised at her altered manner, but too much surprised to be offended yet.

‘Salter .... Salter .... I remember that name .... Do you know my brother—have you come to speak to him?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, miss,’ answered Nat. ‘I’ve never spoke to your brother in my life.’ She looked at him with a hard, searching glance, and then lowered her eyes once more, and seemed to think. Whatever her thoughts were they did not appear to soothe her, for when she spoke again her voice was sharp and quick.

‘You have not come up here to receive a letter; you will not take away a letter when you go?’

‘I don’t know what you mean at all, miss,’ replied Nat, confused. ‘I’ve never took no letters, except the letters of the Squire.’ Apparently she believed him, for she did not question him further; and when she spoke her voice had become soft again. It was time, for the angry colour had mounted to his forehead, the feeling that he was suspected had roused his pride.

‘You live down in the village?’ she asked him, gently, as if she were sorry, and wished to show interest in him. ‘Have you many brothers and sisters in your home? Do sit down whilst you talk, for I know you must be tired.’

The gentle voice and the lingering glance she gave had on him the effect of a new experience; he was touched and confused as he had never been before. But, although he sat down as she bade, it was with the manner of a village-boy, for he became very red, and he turned away his face.

‘I’ve one sister,’ he blurted, as one making a confession; ‘she be a year older nor me, an’ she live with me at home.’ He could feel that her eyes were upon him as she spoke; although he had not the courage to turn his face to her.

‘And is she like you—your sister?’ she asked gently, as if the subject were one that was interesting. Nat did not answer, for he did not know how to answer, it was a question that he had never considered.

‘Is your sister pretty—do the village people think so?’ She seemed somewhat amused to see him blush.

‘Some folk does, miss,’ answered Nat, with difficulty. She drew her lips close and tight as she heard the words.

‘Ah! ah!’ she sighed to herself. And then, with a sudden movement, she threw up her arms, and clasped them above her head. For a few minutes she remained in that attitude, with her face averted; and, then, letting her arms drop slowly, she turned to him again. If some excitement had caused that sudden gesture it was only visible now in the glow upon her face. She had her former expression of sympathy and interest; her voice was a murmur; and, as she spoke she looked at him.

‘And you—you,’ she whispered; ‘what do you do with yourself all day? Are you always working?’ and, as she looked, she smiled. Nat did not know what to do with her glances or her smiles, but he made an effort to answer, as he had done before.

‘I’m at work most-whiles, miss, at the hay, or with the Squire. I don’t get let off, not till the evening come.’

‘But in the evening you have some time for yourself? Do you think you would be able to do some work for me?’ She looked at him with her gleaming smile again.

‘I’d be most glad, miss,’ cried Nat, with a sudden thrill—he could not understand, poor boy, why he cared so much. But, on her part, she seemed to understand quite well, as she stood with her arms drooping, and her fingers clasped.

‘Then come up to me,’ she murmured.... ‘Come at eight o’clock, and I will give you work to do.... And do not talk to too many people about it, they gossip so in the village about everything.... I want to hear about your mother, and your family .... your sister, and everything else.... Here is my brother, I hear him, you must go.’ Her movement was so sudden that he retreated hastily; the door was closed upon him, and he found himself in the passage and alone.

Alone, confused, bewildered by the darkness, not knowing in his bewilderment what to do or what to think, with the voice of the stranger still within his ears, with her face and the lighted room before his eyes! Oh, what did it all mean, what had he been doing since he left his home? Scarcely conscious of his actions, he stumbled through the passage, and into the dark yard, and then into the road. Tired, hungry, and giddy, with his head confused, with the remembrance again of his mother’s anger, he stumbled along to the ledge where he had rested, and sat down on that, and vexed himself, and cried. But there was no good in crying alone there in the night, and he dragged himself to his feet, and wandered on.

His home was dark when he reached it, though the door was left unfastened, and there was a light in the room where his sister slept—he did not attempt to mount the stairs after he had entered, for he did not wish to see his mother again that night. When he had locked the door, and made sure that everything was secure, he laid himself down on the rug with his head upon a chair, his heavy head which sank down upon the cushions as if it would never be able to raise itself again. Yet, tired as he was, at first he could not sleep, and then his sleep was confused with a strange, broken dream—he thought he was wandering on some unknown path, and that he could not be certain where it would lead. And still, as he wandered, and felt that he was lost, he could hear in the room above his sister’s tread, pacing ceaselessly up and down with restless footsteps, which seemed a part of the confusion of his dream, until, as deeper slumber closed on his fatigue, both footsteps and dream were lost in the stillness of the night—the night-time which bears on its pinions so many wandering fancies of the wandering souls soothed for a while to rest. No lasting relief can it give, and yet to men’s fierce impatience that interval of rest may not be quite in vain.

[CHAPTER VI
THE NEXT MORNING]

NAT awoke the next morning, feeling sore and stiff, a feeling not uncommon with people who have spent their night on the floor; but, tired as he was, the habit induced by training made him wake with the sun as he was used to do. Even at that hour he was not the first awake, although there was no one else present in the room—a fire had been lighted, a white cloth had been laid, and his solitary breakfast was spread daintily. His mother’s hands must have been there at work, although she would not stay in the room to speak to him; but to such silent displeasure he had been long accustomed, and neither that nor the tender care astonished him. Himself so proud and reserved that it would have been difficult for him to meet her after all that had passed the night before, he was only relieved that he had not awaked when she was there, and determined to escape as soon as possible. So he made a hasty toilet with the assistance of a pail, and swallowed quickly the breakfast so carefully prepared; and, then, seizing upon his can and bag of tools, he hastened out into the cool, fresh morning air. By the evening she might choose to forget that she had been vexed, and at any rate the evening was hours away. For it is the privilege of a man to go out into the sunlight, and forget in his daily work the vexations of his home.

Oh, beautiful sunrise! at which he glanced for a moment, leaning over the gate that led into the Thackbusk field, without much notion of seeking consolation in a sight so familiar as that of the rising sun. The whole of the eastern sky was a mass of countless ripples, such as in old pictures make a floor for angels’ feet, save where here and there they were broken by lines of vivid light, or contrasted against the horizon by one unbroken glow of red. Nat glanced at these things and thought that the day seemed stormy, and that there might possibly be rain before the night; and then, swinging his can of provisions up and down, he turned away from the sight to the village streets. He wanted to fall in with other working-lads, for he was in the state of mind that longs for company. The scene at the Manor Farm lingered still before his eyes, but he did not wish to think about it yet.

The village was grey in the early morning light, with a great stillness upon cottages and roads, though already blinds were drawn up, and doors open here and there, showing that the work of life was even now astir. And, every now and then, from one of these open doors would come out some man or boy in working-clothes, in a blue or white jacket, as the case might be, with his tools slung over his shoulder, and his can in his hand. The form of the worker would not long remain solitary, for he would hasten his footsteps to join some man or lad in front, or else, with a glance at the road behind, would loiter for some companion to come up. In spite of the loneliness of the morning hours it is a sociable business, going to work. But Nat, notwithstanding his late desire for company, was seized with another mood, and preferred to be alone. He was able for some while to be solitary, but as he passed the red chapel a hand laid hold of him.

‘Hallo, boy, you’re early to-day,’ so spoke his companion’s voice; ‘I must walk by thy side a bit, for I have to speak to thee.’

It was a young fellow who spoke, a lad who might have been twenty, dressed like all the rest in the street in workman’s clothes, but without any dinner-can or bag of tools, in spite of his blue jacket and his corduroys. He had a face that was intelligent and quick, with dark, bright eyes, over one of which was a scar, and a figure that appeared upright and lithe, although so lean that it gave the impression of having no flesh to spare. The grasp of his hand upon the shoulder of the boy was not one from which it would have been easy to escape, and Nat, who knew him, did not cherish any such intention, although not altogether pleased at the enforced companionship. It appeared, however, that he was not to be let go, so he resigned himself with as good a grace as he had.

‘It was Alice, lad, as told me to speak to thee—I see Alice last night, for I was late at t’ Farm—and she seem to me to be just a bit uneasy, a-worritin’ lest all things shouldn’t be quite right. She don’t like these Gillans as is lodgin’ there, an’ she heard as ye’d been a-comin’ to t’ Farm; an’, says she, “Tim, I can’t bear to think as Jenny Salter’s boy should get mixed up wi’ that Jim Gillan an’ his ways.” An’ so, as I thought I might happen speak to ye, I told her I’d mention it when as so we met. An’ I hope ye won’t take it bad, or be angered wi’ me, lad, seein’ as I don’t mean nought that’s hurt to ye.’

It was evident Tim was conscious that he had undertaken an unpleasant task, although he possessed the resolution to go on with it to the end. Perhaps he was not surprised that Nat turned away his head with every indication of sullenness and pride, for the man who gives good advice must be prepared not to have that friendship received with gratitude. He kept on walking, notwithstanding, by his companion’s side, as if he were waiting to hear what the boy would say; but he had to wait for some considerable while, for Nat was by no means willing to condescend to speak.

‘It’s a fine day the morn,’ he deigned to say at length; ‘if it keeps itsel’ up they’ll do good work wi’ the hay.’

‘That’s not what I wanted, Nat, thou know’st it’s not’—in Tim’s clear tones there could be severity—‘it’s not doin’ well by me to talk like that when I’ve ta’en the trouble to come and speak to thee.’

‘Ye may tell Alice then,’ Nat burst out suddenly, for his passionate nature could no longer be restrained, ‘that she needn’t go pokin’ an’ pryin’ into me as if I were somethink bad to be kept fro’ wickedness. I ain’t done no harm to her, nor I don’t mean, an’ I’ll go my own ways for all that she may say. I don’t know Mr Gillan, nor I don’t wish to know; I’ve not spoke a word to him in all my life; I came up last evening to bring Miss Gillan’s basket, an’ I didn’t see him, nor I didn’t want to see. Ye may tell Alice she may keep her bad thoughts to herself, if she goes for to think I want to do all that’s wrong. Ye had best get ye back to her, sin’ ye come fro’ her, and tell her all the things I’ve said to ye!’

‘Fair and softly, lad,’ murmured Tim, unmoved by this vehemence, ‘it’s not like as I’ll tell Alice what ’ud make her grieved to hear, an’ she such a good friend to ye as she’s allays been. If it’s so as ye don’t know a bit o’ Mr Gillan, that’s every bit as she wants to know or me; an’ I’m glad eno’ to have heard ye say the words, an’ to see as there wasn’t no need for me to speak.’ He was evidently determined to be magnanimous, almost to the point of an apology.

But Nat remained silent, as if he had not heard, and appeared to be lost in thought, as indeed he was; his promise to go up to the Manor Farm that night returning with some unpleasant compunction to his heart. The beauty of the stranger was still before his eyes, the sound of her wild singing seemed to fill his ears; he longed to be alone in the grey morning light, that he might walk by himself and dream of her .... Tim was not unwilling to leave him to himself; he was never disposed to loiter a long time over talk.

‘Well, lad,’ he said to him, ‘I will not hinder thee; go on to thy work. I’m right down glad all the same as thou know’st nought o’ this young Gillan—he’s an idle chap as ’ud do no good to thee. It’s like as I may be going to thy home—Annie will be there, I suppose—’ there was a tremor in his voice. ‘One must make the best o’ such days as one can get, it isn’t oft as I can be free. Good-day to thee, lad,’ but Nat only bestowed a nod for answer, and without looking back went on quickly to his work. The eyes of the young workman followed him as he moved, a solitary figure in the grey morning light, a shapely lad with hair crisp beneath his cap, and his bag of tools slung upon shoulders that bore the burden well. Before him, in front of the flat fields and roads, rose an ominous mass of heavy storm-clouds, whose shadow, falling upon the earth and trees, made the grey morning appear still greyer than before; though in the east, through the ripples that seemed made for angels’ feet, the rising sun broke in resistless might. It was towards the east that the workman turned his face, as, with something of a sigh, he began to walk on again; but its brightness made no impression on his thoughts, which appeared to be bent beneath a weight of anxiety. ‘I’ll go an’ see Annie,’ he thought, ‘an’ talk to her; I’ll happen persuade her a bit; poor child—poor child. I’ve not done much good wi’ the lad, but I donno care for him, I’ll do what I can to save Jenny Salter’s girl.’ With these words, and with renewed vigour in his steps, he walked on rapidly towards the village street.

[CHAPTER VII
TIM]

WHO was this guardian angel who was making an attempt to save from threatening danger Jenny Salter’s boy and girl, who had risen from his bed upon a holiday to deliver a warning in the grey light of the dawn, this guardian angel in blue cap and corduroys, with lean, intelligent face, and eyes bright beneath a scar? Let us pause for an instant to listen to his story, which is not out of place in this tale of village life, although it is one that advancing civilisation may help to render impossible in time. Under no tender influences had poor Tim been reared, no motherly hand had made life smooth for him.

This was his story.

His father had been a workman in a distant village, and after his marriage had shared his brother’s home; his brother who, like himself, had a wife, and also children, and rented a two-roomed cottage in a narrow village street. These two rooms—they were both very small—made but a limited space for two families, especially at night; it is, therefore, not surprising, that after a little while the families began to quarrel. And since it is the lot of wives to remain at home all day, it is not wonderful that the disputes arose principally between the two ladies of the house.

The mother of Tim was a little, feeble creature, absorbed in her own ill-health, and the baby at her breast; her rival was a handsome, coarse, and loud-tongued woman, who acquired an unbounded authority over both the men in the house. Under her influence Tim’s father learned to despise his wife, and to that contempt ill-treatment soon followed; he complained that she did not work hard enough, and attempted to enforce more work by chastisement. These efforts being unsuccessful, he determined to get rid of her; and, after having beaten her into submission, he provided her with a little money with which to get back to her parents, and then turned her out of the house. But by a refinement of cruelty, (which was also due to her rival,) he would not allow her to take the baby too; but on that morning hid the little creature carefully, so that the poor mother could not discover its hiding-place. The neighbours all heard the wailing of the mother, but they knew the household, and were afraid to interfere; and after she had been turned out, and had gone away to ‘her people,’ they were relieved by the comparative quiet that ensued. It was supposed indeed that the baby would be claimed, but the poor mother soon died in her parents’ house; and as these had no particular wish to rear the infant, Tim was left to the mercies of his uncle’s home.

And what those mercies were it is not for me to say, for our ears are tender for such subjects; our eyes just glance at them in the daily papers, and we forget that the newspapers are describing facts. Tim remembered, for instance—it was but one remembrance—that when one of his little cousins wished to punish him, she thrust a spoon between the bars of the grate before forcing his baby-fingers to close upon it. Ragged, half-starved, alive only on sufferance, he had, however, the advantage of school, because the blessed provision of the Government does not now allow children to be uneducated. At first, indeed, his progress was not extraordinary, for starvation and learning do not walk hand in hand; and his father, uncle, and aunt began to realise that this want of progress would prolong the days of school. Impatient at this they applied the spur of beating, but this produced illness, and delayed his progress more; so that, moved by interested motives, they finally condescended to pay some amount of attention to his health. This kind consideration produced a due result, Tim proved intelligent, and passed his Standards well; and was eventually able to leave the Board School when he was not very much more than twelve years old. His father removed him as soon as possible, and hastened at once to put him out to work.

And now let us for a moment, think of Tim, a little, lean, bright-eyed creature, twelve years old, ill-clothed, ill-fed, not very much educated, treated always with harshness from his cradle. From that wretched household what else could be expected but the sort of beings that such brutality rears; such creatures—one scarcely dares to call them men—as we may find in our back streets if we go there to look. In this life, however, we often have to deal with that strange element we call the Improbable; and it is this want of absolute knowledge of the factors in our sums which makes us unable to calculate results with certainty. From out of that wretched, drunken, brutal home an irresistible force rose in the boy; there awoke in Tim, and grew in him with his years, the tendency that ‘makes for righteousness.’

How was this? I cannot tell; in such cases one often cannot tell. It may have been inherited by him from his mother, or it may have been induced from lessons learnt at school, or it may have risen as a reaction from the absolute hideousness of the evil that was round him in his home. I know that he could not remember any particular occasion which he could mention afterwards as that of his conversion, the tendency towards well-doing began in him at an earlier date than he could himself recall. At school he sought out the steadiest companions, on holidays he played with well-conducted boys; his nature, ill-taught as it was, possessed the power of assimilating to itself that which is good. ‘The wind bloweth,’ we read, ‘where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is everyone that is born of the Spirit.’

And now let us think again of Tim, twelve years old, sent out day after day to work, a member of a household to which it was a disgrace even to belong, and allowed by that household no smallest chance of improving his position or himself. His clothes were so ragged that respectable boys did not like to be seen with him; his food so limited that it barely provided him with strength enough to work; and every halfpenny of his wages was taken from him as regularly as Saturday night came round. Under such circumstances it is barely possible that a young nature should not be overwhelmed—it is not surprising therefore that Tim sank into despair, and for more than two years lived on in hopelessness. But the irresistible strength that was in the boy refused to be crushed even by such circumstances; a purpose grew in him like a revelation, and inspired him with hope to mend his lot. One Saturday evening Tim returned without his money, and announced that he intended to keep his wages for himself.

The scene that followed need not be described. Tim lay on his bed through the whole of Sunday to recover from it. On Monday morning he returned to his work, under strict orders, seasoned with many oaths, to bring back at night the money he had withheld. He returned without it. This time there was no Sunday rest for him—but bruised as he was, he rose with the dawn on Tuesday and went to his work again. To a similar scene he returned on every evening of that week, but the close of the week found him unconquered; and on Saturday he came back to his family without his wages, as before.

This was too much. On the following Monday the father of Tim went to his master, and desired that his son’s wages should be given into his own hands in future—he added that his son was ‘a wicked boy who spent his money bad.’ Tim’s master, who took an interest in his farm-boy, replied to this request with a flat denial—he declared that the boy deserved to have some money, and that, no doubt, on his side also there might be ‘tales to tell.’ This last observation was too true to be disputed, the father left him in a rage, and at once sought out his son, and informed him that he ‘would have no more of this fooling—he must bring the money that night, or he might look to be killed.’ In the nature of Tim there was not that instinct of running away which belongs to some natures in an eminent degree—with the fear of being murdered heavy on his heart, he returned, as usual, to his home that night. A terrible scuffle ensued, with regard to which I only know that a hot poker was the instrument employed; and that burnt, scarred for life, believing himself to be dying, poor Tim was just able to crawl to a neighbour’s door at last. The outbreak proved his salvation, his injuries excited sympathy, and the village rose in his defence—his father, uncle, and aunt, were driven from it, work was offered to the lad from all sides; and at the age of fourteen he found himself able to begin his life again. From that time forth he prospered; he advanced from one situation to another, he met with kindness and assistance; at the age of twenty he was a skilful workman, and able without difficulty to maintain himself. Of his past life, the life of his childhood, he never spoke; and indeed such stories are only useful when they remind us that our land has still dark corners into which we must carry candles when we can. It is true indeed that Tim had emerged from the darkness—but there are those whom the darkness overwhelms.

This then was the workman, lean, and lithe, and active, with an anxious brow, and ‘poor Annie’ on his lips, who parted from Nat in the grey light of the morning, and turned his footsteps towards the village streets. Some hours later, with a face that was still anxious, and yet with something like eagerness in his tread, he left the Farm where he had been breakfasting, and went down the hill towards Jenny Salter’s home.

[CHAPTER VIII
A MORNING CALL]

THAT home was in order although it was the morning, and daintily ready for the business of the day—an appearance that was always conspicuous wherever the hands of Jenny moved and worked. She had risen before the dawn to get her son’s breakfast ready, and she had not been idle since the dawn had passed; already all things were ‘straight,’ and she was able to get out her stitching and to sit down to it. If the echoes of the ‘Rantan’ of the night before were lingering stormily about the place, no signs of that hidden tempest could be seen in the room in which she and her daughter sat and worked. And yet it may be that the clamour of the night was sounding in the hearts of both women as they sewed.

Their room had a raftered ceiling, which was painted yellow, whilst paper, woodwork and fire-place were a sober, greyish green, the quaint colouring being contrasted round the window with dimity hangings, exquisitely white. In the corner was an old clock which reached from floor to ceiling, whose face of brass made a familiar brightness there, and the sober walls were everywhere ornamented with numbers of little photographs in frames. Annie sat in an easy chair upon one side of the hearth, and her mother was opposite, each with work on her knee, for the master here had no reason to complain of any want of industry in the women of his home. The echoes of the ‘Rantan’ were in those women’s ears, and, as they sat silent, their thoughts were turned to him.

‘When’ll father be comin’ back,’ Annie cried at last, and fiercely; ‘comin’ back in his shame to disgrace us all agen? I wish he’d come back to-night so as he might hear the sound o’ that clamour ringin’ in his ears. I’ll not stay here to be made a laughin’ stock, to hear the village rejoicin’ over us, I’ll go and wander away, for miles away, so as no one may see me, or know whose child I am.’ She had never before spoken in that manner of her father, but her mother had not the heart to rebuke her now.

‘I have tried to be good and to be respectable,’ Annie cried, with a feverish movement of her hands; ‘I’ve liked for to think as men should think well on us, and shouldn’t not breathe a word agen our name. I won’t try so hard now, I’ll have some fun mysel’; it isn’t no good whate’er I think or do; I’ll not shut mysel’ so close as I ha’ done; they may answer for it as drives one past one’s hope.’ She relapsed into silence, but her lips were working as if the thoughts she had spoken were wrestling in her mind. Ah! Annie, a dangerous thought and a dangerous resolve, however natural to despair as young as yours. Her mother heard the words, and in some degree felt the danger; but, herself sad at heart, she had no power to speak.

The sound of a footstep—Annie raised herself suddenly, whilst a brilliant flush crimsoned both her face and neck, and her breath began to come and go hastily, though her dark eyes sparkled as if with sudden hope. In another instant, as the young workman knocked and entered, she lay back wearily, with her face pale again. Her change of expression caught her mother’s passing notice, but poor Jenny was not learned in such signals. Ah! was there some hope, not confided to her mother, working in the girl’s mind in spite of her passionate despair?

It was Tim who entered, appearing taller than usual, as he descended the step into the low, yellow-raftered room, taking off his blue cap with civility, and advancing with more timidity than was usual with him. He was still in his blue working jacket and in his corduroys, but his dark hair had been brushed and he looked spruce and fresh, and there was a red rose in the buttonhole of his jacket, although he was not accustomed to wear a flower. A lean, lithe figure, he advanced into the room, his bright eyes seeming to take in the whole of it as he came, and with it the delicate mother with her sewing in her hand, and the bright-haired girl on whom his gaze lingered last.

‘I’ve come early to see thee, Annie,’ he said, (his honesty inducing him to speak first to her) ‘for I must get back to the town this afternoon, and I’d a bit word to say to thee ere I go.’ He turned for the first time to Jenny, who gave him for answer her rare, pretty smile, although with the reserve that belongs to North country folk, she did not put into words the welcome that she gave. Another mother would have been alert, suspicious, but in certain matters poor Jenny was not quick; she was ready to welcome the young fellow as a friend, without pausing to consider why he came. A certain reserve and caution in her nature, born of her hard lot and sad experience, and of the care with which she guarded both her treasures, made the list of her acquaintances very short. But Tim Nicol! there was no reason to be afraid of him, no one in the village was without a good word for Tim!

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.

‘I—know him?—I’ve seen him oftens’—he muttered, brokenly; ‘I’m likely to see him sin’ I lodge in t’ house; but I’ve never not gone to speak no word to him; he goes upon his way, and I go on mine.’ He paused for a moment as if he had something on his mind whose utterance was almost more than he could compass.

‘Do ye know him, Annie?’ he asked in a low voice, with a terrible effort, and turning his face away—at the last moment afraid to read upon her features the answer to this question which he had come to her home to ask. It may be that the pain and difficulty with which the question came were like a revelation even to himself. But Annie allowed him no time for meditation, for with a sudden movement she sat upright and spoke.

‘What dost mean?’ she cried to him, with her eyes bright and sparkling, and her voice indescribably sharp in utterance, a tone and a manner that might have been sufficient to crush the courage of any questioner. But Tim was confident in his good intentions; and, moreover, he was not easily overwhelmed.

‘I mean, Annie,’ he replied, low and gravely,—with a gravity indeed that seemed beyond his years—‘I mean as there’s things as I don’t much like to tell, an’ yet as make me feel anxious over thee. It’s only a night or two agone, as Alice says, as she were stannin’ i’ t’ passage in t’ dark, an’ Jim Gillan come in fro’ an evenin’ in t’ town, a-staggerin’ an’ a-talkin’ as if he couldn’t mind hissel’.... An’ his words they was all upo’ “Jenny Salter’s daughter”—“he’d have Jenny Salter’s pretty girl,” he said—he called her “t’ handsomest lass in all t’ parish,” an’ said as he’d “get a sight o’ her agen.” I don’t like to think, Annie, as thy mother’s name an’ thee should be made free like that upon such lips as his’n—I would as he hadn’t got thee upon his mind, as thinks he’s a gentleman’s rights, a plague on him! Alice thinks he pays Molly to do what things he will, to sneak out wi’ letters an’ messages for him.’

‘Ye think I write to him,’ cried Annie in a frenzy, ‘ye think as I meet him an’ let him talk to me!—me as hasn’t spoke with him sin’ he came with his sister, an’ lodged at t’ Farm to be spied upon by all. What is it to me if he does think me pretty, I reckon as I can take care of mysel’? An’ if he do write to me at all, what’s that, so as I don’t take it on mysel’ to answer him? I tell thee, Tim Nicol, thee think’st a deal o’ thysel’; thee’dst best keep thy hands from off thy neighbour’s ways.’

Indeed it is certain that poor Tim had not prospered in either of the warnings which he had bestowed that morning, although it is possible that the passion with which he was now accused was not otherwise than consoling to his heart. It did enter his mind that he might ask Annie if the dangerous stranger had ever written to her, but he was afraid to rouse her wrath again, and thankful to take her word and be content. After a minute’s silence during which he seemed to ponder, he rose from his seat, and then took up his cap.

‘Well, good-day, Annie, I must be off,’ he said; ‘I’m thankful to hear what thou hast told to me—thou knowest it is a bad world, this of ours, and we’ve got to be careful and to mind our steps. Look after thyself, I can’t think thou art strong, thou used not to have a face as pale as that!’

Annie raised for an instant a softened countenance, whose dark eyes glistened as if tears were not far. Her passionate anger had been like her brother’s—the brother to whom she would not own resemblance—it would be inquiring too curiously to ask if it had not, like his, concealed a suppression of the truth. Tim did not go near her, or even take her hand, for out of his admiration for her sprang a certain reverence; he just gave for farewell a little, awkward nod, and put his blue cap on his head and turned away. Annie did not stay to look after him as he went; she turned her face to the pillow, and hid it there, and cried. Upstairs, poor Jenny, who had been settling drawers, with a delicate care that performed the task well, heard the door of the cottage shut, and at once determined that she would come down to her daughter’s side again. ‘I’m glad for her to have had a bit chat wi’ Tim, it’ll happen amuse her a bit, and do her good; I’m so dull always, and I’m not like to be better, whilst I’m still feelin’ the bruise Rob gave to me. But if only the childer can do well, an’ be happy, I’m sure it’s no matter what becomes o’ me.’

‘If only the childer’—ah! anxious mother’s longing, that stirred with her pulses as she went down the stairs, with a step as light, one might almost say as timid, as in the past days when she had been herself a girl. Annie heard the footsteps and raised herself from the pillow, removing with haste the trace of recent tears, for her nature, proud and impatient of sympathy, was accustomed to keep its sorrow to itself. Far away Nat was toiling wearily amongst wet vegetables, with resentful feelings against his mother and his home, and a conscious throbbing of excitement in his heart at the thought of an interview to which he had pledged himself. The guardian angel in blue cap and corduroys had delivered his warning to both lass and lad; but, that warning delivered, he could not stay for further guidance, but was compelled to turn back to the Manor Farm again.

[CHAPTER IX
AT THE FARM]

THE Farm was now lying in the full sunlight of noon, for the storm had swept by, and again the sky was clear, although grass was dripping and branches shone with moisture, which the sunlight had not yet had time to dry. Above it the sky was of deepest, clearest blue, and the yard at the back appeared to be bathed in light, which shone on the grey and white pigeons sunning themselves on the roofs, and consoling themselves now the rain was over. Beyond the yard was the kitchen-garden, and behind that rose the heads of some trees belonging to the Squire—a row of trees which Alice Robson did not favour, because they shut out the view of the sunset from her room. On the right, the yard-door opened upon the road near the school, down which were running the children, just released; whilst the smoke from the school-house, where dinner was no doubt being prepared, was intensely blue against the dark trees of the Hall. A pleasant yard! with its noontide lights and shadows, its roofs of house, outhouses, stables on each side of the square, with its whirr of pigeons, soon startled by a footstep, and its great black dog, stretching himself on the ground. In the noontide sunlight all seemed lazy and at peace, the more so since there was little business to be done.

For though Mr Robson had been a skilful farmer in his day, and indeed owned much land as a tenant of the Squire, he had been incapacitated some years before by an accident, which had nearly cost him his life. The land he still tenanted was farmed by his eldest son, who lived in a smaller farm-house near at hand; and to this lesser place most signs of business had retreated, leaving the Manor Farm to be quiet and at peace. Mr Robson lived there, as he had lived all his life, and with him his wife, and his pretty daughter Alice; and, since his sons had grown up and left the place, Mrs Robson had taken lodgers as an occupation for herself—Tim Nicol at first, and, that experiment proving successful, the two young strangers who had come from ‘Lon’on town.’ Whether that experiment would also be successful remained to be proved—there seemed some cause for doubt.

The Manor Farm, as a house, was of no very great extent, though larger than farm-houses generally are, and much improved by the alterations and additions which successive tenants had thought fit to make. In front it had gables and square windows which made recesses within, and an old green porch which was now gay with geraniums; and, standing as it did on the summit of the hill, it looked down over a wide extent of Fen. From the upper windows, if you awoke early in the morning, you could see white mists beneath a glow of sunrise; or, possibly, at a later period of the year, miles of water, the unfortunate result of autumn floods. These front bedrooms were the best and the largest in the house, and for some time had been left untenanted; but, just now, they had been recently given over to the use of the lady and gentleman from ‘Lon’on.’ That lady and gentleman had now inhabited them for a week, and had been the cause of much speculation, as may be supposed. It was not imagined that they would stay there long, for Lon’on people do not like country ways.

And yet even Lon’on people might have found themselves content with the brilliant flowers that were the garden’s pride, with the sweep of green field beyond, vivid in the sunlight, with the corn-fields, and the wide-stretching distance, blue against the sky. In Lon’on there is no such distance or such silence, such clearness of atmosphere without the breath of smoke, such sudden gleams upon grass and golden corn, such songs of blackbird or of thrush to break the stillness. The people of Lon’on have to content themselves with Lanes in which there is not the smallest blade of grass, with the tramp of men, and with music bought with shillings, with the glare of footlights, and the rush of cabs and trains. It is well if these pleasures do not leave them blind, deaf, and senseless to the earth and sky, so that when they are in the midst of the beauty of the country, the beauty of the country has no voice or charm for them.

It is to be supposed that it had little voice or charm for one discontented wanderer from the great city’s streets—Miss Tina Gillan, retired to her apartment, and leaning against the window of her room. Before her the sunlight shone on flowers and grass, on meadows, corn-fields, and wide blue distance. She let her glance wander over the extent of country before she turned away to express her thought to herself. ‘To think,’ she cried, petulantly, as she flung up her arms, ‘that I should have sunk as low as a village in the Fens!’

But even to a lady who has lived in London and who has been brought down to the level of the Fen, there are some consolations and alleviations that persist in haunting the most dismal paths in life. Tina almost smiled as, on turning round her head, her eyes caught sight of the litter in her room, the half-emptied trunk whose miscellaneous contents were lying strewn in disorder on the floor. For mixed with various translations of French novels, and hairpins, and combs, and curling pins, and even rouge, there were ribbons and feathers, flowers, gloves and fans, whilst the bed was covered with dresses and hats. From out of this varied assortment of articles a beautiful toilette was to be compounded—an attire so elegant and complete in all its details that it should even soften the heart of Mr Lee. For Tina was going with her brother to visit her relation—the uncle whom she had never yet beheld.

‘I am sure he will be an old fogey,’ cried Tina, with a pout, ‘and that anything pretty will be wasted upon him; so I won’t attempt to put on a bow of ribbon, or to look anything but a dowdy and a fright. In this horrid country they don’t care what you wear; they don’t look at you long enough to see; it would be better to have been born without a nose, for that might induce them to put up their spectacles!’ In making which statement, Miss Gillan was not at variance with the opinion of some Londoners on country folk; though it is true that in this instance she did the village an injustice—for the village had looked, and had also disapproved. It may be that some vague sense of being condemned gave an edge to the bitterness with which she spoke.

‘I do love London,’ cried Tina, with little dances—she was a small, light creature, who could dance easily—‘I love the streets, and the theatres, and the lights, and all the nice boys who fall in love with me! If I was to do what Mr Markham says I would be able to be a London girl—he would bring out my voice and make a fortune of it; and then I’d be on the boards for all my life. But then he keeps saying that I must work, and work, and I hate work, I can’t bear to do with it! With Mr Lee’s money I should be a lady, and could dress up in silk, and do all things that I like!’

Yes—‘be a lady—’ this was the sole ambition that had sunk deeply into the wild girl’s heart, the solitary longing that had worked in her since she had been able to choose things for herself. Brought up in the midst of the lives of adventurers, it had been impossible that she should not be aware of all the hardships, the possible wretchedness that attend too often on professional careers. Brought up by a father, adventurer and vagabond, who had been artist, musician, actor, as inclination prompted him; by a mother who had left a safe home to share his lot, and had ever afterwards regretted her choice openly, she had early learned to set an unspeakable value on the money that does not ask for years of labour, but is freely and graciously inherited. Ever since, in her early youth, she had heard of her uncle’s wealth, it had represented a means of obtaining that graciousness; since, if he left his money to her brother and herself, they would be able to be a lady and a gentleman and would not be obliged to work. The years, as they passed, increased this confidence—her uncle was a man, and all men were good to her.

So, now that her father and mother had both been dead a year—the father and mother who had not shared her hope, who, judging from their own hardly-earned experiences, had refused to appeal to her uncle for money or for help—now that she had been left with her brother to struggle as they could, and their money was almost spent, and themselves almost destitute, it was natural that they should at length resolve on one grand effort on which to stake their lives. They had come down from London to the village next to Lindum, in which town Mr Lee had lived all his life, and from thence had addressed to him a touching letter, describing their poverty and their orphanhood. To that letter they had not as yet received an answer—although they had felt that it was beautifully expressed—and so, undaunted, they had agreed in council, in person to storm the breach and win the day. Which is to say, they were about, that afternoon, to call at Mr Lee’s house, and at least leave cards on him.

One does not live in London poverty without gaining some knowledge of the world and its ways; one has not haunted back streets and theatre dressing-rooms without possessing at least some experience of life. Tina’s head was empty of solid furniture, but it could be shrewd enough in spite of that emptiness; and she had begun to perceive that it was needful to make some decided move, in order to avert various dangers of which she was aware. It was not only that both her brother and herself were short of money, and that they had not yet paid for their board or their rooms; or that it would be well to reply to the suspicions of the village by exhibiting Mr Lee as an affectionate relative—there was another peril of which she was vaguely conscious, although even its outline had not been shown to her. For some few months she had suspected that her brother had become involved in some secret attachment of whose nature she was ignorant, but which she imagined to have considerable influence upon him—she had been therefore much relieved when he had willingly consented to assist her in her scheme, and to accompany her into the country, and had himself proposed Warton, the next village to Lindum, as their place of residence. No suspicion of any secrecy on his part had crossed her mind; she had been only too glad to accept his escort, and to imagine him delivered from any adverse influence. And now .... now .... she scarcely knew what she suspected, but there was an uneasy suspicion in her heart, a lurking doubt from which she could not free herself, and yet which she could take no means to satisfy. The altered manner of her brother to herself, the conversations with Molly in which she had detected him, the confusion of the servant when she had questioned her—these things, if not amounting to absolute conviction, afforded at least most ample room for thought. In one of the conversations to which she listened secretly—for no shame restrained her from acting as a spy—the name of Salter had reached her ears more than once, and she had stored it in her mind for future use. The unexpected appearance of the handsome village lad connected itself with her doubts and fears; she imagined him to be her brother’s messenger, and was not surprised that he owned the remembered name. And although the ingenuous manner and indignation of the boy compelled her to believe that his denial was true, she considered him to be a chance thread in her hands by which she might unravel a tangled skein at last. ‘I’ll get it all out of him,’ she cried, ‘see if I don’t; I’m not unskilful in making fools of boys!’

As, saying these words, Tina pauses for a moment, with the novels and hair-pins in disorder at her feet, with her pretty hands twisted behind her back, her face uplifted, and her dark eyes bright with thoughts—in that instant’s repose let us seize the opportunity to claim for our own the picture that she makes. A dainty creature! small, slim, lithe, and dark, with a foreign grace, and a southern colouring, with full lips, whose redness relieves the darkness of her face, and with glowing eyes that have sparks and glints of light! Seeing her in this moment one might fancy her to be some wild-spirited, capricious, playful child, full of possible passion, and love of reckless daring, not easily guided, and still less easily restrained. But Tina had other moods—alas! poor girl—which could also find their expression in her face, a weary bitterness that could make her lips cold and hard, could rob her cheek of its freshness and her features of their youth. And then, besides, if she ever found herself alone with any member of the sex that was not her own, there was yet another expression to be observed in her eyes, which could impart to them the most attractive charm—a look of the softest, tenderest sympathy, which held as by magic the male glance bent on hers. If you, being a woman, not a man to be fascinated, could have seen those soft eyes and those sympathising lips, something like a doubt must have risen in your mind as to what the meaning of that tender glance could be. It meant mischief.

Reckless, capricious, improvident, with no education in the laws of right and wrong, with a love of amusement which had never been restrained by any fear for another besides herself—Tina might have been held, in spite of comparative youth and innocence, to represent one part of the darker side of life, the type of woman who through all succeeding ages has been able to be the danger, if not the ruin, of man. For though such a character presents an open snare, it is yet a snare into which feet fall easily.

But still let us think for a moment of Tina as, at length attired, she turns to leave her room, with one sidelong glance just thrown backwards at the looking-glass, as brightly and quickly as if it had come from a bird. Above her hair, which was very short, and tied behind in a knot which rippled out in curls, she had placed a little black hat with its outline softened by a black ostrich feather that curled all round the crown. Her dress was also black, an old figured silk, for she thought it best to seem in some sort of mourning; and a silver bangle was clasped upon her wrist above the long, black, embroidered glove she wore. One more thing we must notice, the daintiest black umbrella, which had at the top of its handle a pretty silver knob. Thus attired, Tina’s dress could not be accused of brightness, or of any attempt at unwarrantable display—yet it must be owned that there was still in her appearance that look of an adventuress which seemed to belong to her. If she was conscious of this fact, I do not know that she regretted it, for she liked people to turn and look at her in the street, and if you have nothing more than an ordinary appearance, it is at least possible that you may not be seen.

So, thus attired, and moving daintily, with a face more thoughtful than usual, and her great dark eyes shining beneath the shadow of her hat, little Tina was able to leave her room at last. She went slowly down the stairs, meditating as she went, for there were consequences of serious importance depending on the interview she was about to dare to-day. At the foot of the stairs her brother stood waiting for her—a young man whose appearance was not as much like that of a foreigner as her own; well-dressed, supple-figured, with delicate hands and features, and languid eyelids that were scarcely raised as she joined him. They did not exchange a single word or glance, but, moving together, went out into the yard.

Here, amidst the bright sunlight, and the shadows of the roofs, the Robson’s pony-carriage was waiting for them, with Tim standing by it as a guardian; for he was accustomed to assist in the work of the house when he was at hand. With a true artisan independence, nevertheless, he did not touch his blue cap as they came up to him, but stood at the head of the pony without paying attention to them, until they were seated in the carriage, when he moved away. The yard boy had thrown the folding doors wide open; and the rough black pony moved forwards lazily, undisturbed by the excitement of the yard-dog at his rear. By the door near the kitchen stood Mrs Robson and her daughter, who had come out to watch the start; and behind the portly form of the mistress of the house little Molly concealed her eager interest. The groups of figures were distinct in the brilliant sunlight on the yard, and so were the gleaming pigeons, and the rustle of their wings; but the occupants of the pony-carriage appeared to be abstracted, and to have little attention to give to all that surrounded them. Without speaking, even to each other, they reached the folding-doors, and turned the sharp corner into the road, and drove away.

[CHAPTER X
AN AFTERNOON VISITOR]

SOME hours afterwards occurred an extraordinary event; a visitor appeared at the front-door of the Farm.

To explain why this was a wonder it is necessary to state that the front rooms of the house were for the most part unoccupied; the family, especially since Mr Robson’s illness, inhabiting only a few apartments at the back, so that the village visitors, being well aware of this fact, were accustomed to approach by the great doors of the yard. To-day, however, the sound of the crunch of wheels drew all the household with one consent to the front—Mrs Robson, her daughter, and Molly, the man-of-all-work, and the boy. These five comprised the whole household that afternoon, for Tim had gone to the town, and Mr Robson was away.

The sound of hoofs and wheels came steadily round the drive—they belonged to a powerful horse and high dog-cart, within which were seated an elderly man, who was driving, and a companion who appeared to be a servant, though he was not in livery. The attention of the driver seemed to be occupied with every detail of the country round the house, with the brilliant flowers in the garden, and the geraniums in the porch. For the afternoon sunlight shone upon the flowers, the pink and white stocks, the roses, the red poppies, the tall white lilies that stood above the rest, and drooped fragrant heads of stainless purity—whilst this fore-ground of flowers was intensified by the wide country fields that stretched away into blue. The eyes of the driver were occupied with these things, whilst the wheels of his dog-cart went crunching round the drive; and then, with a sudden movement of a wrist that still was strong, he pulled up his powerful horse before the door.

He was an elderly man, as has been said, and there was no great appearance of refinement in his face, nor had the look of his vehicle and horse the assumption of any outward show or pride. But his features at any rate, if harsh and strong, had something in them to impress a gazer’s eyes; and he raised his hat with deferential courtesy, as Alice Robson came out into the porch. The slender girl in her neat, quiet working-dress was a figure not inharmonious with the flowers.

‘Good-day to ye, miss,’ cried the occupant of the dog-cart, in a voice like his face, harsh, strong, without refinement; ‘I’ve come to this place where I’ve never been before to ask for a boy and girl as lodges here. I don’t suppose you’re the lady, though you’re standing in the porch, it’s not in my mind as I’ll have such luck as that!’

‘I am afraid, sir,’ said Alice, after an instant of the confusion with which her modesty received an unexpected compliment, ‘as you’re askin’ after Mr Gillan an’ his sister, as have left us to-day to drive into the town. You’ll perhaps know the gentleman, sir, they’re going to see—he’s Mr Lee, at the top o’ Lindum Hill.’

‘Why, I’m Mr Lee,’ cried the stranger in an outburst, whose fit succession was the loud, rough laugh he gave; ‘an’ I’ve come over to see the girl and lad, without thinking as they would pay me honour first. Well, I’m not sorry, I want to hear about ’em, an’ I guess as I’ll do it now they are away; so I’ll send round my horse to the stables—I suppose there are some stables—and just come in an’ hear what there is to tell—Ha, this is the hall, I suppose, and left unfurnished; in these hard times we can’t get chairs for our halls!’

Alice had stepped out to give directions to the man, so Mrs Robson in her turn came forward, not offended by these observations on her house, which she considered to be jests befitting ‘quality.’ Mrs Robson was a big woman, firm and solid, with every capacity ripe for self-defence, but she had old-fashioned ideas on social questions, which imparted to her conduct some inconsistency. At the present moment she was so far from indignation that she was only anxious to improve the occasion.

‘I’m sure, sir,’ she said, ‘an’ it’s right enough you are—these be hard times, an’ we’re all on us sufferers—not as we haven’t money eno’ for chairs an’ tables, but we don’t take pleasure in such things as them. The sitting-room here it’s furnished smart enough, but the master’s not happy but by the kitchen fire—ye’ll be warm enough, sir, if ye please to step this way, for the air’s not hot, although it be summer-time. Or it’s happen ye’d like to see Miss Gillan’s room—we call it th’ owd kitchen, this room here, where she sits—Alice, take this gentleman to Miss Gillan’s room, being as he’s a relation or a friend of her’n.’

‘Ah, Miss,’ said Miss Gillan’s visitor, turning round to Alice, with the freedom of manner of one who does not fear to give offence, ‘I’m willing enough to see Miss Gillan’s room when I’ve such a quiet maid to show the way. You make me mind of the days when I went courting—I don’t want to tell ye how long that was ago—I’d set my eyes on just such another girl, an’ I made up my mind I’d have her or I’d die. Ye see I’d not spoken to her in my life, I saw her with old Mr Long, an’ made sure she belonged to him, so what do I do but write to him one mornin’ and offer his girl all the folly that I had. An’ then did I dress myself right down smart and beautiful, and go out a-courting like any fool of them all.’

He paused to laugh with his loud guffaw, his two entertainers remaining silent at his side.

‘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.

‘And this—all this—rubbish—this belongs to her?’

‘Yes, sir,’ murmured Mrs Robson, after a pause of some alarm, for the grey eyebrows were threatening, and she did not know what would come next. The eyes of Mr Lee wandered over the yellow covers of the novels, the coloured ribbons and the sheets of music-paper.

‘And this young woman—my niece—tell me what you know about her? How she spends her time here, and all the rest of it?’

His glance wandered past Mrs Robson, and rested upon Alice, who stood near her ample mother like a sapling near a tree; but who hastened to answer with a gravity and precision which her mother would probably not have exhibited. Her manner, however, was not conciliating; she did not approve of her guest or the questions that he asked.

‘Miss Gillan has been here about a week, sir,’ she said, ‘and she has had this room to herself ever since she came. She came from London, we didn’t know nothing of her; the neighbours directed her here, and she has lodged here ever since. It isn’t likely we could tell you much of her; we’ve our work to do, an’ we leave her to herself.’

‘Ah! ah! you’re cautious,’ pronounced the old gentleman; ‘you don’t give more testimony than you are obliged—well, well, I don’t blame you, a loose tongue runs to mischief—and mischief is a thing you don’t deal in, I’ll be bound. Well, well, I won’t ask you for more than you like to say—my niece is an orphan, but she can take care of herself.’

‘She sings most beautiful, sir,’ said Mrs Robson, who thought it right to put in a word of praise. ‘There’s some songs she has about love, and parting, and spring-time—I assure you, sir, they ’ud make you cry to hear.’

‘About love! I don’t doubt it,’ said Mr Lee, very drily, ‘but I don’t cry easily, I never did!’ And then, turning suddenly, as if he would change the subject; ‘But there’s the lad; what have you to say of him?’ His question was so sudden, and came so unexpectedly, that Mrs Robson had not a word to say.

‘The boy, my nephew! you must know him by now; doesn’t he live here with his sister?’

‘He’s a well-looking young gentleman, sir,’ said Mrs Robson, with hesitation, yet with some satisfaction too; because she had been able to choose from the qualities of Mr James Gillan the one virtue at any rate that could not be denied. Her words, however, did not please her questioner; he drew down his eyebrows into a more decided frown.

‘Well-looking? I do not doubt it,’ he replied at last; ‘his mother was a pretty lass when she was young—if she chose to bestow herself on a foreign scamp, that was her misfortune an’ wasn’t no fault o’ mine. Well-looking? ah, yes! that’s only half the tale; how does he employ himself, what does he do?’

‘He’s in the town most-whiles, sir,’ murmured Mrs Robson, with a hesitation that was more marked than before. Alice stood meanwhile by her mother, grim and silent; these questions on the absent did not commend themselves to her.

‘In the town—ah! yes—I daresay—what does he do there?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Hum—hum—’

Again there was silence—a longer pause this time. Mr Lee’s clenched hand rested once more on the table; he kept on unclenching the fingers and closing them again, but not with the manner of one who is irresolute, rather that of one whose motions keep time with his resolve. In fact, he had not delayed to form his resolution, and he was accustomed to hold to his ideas tenaciously.

‘Ah, well,’ he said, arranging the collar of his coat, as if to prepare to go out of doors at once, ‘it is getting late, and the evenings close in early, I must be ready to go back to the town—I say, my good woman,’ he added suddenly, ‘will you remember a message if I give you one?’

‘Surely, sir,’ said Mrs Robson, with a little offended curtsey; for the words, ‘my good woman’ smacked of condescension, and she was more sensitive with regard to herself than to her chairs. But Mr Lee took no more notice of her than of her daughter’s silence and hostility, his mind was occupied entirely with the subject that had brought him over from Lindum to the Farm. He settled his collar, and appeared to meditate, and then turned round again to the farmer’s wife.

‘Ye may tell these young people who write to me,’ he said, ‘that they needn’t take the trouble to visit me again; I’ve many calls from all sides on me just now, and I can’t pay heed to them till New Year has come. But since they seem to be happily settled here in lodgings that are comfortable and respectable I’m willing enough to pay that board and lodging until some other arrangement can be made. And you may tell them, too, that if they behave themselves I’ll see what I can do for them after the New Year’s in—we may be able to contrive some meeting before that time so that we may know each other better than we do now. Just give them that with my compliments, or whatever you will, and show me the yard, that I may find my horse and go!’

With the manner of one who is resolved he followed Alice, who led the way silently through the back-door to the yard; and yet there seemed something of impatience on him also, as if he were becoming anxious to be gone. It may be that he had already accomplished a desired investigation, favoured by the opportune absence of his young relatives, and that he was unwilling to complicate the situation by encountering his nephew and niece on their return. In the soft evening light he watched the preparation of his dog-cart, hurried his servant, and got up and took the reins; and then, with a sweeping wave of his hat to the women at the door, he drove from the yard. The doors were closed promptly behind him by the boy, and Mrs Robson and Alice went back into the house.

In another instant Mr Lee would have left Warton; but, although his visit must in any case have been fateful, it was not destined to be concluded, even now, without one last incident to give completeness to the rest. For his horse stumbled over some loose stones, and the servant dismounted as they were going down the hill, and began to examine the shoes of the animal—in the course of which action he observed a letter on the ground. His examination concluded, he stood up to address his master, who then saw that he held a letter in his hand.

‘Someone must have dropped this, sir, and left it here,’ he said, and held it up for his master’s eyes to see. There was only a short name inscribed on the envelope, but in an instant Mr Lee had recognised his nephew’s hand.

‘It’s for Miss Salter,’ said his servant, as he sat silent—‘that’s the daughter of Jenny Salter as lives by the Thackbusk field. And I believe, sir, though one wouldn’t credit it, that it is her as is coming along t’ road.’ And, raising his eyes from the letter that he held, Mr Lee saw the young girl advancing up the path.

It was a picture to be remembered, and that he did not forget—that sight of the hill in evening radiance, the trees of the Hall rising darkly to his right, and, far away, between branches that seemed bronze against the sky, the cathedral and town in a gloom of purple grey. Yet, fair though the sight was, it only formed a setting to the face of the young girl who paused near him. Mr Lee had never before beheld that face; it was impressed on his mind now, and was remembered afterwards.

On her part, Annie had merely gone out for a walk, impelled by her mother’s desire, and her own restlessness; and had only stood still on the path by the dog-cart, because she had felt, almost unconsciously, that the two men were about to speak to her. A faint colour rose in her face, which was pale from recent illness, and added to it another beauty. She was in her working dress of plain, grey cotton, with a broad-brimmed black hat to keep off the summer sun.

‘You must excuse me,’ said Mr Lee, as if he had already spoken to her; (he did not think it necessary this time to put his hand to his hat); ‘my servant has found a letter which has your name upon it, and we suppose that it must belong to you.’ He kept his eyes fixed unreservedly on her face; and watched whilst his servant gave the note to her. She put out her hand for it, in simple wonder, and her eyes fell upon the hand-writing as those of Mr Lee had done. And then, in an instant, it seemed as if some strong feeling moved her, for hot blood rose to her cheek, and the pupils of her eyes dilated. She let her hand close on the letter, and began to move away—then turned, and spoke.

‘I ought to thank you, sir,’ said Annie with simple dignity, in a voice which in spite of its country accent was low and sweet. ‘This is for me, though I was not expecting it; it must have been dropped as it was brought to me. I thank you kindly, sir. Good-evening;’ and she went on up the hill. The eyes of Mr Lee still rested on her figure, and continued to do so till it was out of sight. Then he signed to his servant to get up into the dog-cart, and shook the reins of his horse, and drove away.

Some hours later, when the evening light had faded and the crescent of the moon shone on the garden-paths—in the time of darkness and silence, of barred doors and closed windows, the lodgers at the Farm returned. Tim was waiting for them in the shadowed, moonlit yard, having undertaken that office in order that the yard-boy might go home—but he did not look on them with the eyes of favour, being displeased, like the rest of the household, at the lateness of their return. On their part, the lodgers appeared to be in the worst of tempers—they did not even speak to each other; and James Gillan got down without offering any assistance to his sister, and strode away into the darkness. Tina was more gracious; she hastened into the house where her bright fire was welcome even on an August night, and condescended to address to Mrs Robson some words of apology for their late arrival. It had not been her fault—her uncle had been away from home—and her brother had insisted on an excursion which she had not herself desired. Mrs Robson received her excuses willingly, being only anxious that her own tale should be told.

What the proud girl suffered during the course of that narration the farmer’s wife had not tact enough to imagine; and, indeed, since there was no light but firelight in the room, she could see only the outline of a face that was turned away from her. But when Tina at last moved, and the rising flames shone on her features, it became obvious that they were flushed as if with fury. Before, however, she had time to speak, the farmer’s wife had some other news to give—she was to tell Miss Gillan that Nat Salter had been waiting all the evening at the Farm. And, as if on her tumult of anger a new idea had fallen, Tina ordered with shining eyes that he should be summoned immediately.

What did she want with him, why should her tempestuous anger be calmed at once by the thought of this interview; what possible advantage could she hope to gain from one who was only a village-labourer? Something must have moved her—perhaps a secret hope of obtaining privately a clue to the conduct of her brother; or at any rate of learning more of her uncle, the Squire’s old acquaintance, from one who was reckoned a favourite of the Squire. These thoughts may have influenced her—for she loved such devices—but too possibly another feeling stirred as well, her insane habit of compelling admiration, reckless from whom or from what source it came. If she had been humiliated by her uncle—well, she would prove to herself that she could still triumph over men.