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

CONTENTS
CHAP. |  | PAGE
I.  | IN THE TRAIN | 1
II.  | IN THE VILLAGE | 8
III.  | A RANTAN | 17
IV.  | THE HOME THAT WAS RANTANNED | 24
V.  | AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT | 31
VI.  | THE NEXT MORNING | 46
VII.  | TIM | 53
VIII.  | A MORNING CALL | 60
IX.  | AT THE FARM | 72
X.  | AN AFTERNOON VISITOR | 84
XI.  | THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER | 103
XII.  | A CLASS MEETING | 111
XIII.  | THE RETURN OF THE FATHER, AND THE LAST OF THE RANTAN | 123
XIV.  | IN SUMMER DAYS | 130
XV.  | MR JAMES GILLAN MEETS HIS UNCLE | 135
XVI.  | AN OMINOUS CONFLICT AND A FINAL RESOLVE | 140
XVII.  | A PLEASANT EVENING | 147
XVIII.  | A TERRIBLE NIGHT | 154
XIX.  | NAT AND THE SQUIRE | 157
XX.  | A BETRAYAL AND A FALL | 165
XXI.  | LYING ON THE DOOR-STEP | 178
XXII.  | IN THE HOME NEAR THE THACKBUSK | 183
XXIII.  | ALICE AND TIM MAKE RESOLUTIONS | 188
XXIV.  | NAT IN DESPAIR | 202
XXV.  | TIM AND ANNIE | 212
XXVI.  | IN WINTER NIGHTS | 218
XXVII.  | JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS | 223
XXVIII.  | A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM | 229
XXIX.  | THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT | 236
XXX.  | BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT | 245
XXXI.  | DRESSING FOR DINNER | 252
XXXII.  | IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE | 257
XXXIII.  | ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE | 263
XXXIV.  | A PARTING IN THE STREET | 272
XXXV.  | THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE | 280

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.

She lit the candles in brass candlesticks on the table, and when the lad entered the room she was standing by them, her two hands leaning on the table near her hat, her dark eyes as sorrowful as if they had been filled with tears. He entered to this sight—a poor, untaught boy, his foolish brain only too full of expectation; he entered to see the dark room, the shining candles, and this sorrowing, beautiful image whose eyes were fixed on him. In that one instant her mastery was gained; already the unworthy triumph she had desired was won.

*****

Jenny sat alone that night in her raftered cottage, waiting for the children who were in no hurry to return; on her mind a dread—a wife’s dread—which made her tremble lest each passing foot-fall should be her husband’s step. Alone, quite alone, with no human comfort near her, she had endured the tumult before her door that night, the shouts, the clashing of the Rantan, braying out her griefs openly, to the ears of all. And then, when that thrice-repeated clamour ceased at length, she was left to a silence still more hard to bear, left to stitch patiently with her never-wearied needle, and to wonder why the children did not come. Her mother’s heart had time to become frightened, agitated, before at eleven o’clock there was at last a sound of footsteps; and Annie, wan, chilled, and feverish, sank down in a chair on the hearth, and turned her face away—succeeded after a minute or two by the brother, who had not that day entered his home, and who seemed now as weary and feverish as herself, and still more determined than she was not to speak. Jenny asked no questions, and only said a word or two; and Annie kissed her, and went up to her room; whilst Nat, without kissing her, also stole upstairs, and undressed hastily, and lay down in his bed. He slept, village-fashion, in the corner of his mother’s room, which he had occupied almost since he was born.

He slept soon, heavily; the young slumber hard and well; but to his mother no such relief could come—the poor mother who felt a pang beneath her anger, because her boy could sleep though he would not speak to her. Poor Jenny, sleepless, sat up in her bed that night, and, with the pain of the bruise which her husband’s hand had caused, felt the anxiety of new forebodings which she had not experienced before. Afraid of her children with the fear of a timid mother, and longing to trust them, to be at peace with them, she yet knew that she must gather courage to address them, and demand from their lips the story of the night—though herself as ready to shrink before the prospect as a nervous child before the confession of its fault. She did not murmur, or pray, or even weep, she tried to submit as she always did submit; it was only her tremulous fear of danger near her treasures, which compelled her to attempt some action for their good. ‘I can’t bear to vex them,’ she murmured to her pillow as, at last worn out, she laid down her head to sleep—a sleep as broken and fitful as the dread of an anxious mother, whose power to guard those she loves is more feeble than her will.

CHAPTER XI

THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER

THE next day Farmer Robson’s daughter was seated at her work, when the sound of footsteps announced a visitor; and, as she rose to meet the disturber of her solitude, the door opened, and Annie Salter entered the room. Her appearance was not at all expected there; for Annie was not often a visitor at the Farm.

And perhaps it might also be correct to say that her appearance at that moment was not at all desired, since Alice had come upstairs when her noontide meal was done with the intention of allowing herself a quiet afternoon. On her little bed in the corner there lay in heaps a variety of garments in much need of repair, for it had been her intention, as an industrious daughter of the house, to accomplish the family mending in these hours of loneliness. She was an exquisite needlewoman, and the prospect of stitching did not alarm her—already she had taken up a pair of socks, and with needle and cotton in hand was ready to begin. When Annie entered she remained standing where she had risen, with her left hand deep in the sock and her needle in the right.

She entered the room where this image of neatness stood—poor, passionate Annie, with her dark eyes dull and tired, her pouting lips pale with sickness or weariness, and the straying hairs bright and rough beneath her hat. She was neat, indeed—Jenny’s child could not be otherwise—but not with the conscious neatness of the farmer’s daughter, and at that moment she looked tremulous and ill, unwilling to talk and only fit for rest. Without saying a word or holding out her hand, she sat down in the chair Alice silently offered; and almost unconsciously put out her hand, and took up a sock from the heap upon the bed. The action might have been called mechanical, but it raised her at once in the opinion of her companion.

‘Would you like to work?’ Alice asked, hospitably; ‘I’ve needles, cotton and thimble, everything; I can put the big basket between us on a chair, and then we can take from it what we want. Only don’t be troubled, as if you must be helping me, ’cause I’ve plenty of time to get through all to-day.’

‘I ’ud like to work,’ Annie answered, not unreadily, as she took off her hat and laid it on the bed; ‘I’m always accustomed to sit an’ work at home, whenever there’s any spare time of any sort. It doesn’t seem natural to sit with idle hands, and I don’t like it ... it gives one time to think ...’

The deep sigh with which she broke off did not escape her companion, and Alice looked up anxiously. Annie did not resent the glance, she appeared to welcome it; at that moment she must have felt in need of sympathy.

‘Mother an’ me’s had words,’ she murmured, half-reluctantly, as if in answer to her companion’s eyes; her industrious fingers occupied all the while with the sock that she had taken in her hand. ‘Mother is so foolish, she will not understand that there’s some things about which one cannot talk; she wishes me to behave as if I was a child, an’ I know I shall never be a child again.’

The words had a pathetic sound, perhaps because of the pathos of the dark eyes she raised—a glance almost childish in its simplicity, and yet, at the same time, too suggestive of womanhood. At that moment it was not possible to look at her without some intuition of danger; and ‘farmer’s Alice,’ in spite of her precision, had enough clearness of sight to be forewarned. It may be that an anxiety lurking at her own heart made her more able than usual to feel for another woman’s trial; for, in spite of her resolves—and she could be resolute—she had been herself more or less troubled all the day. The sound of that trouble could be heard in her voice, an undertone beneath its quietness.

‘We can’t expect things to be always right,’ she said; ‘there’s worries upon t’ best o’ days—there’s the colt in the garden, or else there’s father ill, or t’ boys steal the fruit, an’ we can’t find who they be. Mr Bender, he says we all on us have trials; an’ I’m sure it’s true, so I suppose it must be so.’

The tremor in her voice had more effect on her companion than the indisputable wisdom of her words; Annie vaguely realised, unconscious that she did so, a sensation that she was receiving sympathy. That loosed the restraint that held her heart in bands, and the wish to speak became irresistible. Her companion listened and worked, and felt troubled and confused, as one before waters too deep for her to sound.

‘Alice, have you seen t’ Thackbusk when it’s late at night,’ cried Annie, ‘when t’ mist have risen so as you can’t see t’ moon? you can’t think how strange it looks and big an’ solemn, t’ great flat fields, an’ t’ willows in the dusk. I mind me of a night about a year ago when I ran out there because mother scolded me, an’ I got frighted with the great mists all round me, an’ all the grass white and strange wi’ moon an’ mist. An’ now I keep feeling as if I was there again, an’ all t’ mist round me, an’ keepin’ me from home, an’ I keep wantin’ t’ light in mother’s window, an’ it’s not there, an’ I can’t get back to it. I don’t know what to do with t’ feeling, that I don’t—it a’most makes me cry—and I can’t get free from it.’

She put up her hand to shield her eyes for an instant, and then went on quietly with her work, though not before a sudden catching of her breath had told of trouble as plainly as her words. Her companion was in no haste to break the silence, and some minutes passed without a word from either. Outside the window the pigeons gleamed and fluttered, and clouds and blue sky looked down upon the yard.

‘Annie,’ said Alice softly, ‘won’t you come with me, an’ hear Mr Bender speak in Harmenton—he’s going to hold a class-meetin’ there to-day, for the sake o’ them as can’t get over to the town? I didn’t think of going, not to-day, but I’d be glad enough if you’d like to come with me.’

If her voice trembled now it was from shyness, and a little pink colour gave some warmth to her cheek, for she was not accustomed to speak to those around her of the religious exercises in which she indulged herself. Some time ago, Alice had chosen, as the church-people in the village sarcastically observed, to give her parents ‘more trouble nor she was worth by taking up with them Dissenters in the town’—and they had added that ‘her parents they were too soft with her, they should ha’ let her know their mind, that they should.’ At the same time the village Dissenters, who were numerous, were not on their part disposed to be pleased with her, they said that ‘she held her nose a deal too high, she ’ud have to come down afore her life was done.’ This was hard upon Alice, who at the desire of her parents had abstained from attending the red chapel at the bottom of the hill—though it must be owned that her obedience was the easier because she preferred the Wesleyan place of worship in the town. A young heart has a natural instinct for the place where its religion was first stirred into life, a yearning like that which makes us turn back again to visit the scenes where our childhood played. Poor Alice, although confirmed, was entirely ignorant of the history, the claims, the pretensions of the Church; she was only aware of the help that touched her life as the wounded man of the hand of the Samaritan. And certainly since that time her life had found new happiness, a transfiguration of duty which made all things sublime.

Into the innermost sanctuary of her religious life we can have no desire and have no right to pry, but the outward manifestation of such feeling is a common ground upon which all feet may tread. To complete then the sketch of this dissenting maiden we may add that her sense of duty, at all times clear and keen, was of that nature which loves the harmony of perpetual details, small and numberless. Alice had her little laws with regard to all things that she did, the making of a pie-crust or the wearing of a gown—and this habit, almost unconscious before the time of her conversion, she recognised now as the principle of her life. A disposition by nature opposed to morbidness saved her from dangers that might have been possible; although it must be owned at the same time that these endless regulations were not always convenient to others in the house. A life thus self-governed is mostly solitary, but Alice had not the warmth that desires companionship; with a truth and sincerity of nature that rendered her capable of friendship she generally preferred to go on her way alone. She was thin, slender, and quiet (to conclude her description with her portrait), and usually dressed in some dark, sober gown; without being pretty she was not inharmonious, and it was this sensation which satisfied those near her. The villagers said that ‘t’ girl was well eno’, an’ a good girl too who ’ud do her duty well, but if you wanted a face as lads ’ud like there was Thackbusk Annie was worth ten on her.’ There were a few lads, however, as it seemed, who had found the daughter of the farmer fair enough.

And now these two rivals, for once in unison, were close together in Alice’s little room, whilst without pigeons fluttered, and the yard-boy came and went, and the light of a sober noon-tide shone on the yard. The girls were silent, but both were deeply moved, each indeed more thrilled than she would have dared to say—Annie with a delirious sense of pressing danger; Alice with a secret anxiety that affected her like shame. Oh! why should she mind if Nat came to see Miss Gillan, and had been engaged to do joining work for her?.... the Gillans they were a bad lot, that they were; but it wasn’t the place o’ the boy to think o’ that. She should not mind—but it was not easy to forget that low in her heart there stirred a secret pain, a fear for one who had been an old companion, and who was yielding now to other influence than hers. For Alice had played with Nat when they were children, had reproved him for errors and tempers even then; and, although actually by a few weeks his junior, had not tried to restrain a mother’s love for him. A woman loves the position of a guardian; and such anxiety tends to tenderness.

‘Alice, I’ll go with thee,’ cried Annie suddenly, remembering at length that she had not answered; ‘I’ll hear Mr Bender, an’ all he says, it may be he’ll be able to tell me what to do. I know I’m not good, an’ I haven’t been religious; an’ when I’m angry then I forget everything; but we’ll go to-day an’ we’ll hear all he says—whatever happens that’ll do no harm to us.’ And, moved by a common impulse, the two girls rose and put their work away. They would go together, and learn to be good; whatever happened that would do no harm to them.

CHAPTER XII

A CLASS MEETING

THE room in which Mr Bender had chosen to hold his Meeting, for the benefit of some adherents who could not get to the town, was in a lane in the village of Harmenton, on the brink of the eminence which looks on Lindum hill. A most retired lane! which went down hill so steeply that it lay upon different levels all the way, and was further protected on one side by a wall, over which the branches of trees were green against the sky. The turning from the road was opposite a red building, so square, and with such rounded windows, that it seemed to proclaim itself a chapel, only that, to guard against the possibility of such delusion, ‘Village School’ was announced in large letters on each side of the door. If you strolled down this lane on an August afternoon, pleased with the retirement, the steepness, the quaintness of the place, you were rewarded at last by the view from a lower road, which looked over the Squire’s plantation to the valley and the town—Lindum lay there before you, shrouded with foundry-smoke, with its river flowing in the valley underneath it, and above the slope of the city and the hill the great cathedral, distinct against the sky. But the scholars of Mr Bender had no wish for idle strolling, they had hastened at once to the room where the class was held.

That was a small room—so small, it must be owned, as seriously to inconvenience the members of the class, who were, however, at that moment more disposed to think of their benefits than of their trials. When Annie and Alice entered, tired with an August walk, with the yellow corn marigolds they had gathered in their hands, they found already assembled a company of eight, including the mistress of the house, and ‘Mr Bender of the town.’ The company sat on chairs against the wall, Mr Bender at a little table in the centre of the room—Annie was too nervous in this unwonted position to observe any more than these simple facts at first. It was only when she had risen from her knees—for she and Alice had knelt down side by side—that she became aware of another experience, for every eye in the room was turned on her. With the crimson of pride and shyness on her cheek, she sat down on her wooden chair, and fixed her eyes on the ground.

‘Mr Bender,’ said Alice, rising, and going up to him, and holding out her hand with simple grace, ‘I’m glad to be able to get to the class to-day, and I’ve brought a friend with me as has not been before. She doesn’t wish to speak, ’cause she’s not been used to it’ (the girls had arranged this matter as they walked), ‘but she will be glad to listen to the others, and to hear the words that you have to say to them. And I hope Mrs Bender is better of her cold, I’m sorry she hasn’t been able to be here.’

Mr Bender thanked her, and said his mother was better, looking at her the while with considerable interest; and then his glance wandered past her to the chair against the wall on which was seated the friend whom she had introduced. He was but human, if he was a class-leader, and that may account for the fact that he looked hard and long, and that it seemed to need something of an effort for him to withdraw his glance and speak again. He said then in formal terms that he was glad to welcome the visitor, and that if she should, after all, feel disposed to speak he was sure they would all listen with interest to her words. With that, Alice returned to her seat by the side of Annie, and without any further delay the class began.

It began with a hymn, which went somewhat drearily, each verse of it being read before it was sung, an arrangement which has an invariable tendency to check any fervour in singing. The hymn was succeeded by a prayer, extempore; after which they all rose and took their seats again; and after a little preliminary cough, Mr Bender, as leader, addressed himself to speak.

He appeared to be taken with nervousness, a circumstance which surprised the members, and was no doubt owing to the disconcerting influence of the presence of a stranger. He was a young man, very thin and pale, with reddish hair, and a somewhat scanty moustache, and that indefinable something in addition to his white tie which proclaimed him at once to be a minister. For the rest, he appeared sincere enough, perhaps a little young in all senses for a spiritual guide, but with his inexperience redeemed by earnestness, and not marred by any conscious pride. For a minute he worked his foot upon the ground; then he overcame his reluctance, and spoke.

‘I’ve been thinking, my sisters,’ he said, ‘of a great day in my life, a day when I was in Newark many years ago, when my heart was troubled with thoughts and cares, and I hadn’t found peace, and did not know what to do. It was just such a summer’s morn as this has been, and I stood in the great market-square that’s paved with stones, and looked at the lights and shadows on the stones, and the church-spire behind the houses rising up into the sky. I was standing in front of an old house in the corner, when I heard a Voice in my heart that spoke to me; it called to me to put all my sins away, and to turn unto Him that has power to save. I heard the Voice speaking as I stood there in Newark, and my life found the peace it sought, and it abode with me.’

Ah! the Voice, the Voice in our hearts that comes to us from above, that speaks in our ears and tells us what to do—what marvel if those who struggle in the tumult should long for the guidance that can heal and save—that Annie should raise her eyes in astonishment at the thought of a help so simple and direct, so different from all the blind and weary struggles that closed round her life like the gloom of mist at night? Mr Bender could see the inquiring eyes she raised, the dark, lovely eyes which seemed to plead for help; and a sense as of help required pierced to his heart, with which perchance rose some other feelings too, some feelings less manageable and more imperious than any that he had ever known before. He was a preacher, and righteous and sincere, but not with the strength of iron, or the hardness of a stone; without unkindness it might be reasonably foretold that he would soon be in love with some member of his class. He had been impressed by the farmer’s daughter with her grave, simple grace, but at this moment he did not think of her.

And—alas! that our emotions are wont to serve us ill—these very feelings checked and controlled his words, so that with an unwonted desire for oratory, he found himself compelled to stammer and then be still. No matter! he might be able to draw words from this young stranger, who had such speaking eyes—and for the present no doubt it would be best that he should be silent and let other members speak. So, after a moment’s pause to gain attention, he called on the member who sat nearest to him on the right—and Annie heard, for the first time, not without surprise, the formula in which such demands are made. A maiden brought up in a cottage craves to be addressed as ‘Miss’; but no such vanities ruled the councils here.

‘Jane Smithson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with you.’

Jane Smithson began at once, and had a great deal to say, so much, indeed, that all were soon tired of her, although she contrived to introduce into her words as little information as might be about herself. She spoke indeed both of trials, prayers, and praises, of the necessity for repentance and for faith, but always in such a regular, even tone as let no glimpse of her inner life be seen. She seemed to be about thirty, and might have been a servant, was dressed neatly in black, and wore an old, silk mantle; and round her face, which was somewhat plump, though sallow, was a round black bonnet that was tied beneath her chin. Before the end of her words, which were wearisome, Annie had begun to thrill and flush with fear, for she was herself on the right hand of the speaker, with Alice seated on the other side of her. Oh! what should she do if she were herself addressed?.... and how could these people talk so of their religion? her passionate, silent nature revolted from their words. As the endless voice drew to a close at last, her heart choked her breath with terror; she drove her nails into the palms of both her hands, and kept her eyes firmly bent upon the ground. She would not look up, even if she were addressed, and he would see that she did not mean to answer.

‘Alice Robson, tell us, please, how the Lord has been dealing with you.’

The shock of relief, and perhaps of disappointment—relief and disappointment can be so strangely mixed!—was considerably softened for Annie by the wonder how Alice would ever be able to find courage enough to speak. She need not have wondered, for in spite of her reserve the farmer’s daughter could bear such an ordeal well. Alice answered softly and very modestly, but yet in a manner that arrested attention; for the absence of formality is a quality to be noticed in a Class.

‘I’ve been troubled lately,’ said Alice, softly, quietly, with a slight quiver in her voice, a faint colour in her cheek; ‘I’ve been thinking of one as seems to be in danger, and feeling as if in some way I ought to help. An’ then I’ve wondered if it was all selfishness in me, an’ if I was really only feared to lose a friend; but I hope I’ll be taught to feel as I ought to do, an’ as the one I fear for ’ll be kept from harm an’ wrong.’

Mr Bender bent towards her to give her his advice (he had only said a few words in answer to the first member’s speech), whilst the whole class was stirred by some visible curiosity with regard to the mysterious friend of whom she had spoken. ‘It’s Tim,’ thought Annie, after rapid consideration, with which was mingled a thrill of irresistible anger—of anger that the mention of one whom she had learned to think her property could bring the colour to another woman’s cheek. So hopelessly mistaken do we all become when we attempt to penetrate another’s heart.

For Alice had bent her head, the words of advice being ended, with all her mind full of fear and prayer for Nat, the passionate, wilful boy who clung to her heart by the very reason of his passion and wilfulness. ‘She isn’t a good girl—oh! she’s not,’ cried Alice; ‘she likes every man as comes near to look at her; an’ he seems so excited about it—an’ I can’t think it is good for him to come up to t’ Farm, an’ work for her. Mr Bender says I’m to trust, but it is hard to go on trusting when everything goes wrong.’ It was perhaps natural that she should not question herself about the nature of the feeling that wrung such fear from her. She kept her head bent and did her best to ‘trusten,’ though with some soreness of perplexity in her heart.

The other members had meanwhile had their say, and in speeches of varying length had all attempted to communicate their spiritual condition to Mr Bender’s ears. It must be owned that they were rather less than more successful, unless indeed he had the discernment to read between the lines—and such discernment was not especially apparent in the words of advice which he addressed to them. The six who spoke were of very different ages, from the stout mistress of the house to an hysterical servant-girl; the other four being two sisters, dressmakers, the young wife of a labourer, and a teacher in the village-school. These related their feelings in conventional sentences, to which he replied with words of exhortation; the regularity being only broken by the trembling servant-girl, who thought herself reproved, broke down all at once, and sobbed. When she had been consoled by Mr Bender, who became somewhat agitated, the line of speakers was completed; for with one exception, the stranger and visitor, each had taken her part, and had no more to say. There followed a pause, and all began to wonder whether it was not time for the Class to be closed.

‘It is not late,’ said Mr Bender, nervously, without daring this time to raise his eyes from the ground; ‘we have a few minutes in which it may be possible for us to listen to one more experience. Will our sister, who is a stranger, consent to be persuaded to say a few words about herself to us?’

Silence. Excitement. Annie sat resolutely upright, with her eyes as resolutely downcast; her face burning, her heart throbbing, and her lips compressed. Mr Bender glanced at her with visible disappointment; he waited an instant, then he spoke to her again:

‘We Methodists have learned the comfort of joining together when we wait on the Lord; we believe that we are often able to find consolation and instruction from the lips of each other at such times as these. Has our sister any difficulty on which she would ask our advice, or any sorrow which she may ask us to share?’

Still silence. Greater excitement. The face of Annie was flaming, but her lips continued to close upon each other. For one instant the minister gazed upon her silently, then he rose from his chair, and gave the number of the hymn. If, at that moment, she felt the impulse of confession, it was then too late, and the time for speech was gone.

Ah! would it have been better if that troubled, silent nature could have compelled itself to speak, to give words to the conflict that raged within its heart, and seek for some help that might avail to save? Would future misery have been averted, if that opportunity had met with response? I cannot tell; I can only say, that to Annie, such public confession would have been unnatural; her whole nature shrank from laying bare to strangers the inmost recesses she veiled even from herself. She had come to the Class with some vague hope of assistance, but it was not in such ways that her trouble could find relief; to speak of her anguish seemed impossible, and she could not speak without speaking honestly. And yet, at that moment, she was troubled, thrilled, excited, her heart had been touched, although her lips were silent! She stood with the members, and from their united tones came the pathetic cadence of a hymn—she heard the voices of her companions rise and fall, if she had opened her own lips she would have broken down into tears.

‘When the weary, seeking rest, to Thy goodness flee,

When the heavy-laden cast all their load on Thee,

When the troubled, seeking peace, on Thy name shall call,

When the sinner, seeking life, at Thy feet shall fall ...

Hear then, in love, O Lord, the cry, from heaven, Thy dwelling-place on high.’

The voices ceased, the members knelt, prayed silently, rose again, the Class meeting was over....

Scarce a word passed between the two girls, as, unaccompanied, they found their way over the fields towards their homes, whilst slanting sunlight fell on them, and on the meadows, and on corn-fields ripening beneath the summer sun. At the gates of the yard they paused and kissed each other, then silently separated, and Annie went on to her home; her passionate thoughts still struggling beneath an impulse of duty which had been unknown to her before.

‘I will be good,’ thought poor Annie, desperately; ‘I willent meet him within the fields again; if he wants to have me he must come up to t’ house, and tell before mother all he has to say. I would ha’ told mother about him long ago, but I didn’t like sin’ he allays begged me not; it seemed so hard on him as is like a gentleman to be tied to me who am but a village girl. But I will be honest; I’ll have no double-dealing; I’ll give him up sooner than do wrong for him.’ As the words trembled on her lips she turned the handle of the cottage door; she entered and crossed the threshold of her home. And in an instant she stood still, struck with dismay—her father was there, he had returned once more.

CHAPTER XIII

THE RETURN OF THE FATHER AND THE LAST OF THE RANTAN

YES, there he sat, there could be no doubt about it—he sat in his wooden chair upon one side of the hearth, a wan, blear-eyed, crouching, shivering specimen, too visibly in a condition of tipsiness. Annie had been used to her father in every stage of drink, and could see at once at what phase he had arrived, a state of virtue and moral indignation, ready to be maudlin at the first opportunity. At a little distance, with pale, indignant looks, though not near each other, sat his wife and son—Jenny upright, silent, her lips stern and compressed, a strange expression for her timid face to wear. She did not draw close to Nat, nor he to her, rather they preferred to remain obviously apart—it was evident that if she was divided from her husband she was also for some reason separated from her son. Indeed there had been a painful scene that morning; as Annie, on her part, had good cause to know, though the religious excitement that she had since experienced had driven the scene of the morning from her mind. She stood by the door now, uncertain what to do, her pulses quivering, and her face aflame.

‘It’s a pretty thing, isn’t it?—er—er—?’ cried Rob to her, addressing her as a stranger who had come into the house, ‘it’s a nice, good thing I should come into my dwellin’, an’ be welcomed i’ this way by my wife an’ son. There’s my wife she wo-ant kiss me for all I ask her to—she’s too good for me, happen—’ and here for a while he cried—‘or it’s like as she’s doin’ what she don’ want me to know, an’ is ashamed when an honest man comes ho-am.’

‘You needn’t go tellin’ your vile, wicked thoughts,’ cried Jenny, absolutely excited into speech; ‘or think as there’s any one at’ll believe ye, when ye set for to take away my character. Ye’ve been my disgrace an’ shame sin’ we were wed; an’ t’ boy, he’ll be like ye, it is like enough—if ye’d set about to train him and correct him, there might a bin some chance for him, but now there’s none.’

‘There ye go!—ye’re on at my trainin’ an’ correctin’,’ burst out Nat, his young face afire with rage and shame; ‘ye’d set my father upon me if ye could—but I can’t have t’ strap now, I’m too old for that.’

And Rob faltered with tears that t’ boy had a fine spirit—he was his boy, an’ was not t’ mother’s son.

‘Come an’ kiss me, Nat—come an’ kiss me,’ he whimpered, ‘t’ mother she haven’t no heart for either on us—she’ll be tellin’ me as I am in drink, it’s like; when I haven’t not touched a drop sin’ I was here. But ye will kiss me—an’ then ye’ll come wi’ me—an’ we’ll make our fortunes, an’ get away fro’ here.’

‘Go an’ kiss your father, Nat,’ said Jenny, slowly and coldly—and the boy got up from his chair, but then stood still, for even the sense of his mother’s scorn was not sufficient to induce him to go near his father. He stood still, trembling and troubled, without being able to decide to which side to turn, to the wrath and righteousness in his mother’s eyes, or the unalluring vice that asked for an embrace. His hesitation had a voice more plain than words, and Rob’s sense of injury found a new direction.

‘Do ye think as ye’ll go to disobey me, ye little d—d scoundrel?’ cried the father’s wrath; ‘I’ll teach ye, an’ leather ye, an’ shew yer mother too as I’m goin’ to be master, whatever she may say. Ye dare to come near me! I’ll know how to teach ye; ye give me t’ cha-ance, an’ I’ll make use on it.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ answered Nat, with resolution, and he did indeed take one step towards his father; but in an instant, with a little cry of terror, poor Jenny rushed forward and threw herself between. She was not always ready to forgive her son, even when such forgiveness might have brought him to her feet; but she was ready to be struck in his stead at any moment, even whilst not forgiving him—that is a mother’s love. Rob did raise his hand; but confused by a change of victims, he let it drop, and fell once more into tears—he whimpered that it was a strange thing for a man to come back, and not find that his ‘people were proud to meet wi’ him.’

Proud to meet with him!—the shivering, drunken wretch, crouching over the fire in the home that he disgraced, the words might even have been considered ludicrous, as if any family could by possibility be proud of him! But in the midst of the silence into which his words had fallen, whilst Jenny sat upright and rigid, still and pale, whilst Annie stood quivering, trembling, by the door, and Nat, still angry, had almost broken down into tears—whilst the members of the little family were all miserable, convulsed, absorbed in the private woes in which the outside world is lost—it was at that instant that there echoed in the distance a clang which, to three of the four, was a too familiar sound. The last night had come—the greatest night of all! and the village Rantan was on its way again.

‘Good be with us! what’s that?’ cried Rob, who was so much startled, that for the moment the shock almost sobered him; the more so as he saw in the faces of his family an unmistakeable evidence that the noise concerned himself. A sudden remembrance of the Rantan frolics, in which he had joined himself when a younger, better man, a sudden horror of shame and indignation rushed down upon him, and for a moment choked his breath. He sat silent, panting, the excitement of drink in his eyes, at that moment almost like the dark, handsome suitor who had wooed pretty Jenny in her girlish days. And now the clamour had turned into the lane, and they could hear the hooting and laughing of the lads—Rob could hear his own name in shouts, groans, and hisses, accompanied by such opprobrious titles as village wit could furnish. It was too much; the small amount of reason he had left combined with his drunkenness to urge him to resist; with a sudden, fierce movement, he flung himself from his seat, and rushed to the door, which he banged behind his back. The sound of the clamour was increased and yet interrupted by the noise of the different tumult which now broke upon its course—the noise of a scuffle, of blows, of hasty warfare, a confusion of steps and voices .... then, a fall.

And in an instant, overcome by a sudden terror that would not allow even her pride to keep her still, poor Jenny flung the door open as wide as it would go, and stood before her adversaries on the threshold of her house. She stood there, a slight figure in the summer evening light, and the respect in which she was always held imposed a silence that was deep and universal, and that fell on the motley crowd with a sudden calm. They had another and graver cause for silence; a fear of consequences was rising in their hearts, for there in the lane, a prostrate, motionless figure, a young man lay with his head in pools of blood.

‘Ye needn’t fear, missus,’ cried our old acquaintance Bill, recovering first from the panic of the crowd; ‘there’s not so much harm done as ye might go to think; these young uns are tough, and he’ll get up again. It is Tim Nicol—poor Tim, as ye know well—he’d come down to try an’ turn t’ lads away—an’ Rob he supposed he was doin’ harm, it’s like, for he caught up a clatch o’ wood, an’ made at him. Ye’ll let him be brought into your house for a bit; Rob has got off, an’ he’s not like to come back.’

They lifted the prostrate figure gently, and carried it into Jenny Salter’s home; whilst she stood there, silent, pallid, unresisting, as one who has been too much stunned with grief to move. The whole Rantan was in confusion in the lane, the grotesque banners were lowered, the clanging pans were silenced, the lads were gathered in terror-stricken groups, appalled at the consequences of their fun. No one noticed that from the back-door of the cottage an unseen figure had fled into the fields—it was Annie, with wrath and terror in her heart, escaping from this fresh misery in her life. Alas! the poor child—and alas! for such poor children who find their incentives to evil within the shelter of their homes.

The Rantan was scattered, dispersed to right and left, its members escaped almost in silence through the streets; there was no bonfire, no concluding ceremony, there had never been a Rantan come to such an end before. Yet it may be that after all it had accomplished more than previous Rantans had done, for issues and sequences are not to be calculated by the careless hands that set such trains on fire. As the corn ripened slowly to its harvest-time, the echoes of that summer evening may have been working still.

CHAPTER XIV

IN SUMMER DAYS

THE August sunshine of a brilliant afternoon was shining upon the yard of the Manor Farm when Mr James Gillan came out from the house, and mounted the horse that the yard-boy held for him. It was an auspicious afternoon for his expedition, the first splendid weather that had been for many days.

For it had been a cold summer, and the harvest was very late, the shimmering green of the barley having only just begun to turn pale beneath the sun; though the wheat, more forward, more ready for the reapers, was beginning to ripen to gold beneath its rays. A sober summer! with but little unclouded splendour, with fields softly tinted beneath a fleecy sky; or with shadowy foregrounds and deep blue distances, between which the bright light fell upon the corn—a summer of lights and shades, and of varying circumstances, amidst which the harvest got ready as it could. They talked even in the lane near the Thackbusk of the danger to the crops, though from the Thackbusk gate there was no corn-land to be seen, only willows and marshy fields along which at eventide the sinking sunshine lay in rays of level light. That little lane, where was Jenny’s cottage home, was very quiet and free from disturbance now; the grey cottages stood on one side, and the white upon the other, and on one of the grey walls some pink rosebuds were blooming. No one would have supposed, at sight of its sober look, that the clang of the Rantan had ever echoed there.

And yet ...

People afterwards said when they talked of those summer days that Mrs Salter had been very ‘still an’ skeared;’ and they certainly remarked at the time that ‘she held her head so high there was no gettin’ near to speak a word wi’ her.’ But the pre-occupation upon poor Jenny’s face had seemed only natural after what had passed; and none thought that in addition to her fears for her fugitive husband she might be anxious for her boy and girl as well—that was not thought of till other days had gone, and the neighbours could speak of the ruin to which boy and girl had come. For, although their wisdom came after the event, some threads of doom were indeed being woven in the course of those summer days.

It was remembered afterwards, for instance, that there had been a change in Annie, which was not such a change as might have been expected; for she did not seem restless, disconsolate, or passionate, as she might well have been after the event of the Rantan. She held her head high, and looked more beautiful than before; her dark eyes were full of a childish, glowing light; and she kept herself resolutely apart from all her neighbours, as one who prefers to be quiet and dream alone. To Alice, whom she met once, she whispered softly that she had ‘made up her mind, and would not be troubled now;’ and yet her expression was not that of one who is at peace. Had she made up her mind on the night of the Rantan, when she fled away from the misery of her home; and were the hours of those golden summer days leading her to an event that lay close before her now? No one knew, for she said no word, even to her mother; but it was remembered afterwards that she had been industrious and silent, and had bent continually over some pieces of needlework, which she said she must finish ‘before autumn came.’ Now and then, in the evening, she would be absent from her home, on her return refusing obstinately to say where she had been; and once or twice her mother found her on her bed, in convulsive, passionate weeping which could not be accounted for. But she remained silent, as it was her wont to be, and was busy and quiet, though there was the strange light in her eyes; and no one who saw her pure, childish beauty would have been easily ready to believe much evil of her. For Annie had been educated to the ideals of her mother, which were higher than those which most village mothers own; and although her disposition was wild and passionate it seemed too lofty to incline easily to falls. And yet—dare we say that any feet are safe from peril—we who are aware of the countless snares of life?

One safeguard was lost to Annie, for Tim could not see her now; he had been removed to the Farm, where he lay ill, watched over with tenderness by Alice and her mother, but shut out from all other society by the doctor’s law. He had been removed to the Farm before his consciousness returned—otherwise he might possibly have preferred the cottage in the Thackbusk lane—and perhaps in his heart he felt some slight impatience at the restraint which kept him in his room. But Mrs Robson was kind, and her daughter very helpful, and it would have been ungrateful to show discontent to them. He liked to think that Annie must be anxious, and that when he was stronger he would visit her again; Alice did not tell him that Annie Salter made no inquiries, nor even Nat, though he was often at the Farm. In her heart she blamed both the brother and the sister for their silence, but she imagined that some feeling of shame made them conceal the interest they felt. For it was known that their father’s hand had struck the blow—there was not a man in the village who was not aware of the fact. And Nat seemed altered; he had an uneasy, hungry look, as if for some reason all was not well with him.

So matters were going on that August afternoon when Mr James Gillan mounted his horse in the Manor yard, whilst the pigeons sunned themselves upon the roofs. A well-dressed, slender-figured, well-appointed gentleman, he aroused the admiration of the boy who held his horse; even though he appeared to be in a state of abstraction from which he could not rouse himself to any expression of gratitude in the shape of thanks or fee. Was it possible that in the mind of this easy-tempered gentleman were some perplexities that he knew not how to solve, that some woven threads that he could not disentangle were beginning unpleasantly to cling about his life? His delicate eyebrows were knitted, almost frowning, above the languid eyelids that drooped upon his eyes; and he did not raise his head to where, from a passage window, his sister stood watching his departure from the yard. He passed the red School-house with its white lilies, and, taking the turn to Lindum, rode on to the town.

CHAPTER XV

MR JAMES GILLAN MEETS HIS UNCLE

THE white sun was sinking lower in the west, above the valley at the foot of Lindum hill, when Mr Lee rose from his chair in his private apartment to welcome the nephew who was shown into his room. It was the first time, in the course of their mutual lives, that the nephew had set foot in his uncle’s house.

An abode of wealth! and yet there were few signs of riches in the scantily furnished, bare, and matted room, beneath whose windows, in grey, shining haze, lay the extensive prospect of the valley beneath the town. A hard room, full of unornamental book-cases, with one small table, severely erect and square, and on that a heavy desk, a solid inkstand, some piles of papers, a pen-wiper, and a purse. The eyes of the nephew wandered to these things before he accepted the hand held out to him; and it was not until he was seated, and his mind was more composed, that he ventured to raise his glance to his uncle’s face. It was not often that he was agitated, but then this interview meant so much to him!

Mr Lee, on his part, had found no difficulty in surveying his visitor with a steady gaze; though even for him there was a little agitation, displayed in the colour that mounted in his face. Perhaps the sight of his sister’s son affected him, the sister towards whom he had been unforgiving, and who was dead; or perhaps he almost repented the relenting that had induced him to send to his nephew and demand an interview. His original refusal to see his young relations for a while had been so firm, had been so uncompromising! and yet for once he had actually changed his mind, not only before winter, but even before autumn came. Some feeling of curiosity may have prompted him, or some remonstrance of the Squire who was his friend, or the fact that during the last month he had been ill, and that he was a lonely man, and that his wealth had no heir. Whatever the cause, his change of action was now a fact, for here before him was the young man, his sister’s son.

At such moments the first glance counts for a good deal; indeed, the impression it leaves is of almost unfair importance, for it is often difficult afterwards for our sober, solid, reason to counteract its influence. Mr Lee saw before him a young man, tall and slender, with a delicate face into which a nervous colour stole; with drooping eyelids, and thin, fine, hair, a delicate complexion, and nervous, parted lips. A graceful figure, a face not without charm, an attire refined and carefully arranged; the most hostile adversaries, speaking honestly, could not have been bold enough to deny these advantages. They might have denied that the gentle-featured face gave the smallest indication of steadfast principles, but then we are not accustomed to look for unwavering resolution in the countenance of a young man of three-and-twenty years. And it is certain that in the course of a wandering life Mr James Gillan had gained an appearance of good-breeding; the son of a wandering actor, he had yet acquired refinement, and had the look and the words of a gentleman. This appearance, moreover, was intensified by the attractiveness of a gentle, pleasing face; and a quiet manner, which was a positive relief to the uncle who had seen his sister’s books and songs. And yet the old man, a keen and shrewd observer, was not altogether satisfied, in spite of his relief.

A contrast himself!—Mr Lee was not refined or pleasing, but his grey eyes were clear and bright beneath his brows, and every line of his harsh, rugged face was graved with a decision that almost rose to power. A passionate face, but with passion well-subdued, a face untender, proud, and illiterate, not softened by love, not refined by education, not enlarged by wide views, and general sympathy. The son of a grocer, a dealer in provisions, then a general merchant of large and wide success, he had pursued an honoured and industrious career, and had retired from business a respected, wealthy man. The unfortunate circumstances attending his early marriage had debarred him from the most softening influences of life; though, with the want of refinement that characterised his words, he had made into his favourite joke that long-past tale. That was the man! he could keep a promise honourably, indeed with a scrupulous honour that rose to chivalry; but no delicate tact, such as sensitive natures own, would hinder him from boasting of a promise he had kept. Not parsimonious, but not at all luxurious, he had not the least love for society and its ways, and his establishment at the top of Lindum Hill was conducted with the utmost simplicity, though not penuriously. In the house with him were only his favourite attendant—a dark-faced, under-sized, active boy—an old woman who was his housekeeper and cook, and her husband, who had been his coachman many years. The cathedral bells chimed at a little distance from the house; beneath it lay the valley in endless lights and shades; and Mr Lee, though but little impressed by sight or sound, made himself comfortable, and was content. Only sometimes the remembrance of his conduct to his sister affected him with a slight sensation of remorse; and he had been lately ill, and still was feeble, and he was solitary, and his riches had no heir. These various reasons, acting on each other, had produced the change in his purpose which we have seen—he had written to his nephew to ask for an interview, and now was receiving him at his own request. No such very great change after all, but Mr Lee was always accustomed to cling to all purposes with tenacity.

If in the mind of the young man close to him, who sat with his eyelids down-cast, waiting humbly for him to speak, there was being waged a conflict, more uncertain, more terrible, the uncle at any rate saw no signs of it. For the contest between our love and our ambition lies low in our heart, out of reach of human eyes; and the supreme moments in which the fight is hottest pass on without observation from the world. James Gillan gave only one sudden, stifled gasp, as if he had found that there was no air in the room; and then, with his head inclined and his fingers loosely clasped, sat waiting to hear what his companion had to say. For—‘So you have come here, sir,’ said Mr Lee, ‘that’s as it should be, since I have to speak with ye.’

CHAPTER XVI

AN OMINOUS CONFLICT AND A FINAL RESOLVE

‘I HAVE come, sir,’ James Gillan said, raising his eyes modestly, ‘in consequence of the letter from yourself which I received to-day. If I had not received it you may be sure that I should not have ventured to intrude upon you.’

He made the statement quietly, and with apparent self-possession, although he knew that a conflict was raging in his heart, from the remembrance of another plan, and of very different hopes, which had nearly reached their fulfilment by the time the letter came. ‘Oh, would it have been better,’ this was the cry of the conflict, ‘if I had made up my mind to that, and had not come here at all?’

‘Oh, ah, ye speak well, sir, ye express yourself very well,’—the uncle was only half-pleased with his readiness—‘ye’ll have been educated, I make no doubt of it, and are able to have opinions for yourself. When my poor sister would go off with a stranger it was never my thought that she went to luxury, but ye and the girl seem to have been brought up easy-like, and to have had your share of the pleasures o’ the world. I hope as ye’ve had some real instruction too, to which ye can turn your heads and hands to-day.’

‘My sister, and myself,’ said James Gillan, quietly, ‘have had a wandering life, and an unsettled education, from which we have gathered such knowledge as we could. My father was a man of talent, I may say of many talents, but he did not meet with steady professional success; and I know that he regretted his inability to give us as much instruction as he wished. I think I may say, for my sister and myself, that we would like a less unsettled and securer life; but it is not yet a year since the death of both our parents, and we have not had time to find employment for ourselves. If you, being a relation, could give us any assistance, you may be certain at least of our gratitude.’ He spoke with the smile that disarms hostility giving pleasant lines to his lips, though it scarcely touched his eyes—the rarely lifted eyes which, being blue in colour, had more distinct beauty than any other feature in his face. Mr Lee was not insensible to the charm of glance and smile, but he was also aware that he did not know their meaning yet.

‘Oh, ah, industrious!’ he said, not without sarcasm, with the raillery, rough if not rude, that was peculiar to him; ‘you would make me into an office or a registry, to find you places that you may go an’ work. That’s very fine; I’m glad of that sort o’ spirit, it isn’t too common in these idle days. But tell me, nephy, an’ speak for my niece as well, is that all that ye think ye may expect from me?’

Before his keen glance the young man’s eyelids fell; but that discomfiture was only momentary, and with renewed assurance he raised his eyes again. A fine tact, a tact that is not common in the world, can make even an essentially timid nature brave at times, for it is able to be aware of the fitting moment when secret purposes may be helped by honesty. If James Gillan were open-hearted his countenance belied him, but at this moment his words were direct enough.

‘I think, sir,’ he said, with a little hesitation, but not more than was natural in so young a man, ‘I think .... if you ask me .... that I must reply that if we cannot expect we yet might hope for more.’ And then, feeling rather than seeing his uncle’s gaze upon him, he went on with resolution, although his colour rose; ‘We have no parents .... I believe you have no children .... there are many ways in which you might do well by us.’ The sense of his daring almost stopped his breath—on the issue of those few words he had staked his future.

Mr Lee was staggered; he rose up from his seat; he walked with firm paces straight across the room; he stood by the window as if he were looking at the valley on which already the evening radiance fell. In spite of himself his nephew’s words had pleased him, the challenge he had flung had been accepted courageously; whatever might be this young man’s faults and failings, it was obvious that he was not without qualities. And then, the readiness, the refinement of his visitor, were beginning at length to impress him favourably; if he had been partly repelled by them during the first few minutes, he felt the reaction in their favour now. It needed the remembrance of all he had seen and heard during his visit to the Manor Farm in the absence of his relations, to recall to him the caution which, although it was habitual to him, he felt for once almost disposed to drop. For he was a lonely man .... he did not know how to spend his money .... and if these young relations would submit to him ....

With a decided movement—but then his movements were always decided—he turned away from the window, and the evening glow on the valley: and with a few strides crossed the room, and stood by the table near which his nephew sat. He stood with his hands resting on it, a favourite attitude, looking down on the young man, his harsh features furrowed and rugged with an agitation, which rendered it difficult for him to speak at once. There was no sign of emotion, however, in his hard, dry voice, when at length he spoke.

‘Nephy Gillan,’ he said, ‘I’ll deal direct by ye, as ye, on your part, have dealt direct by me; I’ve got some money—I’ve got a deal o’ money—an’ I’d as lieve waste it on ye as on charities. But then, ye see, I don’t know ye well eno’, and I’m not quite satisfied with all I’ve heard on ye—I don’t want to give money, as ye’ll well understand, for a girl to flurret, an’ a boy to gamble with.’

It was a home-thrust, and the young man’s head bent again, although less in surprise than in perplexity; for it was not easy to decide in the first instant in what manner these accusations should be met. He was not aware of the extent of his uncle’s information, and it might be dangerous to attempt denials; and, moreover, the past scrapes of himself and Tina were subjects on which he did not wish questions to be asked. It appeared safer, therefore, to assume humility—the humility that disarms opposition and in that way defends itself.

‘I think I told you,’ he said after a pause—a pause not long enough to give suspicion time to wake—‘that we have had a wandering life and an unsettled education; and I don’t doubt that to you that sounds like idleness. But it is our wish to find work for ourselves—assisted, if you will, by your generosity; and I am sure I may say that if you will consent to help us you will not find that you have any reason to complain.’ There was a slight sound of hesitation in his voice; but, in spite of that, he got through the words well enough.

‘Ye are meaning to tell me,’ Mr Lee looked at him fixedly, ‘that, if I were to take ye into my house to-day, ye wouldn’t waste money, an’ your sister wouldn’t flurret, an’ ye’d give up your old acquaintances, an’ be all as I could wish.’ A sudden, sharp pang pierced to the young man’s heart; for a moment it contracted his features, then he looked up and smiled. That smile meant assent, and he knew it meant assent; in that moment, for the sake of his ambition, he renounced his love.

‘Hum—hum—’ said the old man, and sat down, and got up again, and stood by the window, and then walked about the room; and then, pausing once more by the side of the table, remained with his head bent, absorbed in thought. His companion was aware that on the issue of those moments depended the lives of his sister and himself, but he sat quietly waiting the event, and only clenched the nails of his hands into the palms. Five minutes passed—ten—in that strained, breathless silence, and then Mr Lee sat down once more and spoke.

‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I’ve been glad to hear all ye say, an’ to have this opportunity of knowing more o’ ye; we’ll have occasion to talk on these things again, an’ I’ll happen be able to make up my mind next time. I’ve got many calls, ye see, on me just now, but I’ll pay for the board and lodgin’ as before; an’ ye an’ your sister must come to me some day, so as we may be learnin’ to know more of each other. I’ve an engagement, so I’ll wish ye good-day; but if ye stay for refreshment I’ll have some sent to ye. Good-bye to ye now, an’ many thanks for thy visit; we’ll learn to be acquainted soon, I doubt—good-bye.’

‘The old snake,’ muttered James Gillan, in a fury, by the window to which he strode as his uncle left the room; ‘he thinks himself clever, no doubt, to put me off, and to bind me with promises whilst he himself is free. At any rate, I need make no alteration now; I certainly will not give up my plans and hopes for him—a fine thing indeed it would be to lose the girl I love for the sake of an old rapscallion who gives words instead of coin!.... And yet if I lost his favour .... but that is not inevitable .... we will keep things dark for a while and bide our time; she ought really to consent to a little secrecy when I have shown myself willing to do so much for her .... And I shall have her, I shall at least be sure of that; and it may be that all things will turn out for the best.’ The sound of the opening door disturbed his meditations; he declined all refreshment, ordered his horse, and rode away.

That night, a dark night, when all was indistinct, and even the stars were not brilliant in the sky, and the outlines of trees made dim and gloomy masses, and the village had closed its blinds and locked its doors—on that night, whilst the wide meadows lay beneath the stars, two shadowy figures met in the Thackbusk field. And as they stood there, with their arms round each other, they whispered to each other that all was arranged at last.

CHAPTER XVII

A PLEASANT EVENING

ON that same evening, whilst darkness lay on the fields, and in the dim Thackbusk meadow the two wandering figures met, there were bright fires and lights and a pleasant sense of welcome within the closed shutters of the Manor Farm. The grate in the old kitchen was aglow with flames, there was a bronze lamp on the table, and the candles on the piano were lit; and by the piano, in her black lace evening dress, sat Tina, and at intervals she played and sang. Her weird, sweet voice lent itself to this fitful music, which rose and fell like the moaning of the wind. For a while she had been silent, and so had also her companion; and then, suddenly, she broke once more into song.

‘O where are you going with your love-locks flowing,

On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’

‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,

We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’

‘What is that?’ asked Nat, startled by the sudden cessation from the dreams and reveries into which he had been plunged. He was sitting by the fire, with a sheet of cardboard on his knee, and some paper on which he was tracing patterns for her needle-work. Tina did not answer at once; she let her fingers wander idly amongst the chords of the music, which she was playing from memory.

‘How do you like it?’ she asked with a quick movement of her head, ‘though I need not ask, for I know it is not your style. The words are by Christina Rossetti, I found them in a book of poems; and a friend of mine made them into a song for me.’

‘I don’t like it much, miss,’ Nat answered truthfully, for his candour was not shackled by the restraints of society. He added, expressing the musical sentiment of his class, ‘I like summat that’s lively, when the day’s woork be done.’

‘This is lively,’ cried Tina, with perversity, and struck a few chords on the piano, weird and full; and then jerked her head back to see if he were listening, before she flung herself into the passion of her song. Her voice was not of unlimited strength, but in the old kitchen it sounded powerful.

‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,

Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’

‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’

‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body, which waits the eternal term.’

‘Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:

This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell’s own track.’

‘Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting:

This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’

The dramatic force which appeared inherent in her gave indescribable expression to the song; she sang the words with a wild, strange enjoyment, as if she were rejoicing over some ruin she had caused. For the moment even Nat found himself to be excited to such a sensation of dread as he had never before experienced; but the little adventuress had only yielded to a passing impulse; in another instant she threw back her head and laughed.

‘And how do your patterns get on?’ she asked, coming closer to him, and bending over him so that her fingers touched his shoulder; ‘I am sure it is good of you to come evening after evening that I may teach you this stupid work which I cannot bear to do myself. Oh, my brother leaves me to be lonely every evening; if it were not for you I should go mad or die.’

She threw herself into a chair on the other side of the hearth, and with a tired movement clasped her hands above her head, an action which displayed the curves of her pretty arms, whose beauty did not require any ornament. Nat stole a glance at her, and then bent his head that he might go on industriously with his work—he liked to indulge himself with these fitful glances, and then feel the hot blood mounting in his face. A lad of seventeen, brought up with austerity, without much love for the amusements of his kind, and yet swayed by all the varying, confused emotions which accompany the perilous age when manhood dawns—it was scarcely possible that he should not be excited by evenings spent in such strange companionship. Where was the harm? he had told his mother that he was working for Miss Gillan, and she had not refused her permission or in any way hindered him—he was only confused because Miss Gillan was herself so strange, not like a lady, not like a village-girl, so that the natural awe which he would have experienced in her presence was mingled with a sensation of familiarity. He did not ask himself, as an older man might have done, for what reason she chose to unbend so much to him; he did not think of inquiring into the future to learn the result of such companionship. At the moment the wine of life is at our lips our future head-aches do not concern us much.

And yet, of late, as one half-waked from a dream, poor Nat had been possessed with an uneasy, haunted feeling, which scarcely, even now, amounted to compunction, but which still could render him dissatisfied. He was not indeed able to gauge the skill of the questions by which Tina drew from him the information she required; but it had now become often possible for him to wish that he had not said so much to her. For he had told her about his home and his mother, his sister’s beauty and the lovers it had won; about the Squire too, and his friendship with Mr Lee, and the correspondence Mr Lee maintained with him. It was on this last subject that Miss Gillan was chiefly interested; and Nat had some facility for giving her information, for of late he had been much employed by the Squire, and had continually brought him letters from the town. The questions of Miss Gillan were so simple, and appeared so natural, that for a long time the lad had replied to them carelessly; and it had not occurred to him that, as a servant, he had no right, even in small matters, to betray his master. That doubt, however, having once become aroused, would not allow him to be at peace again; for his mother had trained him to be fastidiously upright, and his present conduct was at variance with his training. He could tell himself indeed that he had done no harm, had revealed no secret that was worthy of the name; but still he was vexed, uneasy, unsatisfied, and at night tossed restlessly, wakeful and feverish. And now, this very evening, he had made fresh promises .... but then he would never make promises again....

He sat by the hearth, with his head bent over the patterns, the easy work which was all she required from him, in the spacious kitchen, warm, lighted, brilliant, which had not the dulness, the sadness of his home. For to-night he would be happy, he would enjoy himself, in Miss Tina’s room, and in her company; he would bask in his love of dreams and reveries, in the sense of expanding faculties and powers. For he was growing older; he was himself aware of it; in the past few weeks he had known new experiences.

‘Ah! ah! it is late,’ cried Tina, as she sprang from her seat with the lightness of movement that belonged to her. ‘Your mother will be angry; you must excuse yourself; you must say that I gave you a great deal of work to do. And you will remember what you must do to-morrow, you must just look in here as you come from the town .... I must have a sight of my sweet uncle’s hand-writing; for, although I am his niece, I have not often seen it. I won’t ever again ask you to do such a thing for me; I don’t want you to get into a scrape, you know .... only just this once .... because I have set my heart upon it .... because it is an occasion that will never come again. He is writing to the Squire on business, but he will speak of my brother’s visit, and I shall know by the look of the envelope the mood in which he wrote. Oh, Nat, you cannot tell what all this is to me; it is more than a foolish fear, it is my life.’

The ready tears sprang to her dark, shining eyes, which she veiled with one hand whilst she held out the other. He had never seen her in such a mood before, and the sight of her trouble touched him unspeakably. And then, as she took the hand which he scarcely dared to raise, she whispered that he was her friend, her only friend. The words lingered like music in his ears as he went out from the Farm into the dark village-streets.

The lights of the Farm were still before his eyes when he paused for an instant on the threshold of his home, listening for the voices of Annie and his mother, hoping that he would not be obliged to speak to them. With the remembrance of a pleasant evening, of Tina’s murmured words, he paused for an instant, then turned the handle, and went in. And then .... he stood still as his sister had done once, but with a more startled dismay, a deeper dread.

The cottage was silent, a solitary candle was burning; his mother sat by it with her head upon her hands, a scrap of writing before her on the table, her features pallid, her eyes fixed, scared, and dry. The scrap of writing gave sufficient information; his sister was gone, she had left the cottage that night—whilst he had been occupied with his enjoyment she had escaped in the darkness from her home.

CHAPTER XVIII

A TERRIBLE NIGHT

YES—she was gone—there could be no doubt about it—there was no room for hope, no chance of some mistake—the scrap of paper, with its single word ‘Good-bye,’ contained enough information to insure a terrible certainty. She had gone to her room that evening to lie down, as she said, whilst her mother was occupied with needlework in her own, and had stolen away so softly, silently, that her mother had not heard her footsteps on the stairs. To whom she was gone—if indeed it was to some person she had fled—in what direction, with what object, remained unknown; some hours must have passed after her flight had taken place before her mother discovered the paper she had left. Jenny kept on repeating in a pitiful, helpless tone that she had sewed downstairs for hour after hour, until she became ‘skeared’ that Annie did not appear, and went to her room, and found that she was gone. It was pitiful to see the condition of the mother, crushed and bewildered, without strength enough left for any other feeling than that Annie, her Annie, had really left her home. To Nat it was all a sudden, dreadful nightmare, the one candle in the cottage, the stillness of the night, the single word that his sister’s hand had left, the white face of his mother, and the overwhelming sense of shame. It could not be borne; he left his home and his mother, and with some muttered words about making inquiries, went out into the darkness.

That was not a night to be forgotten by mother or by son, the short summer night spent in this new suffering; by Jenny sitting helplessly in her chair, whilst the dying candle before her sunk and flickered; by Nat in wanderings as hopeless and as helpless, and in vain enquiries which revealed to others their disgrace. He questioned such passers-by as could be found in the streets at midnight; he roused the inhabitants of one or two cottages; he ran through the night to the two nearest village-stations, and found his way by the river to the stations in the town. The hours of the night seemed short, and yet seemed crowded, too quickly over, and yet long to endlessness; its shifting scenes, and the faces of those he questioned, remained with him afterwards as bewildered dreams. By the grey morning-light that broke above the river, he found his way back again to his home at last, in some desperate hope that when he turned the handle of the door he would find that his sister also had returned. He entered to find everything as he had left it, the candle burnt out, the cottage dim and silent; his mother in her chair, pale, sleepless, motionless, and the bit of paper on the table in front of her. He was worn out; it was all too hard to bear; he sat down and cried.

By that morning light, breaking over fields and hedges, the men and boys of the village were starting for their work, whilst gardens and meadows were drenched with early dew, and tiny pink clouds were bright above the Fens. Already, as a rumour, the latest piece of news was passing from mouth to mouth as they paused to join each other; and as the white light grew clearer in the east, it began to spread amongst the village homes as well. One thing was clear, so the village-mothers said, it was not for good that the girl had gone like that; and those who had accused Mrs Salter and her children of pride were now at last certain that they would have their punishment. For there is some consolation attending every sorrow—to those at least who are not the sufferers.

CHAPTER XIX

NAT AND THE SQUIRE

THE village news, spreading fast, as has been said, was not long in reaching the mansion of the Squire, the grey house that was situated upon the hill, with trees around it and the church to the left of it. It came to this great house of the village with the milk, which was brought in the early morning by a little village boy, was discussed over breakfast in the servants’ hall, and was introduced into the study of the master with the newspaper. The Squire was interested, and even to a certain extent affected, although the details of village life did not often concern him much, for he was a recluse, with literary tastes, who preferred to seclude himself from the outside world. His servants were not only interested but also much excited, stirred to pity and even in some degree to triumph, for they had been jealous of their master’s handsome favourite, whose sister had become so unhappily distinguished now. The housekeeper declared that there must be something wrong with the family, and that for her part ‘she had never no opinion of the lad.’

Still human pity is produced by impulses that are happily often independent of our opinions, and when Nat appeared at eleven o’clock as usual, pale, with swollen eyelids, trying hard to hold up his head, he found himself received with a general compassion, which would not even disturb him by too many questions on the event. The housekeeper, indeed, took him apart into her room to ask if he had heard of his sister, and to express pity for his mother, but no one would have imagined from her manner how unfavourably she had spoken of him a little while before. Mrs Cranby was an old institution in the Squire’s household, a handsome old woman, with a manner of simple dignity, with a little red shawl on the shoulders of her gown, and with lilac ribbons in a most ample cap. It might have been well for the boy if he had accepted this opportunity of shewing gratitude for her kindness and of making friends with her, but he was sick and sore with shame and pride that morning, and only longed to be allowed to get to his work. He replied to her sympathy with a few, almost sulky words, and then went at once to the library of the Squire. For the last fortnight he had been accustomed to enter that room between eleven and twelve every morning; and on this occasion he found his master there, as usual, and alone.

Long afterwards, when many things had become clear, Nat learned to understand that the morning which succeeded his sister’s flight was a turning-point also for himself; but at the time his mind was entirely occupied with her, and could not consider other possibilities. There were such possibilities in greater measure than he knew; for on one side he had bound himself by a promise which was ill-considered, if not treacherous; and on the other the pity which had been awakened in his master was likely to lead to beneficial consequences. In order that we may understand his position more clearly it is necessary for us to know something of the Squire.

Mr Arundel-Mallory, more commonly known as Mr Mallory, and in Warton almost invariably mentioned as the Squire, was at that time a tall, though not upright gentleman of fifty, with hair that was perfectly white, though his eyebrows remained dark. His white hair perhaps made him appear older than he was, but he preserved the appearance of a remarkably handsome man, with great refinement of manner and of carriage, with quiet movements and a singularly gentle smile. His eyes had the abstraction of a dreamer, but his lips were mobile, and their expression could on occasions appear both hard and keen; they had subtle lines, and the lines of his face were subtle, with more wrinkles about them than might have been expected. In his youth Mr Mallory had been spoken of as wild, and had spent more money in Paris than could be accounted for; but after his marriage with a descendant of the French nobility he had come home to England to settle on his estate. Two heavy sorrows awaited him; his beautiful, young wife died in the year after their marriage; and that grief was succeeded by the loss of his son when he was thirteen years old. After this last trouble, Mr Mallory, who had long given up society, secluded himself with more determination than before; and devoted his time to literature, and the collection of old pictures, rarely rousing himself otherwise except to do some kindness to any one who could claim a connection with his wife or son. He was a man who was regarded with interest, but yet who was not loved; who was imposed upon by many, and feared and hated by a few; a man too clear-sighted to be altogether gentle, but too abstracted and indifferent to be clear-sighted every day. The Squire was a gentle landlord, as all the parish knew; but his resentment, when roused, could not be appeased again.

This was the master before whom Nat stood on the morning which succeeded the night of his sister’s disappearance; and who, as he entered, turned on him an anxious glance, which revealed more sympathy than he might have been expected to show. It had long been a matter of remark in Warton and its neighbourhood that the Squire had an especial favour for Jenny Salter’s son.

‘Ah! so you have come,’ said Mr Arundel-Mallory, gently; ‘I am glad to see you, for I have some errands for you to-day. You look tired; sit down. Whilst I write out your commissions you will be able to rest.’

Nat sat down, soothed in spite of himself by a kindness more delicate in expression than that of the housekeeper had been. With some nervousness, for he had much natural diffidence, he drew out a carved chair from the table and sat down upon it, having placed his cap on the floor. Into this luxurious library, this room with its books and busts, and appliances for study, he had been admitted sometimes in earlier years that he might play with the Squire’s little son. No doubt to this circumstance he owed his present employment, but in spite of that it did not enter into the mind of the lad to suppose that this past intimacy gave him any particular claim upon the Squire. And possibly Mr Mallory appreciated this reticence, not often a quality of those who accepted help from him.

‘I have had you in the garden every day for the last fortnight,’ the Squire observed, whilst he wrote leisurely. ‘I hope you will be able to come even after the harvest has begun; you can apply for more wages at that time, if you like.’

‘My mother says I’ve enough, sir,’ muttered Nat, in reply to this suggestion; ‘she told me I wasn’t to ask you for no more.’ And as the Squire raised his eyes in some surprise, his glance fell on the swollen eyelids and pale cheeks of the boy.

‘Ah, yes .... I know .... your mother .... an honest woman ....’ he murmured over his writing, for he had bent his head again; and then, when he had finished and laid aside his pen, he added a few more words with a gentle utterance.

‘You are in trouble to-day?’

The kind words and the kind glance were more than could be borne, though Nat tried to hold up his head, as if he didn’t care. In vain! his face became red, and his eyes filled with tears.

‘Yes, sir, we are.’

‘Would you rather not be sent into the town? Is there anything else you wish to do? Tell me.’

‘I can’t do no good, sir; I’d as lieve be there as here.’

‘You do not wish then to be near your mother?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Have you had any news yet .... of your sister?’

‘No.’

The boy pronounced the syllables with his usual resolution, and with the reserve that also belonged to him; these qualities were more obvious than usual to the Squire. ‘A proud family—a proud family,’ he said within himself; ‘but at least it is not a family that begs for help.’ And with this thought there rose again in his heart the partiality he had long felt for the lad, and the clinging remembrance of the attachment of his little son for the little companion who had sometimes played with him. ‘I will make up my mind,’ he said to himself inwardly; ‘the boy is an honest lad, and I will do what I can for him.’

‘I wish you to go to the gardener,’ he said aloud, ‘and tell him that I shall require you all the day. By the time you have spoken to him, I shall have finished the letter which you must take to Mr Lee. I wish you to leave it, and to wait for an answer, and then to call for my other letters, and come straight back to me. You will have to wait in the town for the last delivery—there are some letters that I must have to-night.’

The boy left the room, and the Squire sat down and wrote. It was a long epistle, addressed to his old friend, Mr Lee.

‘.... No, I cannot give you advice with regard to your niece and nephew,’ (with these words he concluded after he had spoken of many things), ‘and so I will not ask for your help in a similar perplexity, which has been engaging my attention of late. The boy of whom I spoke to you seems to me worthy of assistance, and I cannot forget that Willy cared for him. For the next few weeks and months I intend to watch him narrowly, and if he proves himself deserving, I will provide for him.’

With these words—that is to say with an assurance of which he was unconscious although it concerned himself—with the loss of his sister weighing on his mind, and his promise to Tina haunting him once more, Nat found his way through the brilliant August sunlight, which flashed on the river, and shone on the golden corn; and with quick footsteps, although with a mind perturbed, left river and corn-fields, and reached the town at length. ‘If he proved himself deserving,’—it was his hour of probation. Who will dare to say of himself that he is strong enough for trial?

CHAPTER XX

A BETRAYAL AND A FALL

THE slanting light made the corn-fields into a radiance when Nat returned in the evening from the town. With the slow step of one who lingers and hesitates he went along the path which led from the station to the village. If any one had been close enough to observe his features a look of conflict would have been apparent on them—in fact the whole day had been a battle-field for a contest which was not decided even now. He did not know yet if he intended to turn towards the village, or to the path which led to the mansion of the Squire.

How shall we unravel from its entanglement the confusion of thoughts out of which a purpose grows? It is impossible for us to know all Nat felt that day; we may even add that he himself did not know. But in order that we may be able to understand him in some measure we must make an effort to look down into the feelings of a boy.

Nat had told himself then, as he walked along to the town, that his mother was ‘sore grieved now that Nan was gone;’ that his mother had ‘allays made so much o’ Nan.’ ‘She wouldn’t ’a cared if it had been me;’ murmured the sore feeling of an old jealousy; ‘she allays thought Annie a sight more good nor me.’ And then he told himself that his sister ‘needn’t talk; he wouldn’t ’a disgraced himself as she had done.’ It was hateful to think ‘how all t’ folk ’ud speak; they’ll make us the gossip o’ t’ village now.’ And still beneath these thoughts stirred the remembrance that he had not decided what he should do with the letters of the Squire.

Oh, there was no need for him to think about them; he would make up his mind as he walked back from the town. He would think of his sister—about the village people—‘them as Rantanned father, an’ is allays hard on us.’ He felt chafed, reckless, stung with the shame of that which had been sorrow the night before, ready to assure himself that it did not matter what he did, that even his mother did not care for him. These feelings may have been natural, we will not say they were not; but it is not in such feelings that virtue finds support.

So he came to Lindum, to the house of Mr Lee, and duly delivered the letter from the Squire; and was told that the master of the house was absent, and would not return until late in the afternoon. After this he performed some commissions at various shops, and had his mid-day meal at the coffee-palace in the High Street. On an ordinary occasion he would have enjoyed the fun of it all, and would especially have considered the meal a luxury, but to-day he could eat but little, and only just took up the newspaper—although a boy feels himself a man when he takes up a newspaper! When he paid for his dinner sixpence was returned to him which he carefully put into his pocket for the Squire. In this action also there was nothing unusual, but this time he felt himself to be proud of his honesty. He had a few more commissions to do, after which he wandered in the streets, and at last found his way once more to the house of Mr Lee. Tina had not been mistaken—after he had waited there for some while at the door the housekeeper put into his hands a letter for the Squire.

Nat felt his heart thump as he received it, and felt his face grow red, as if he had been suddenly detected in a theft, whilst his fingers closed hastily upon the envelope with the sensation that they were being burned. Wild thoughts passed through him as if he must get rid of it, must give it back to the servant to be sent on by the post; but he had not the courage or the skill to act upon them, and with the letter in his pocket went out into the streets. And then, for the first time, it rushed openly through his mind that he must keep his word to Miss Gillan even if he were disgraced for it.

With that feeling throbbing as if it were a pulse, and walking at his utmost speed, he speedily left the streets, and found himself once more by the edge of the river, in the radiant evening. Since he had left Mr Lee he had not stopped to think; he felt pursued, breathless, without even a wish to rest. But now, from very fatigue, he stood still by the river. And, as he paused, he remembered that the Squire had been kind to him.

Oh, Mr Mallory would never forgive him, never, if he were to find out that he had been disobeyed, or if he were once to discover that his messenger had been talking to other people about his private letters. He was so terrible when he was offended, Mr Mallory was. And he was himself the Squire’s favourite, all the servants said he was. What was Miss Gillan to him, or what was he to Miss Gillan? He was not called upon to disobey the Squire for her.

He walked on again. He felt calm, happy, his mind was at rest. And then, all at once, a reaction seized him once more.

Oh, oh, what a fool he was—the reaction seized him suddenly—to make such a fuss about a little thing, a small thing, a trifle, that no one would care about. Why, if Mr Mallory were to hear that he had been to the Manor Farm, there wouldn’t be anything so very bad in that .... he would never know .... that Nat had gone there to show his letter..... The last thought had a sting from which there was no escape, for Nat had been taught by his mother to be fastidiously honourable. Only, if she did see his letter what was the harm in that? it was only the outside of it that she wished to see—it was only an idea, a fancy that she had, she would not do anything to bring him into disgrace. ‘She likes me,’ thought Nat, and the blood rushed to his face; ‘and I like her too .... and I must do this for her.’ .... So up and down, literally up and down he paced, and the beating of his heart went up and down with him. And then, suddenly, with a quick, decided movement, he left off reflecting, and walked onwards steadily.

There are few things more strange, if we come to think of it, than the peace which possesses us when we have decided to do wrong; it is to be accounted for, I suppose, by the cessation of conflict which appears to be a benefit at whatever cost it is obtained. Nat was a lad, and disturbed about a trifle, or at least by that which may appear such to us, but in those moments he experienced the calmness which has been felt by wrong-doers more guilty than himself. It was only when at length he drew near the village that he began to waver again, as we have seen, and to ask himself whether he would pursue the lower road, or would take the turn that led to the grey house of the Squire. He drew closer, closer; he saw in the golden evening the dark trees on the hill, the red chapel on his left .... he reached the turn .... for one instant he stood still. For one instant; and then, with steady footsteps he pursued his way through the lower village-street.

Down the street he went in the radiant, summer evening .... he could not think .... his heart could scarcely be stirred even by terror lest he should meet his master. No! the street was still, there were even no village-people; he reached the next turn, and began to mount the hill; he passed the old stones, and the grey tower of the church; he stood at length by the yard-door of the Farm. The yard-door was open, but the yard was deserted, the pigeons fluttered, the black dog wagged its tail; he went to the back-door, and opened it, and went in. Down the passage he went to the door of Tina’s sitting-room, and before he had knocked she opened it herself.

And in an instant, with a clutch upon his hand that made her little fingers seem hard as steel, she had drawn him, or almost dragged him into the room, and had closed the door upon them that they might be alone. In another instant she had forestalled his unwilling movement, and had taken the letter from the pocket of his coat. And then, with a fluttering laugh, and her finger on her lip, she ran to the further door and left the room.

If the fault of Nat deserved speedy retribution it must be owned that his punishment did not fail; his feelings were not to be envied during those long minutes which he spent alone. He could not imagine what had become of Tina, or what cause had induced her to leave the room at once; a feverish dread was on him that this whole business might turn out more serious than he had imagined it to be. As the minutes passed this fever became almost like insanity, and he felt every moment in more danger of a detection which would destroy for ever all hope he had in life. He longed to pursue Tina, and yet he dared not do so; he fell down at length, almost crying, upon a chair. But even as he found himself giving way in this unexpected manner, the further door opened, and Tina entered the room again.

She was pale, her eyes appeared to look into the distance, she did not seem like herself. Without saying a word, she held out the letter. Her eyes watched him as she did so. He seized it eagerly, without daring to look at it, and put it back into his pocket without a word. Then she seemed relieved, and said a few playful words, giving back to him a seal which she had once borrowed from him, and telling him that he must be a good boy and not get into a scrape, and that he must make haste with the letter to the Squire. And then, still holding his hand, she pressed it softly, and with a gentle movement pushed him from the room. Nat felt the soft touch still as, in confusion and bewilderment, he did not delay to hasten from the house. Even now it was possible for him to escape detection, and to deliver the letter safely into the keeping of the Squire. If that could be done he might yet be free from danger—that is to say, if the ‘downhill path’ will allow of ‘turning back.’

He was gone; the door of the house was closed behind him; and Tina was left alone in the ‘old kitchen,’ with her hands tightly clasped, and her face listening and intent. Some strange excitement was upon her, that was evident, it seemed like the excitement of fear. As soon as it was certain that her companion had left the house, she let herself fall down on a seat, and hid her face in her hands.

Oh! what had she gained by this foolish risk she had encountered, the most foolish and needless of the many risks of her life—what had she gained and what might she not have lost if her action should come to the knowledge of the Squire? She had been so insanely bent on the perusal of his letter in order that she might find out the mind of Mr Lee, so certain that her uncle was concocting some plan with her brother, the knowledge of which she was not to be allowed to share. For her brother had left the house in the early morning, only leaving a note to let her know that he was gone; and her suspicions, always ready where he was concerned, had at once connected his departure with his visit to Mr Lee. Her mere idle wish to see the outside of the letter (which had included some indefinite desire as well) had thus been turned into a craving that she could not control, and that she was determined to gratify at any risk. And yet when the moment came she might have been terrified, if only .... only .... it had not been all so quickly done.

For, oh! it was easy! The letter was badly fastened, and sealed as an afterthought with a little round of wax; it had not been difficult to take off the seal and to renew it when the letter was replaced. She had been excited ... it was that which frightened her, which made her uncertain of all that she had done, but she was quite sure that she had fastened the letter carefully and had impressed the wax with the plain seal Nat had lent to her. If that should be recognised; but it could not be recognised; and in any case she had returned the seal to him, not without some conscious impression, as she did so, that his danger would now be greater than her own. Bah! there was no danger, there could not be any danger; she had not wished to do any harm to him.

If only the letter had been worth the trouble! for it could not be said to be of worth in any sense—one single cold reference to the visit of her brother contained all the information that it gave. And yet she must really be feeling like a criminal because she had dared to look into its contents—and Tina leant on the table flushed, throbbing cheeks, and dark eyes whose brilliancy had gained fresh sparkles now. She would go to her room and see that all was safe, for absolutely she did not feel secure! And so, with a murmur of singing, for excitement made her sing, she left the old kitchen, and stole upstairs to her room.

All was quiet there, it was just the time of sunset, and beyond the window the Fens lay in crimson glow; the little table at which she had read the letter was in the centre of the room, and piled with fancy-work; the red sealing-wax had been carefully put away, the candle extinguished and returned to the dressing-table. All this she saw at a glance, with a sensation of relief; she advanced two steps .... then suddenly stood still. A packet like the enclosure of a letter lay before her on the ground.

In another instant, with a start and gasp of terror, Tina had sprung to the door, and locked and bolted it, had snatched up the paper from the ground on which it lay, and had thrown herself down upon her bed to open it. In another moment its contents were revealed to her—it contained a few words referring to a subscription, and a Bank of England note. At the moment when she had opened and read the letter this enclosure must have dropped unperceived to the ground.

Trembling, shaking with terror, and almost crying, Tina tried in vain to discover what she could do, whilst the terrible bank note lay between her fingers, an indisputable witness if it should be discovered there. In that first instant she thought of rushing after Nat; but he was already gone, he must have been gone some while; and even if he were recalled it might not be possible to open the letter for the second time. Yet there was the bank note—she walked up and down, wringing her hands; she seized it between her fingers as if she could have torn it into pieces. Her reckless action seemed already to have consequences, and to ensure her a terrible punishment. As in fright and despair she leant against the window, the glowing Fens appeared to be stained with blood.

Ah, bah! what a fool she was, there was no need for despair. Or, at any rate, she would not despair so soon. The Squire might not know, he might never know what had happened, for the rest of the letter contained no allusion to the note; or, if he did suspect that the letter had been tampered with, his suspicion would naturally fall entirely upon Nat. Poor Nat, it might happen that he would lose his place, but then her friends in London would give him some assistance; or if she herself became the heiress of her uncle, she would have plenty of opportunities of giving help to him. He might betray her—Tina’s eyes became hard and terrible—but then, if he did, he would not be believed; and she would explain to him how necessary for both their sakes it was that she should not be suspected of the deed. And yet she trembled, as she had never trembled yet, and as she leant against the window her eyes were wet with tears.

Tina wept; and at some distance the companion of her danger was returning with an uneasy conscience to his home, all unconscious as yet of this new peril, but still sore hearted as he had never been before. He did not linger to look at the blood-red radiance, which lay as a reflection of the sunset on the Fens, or to indulge in any delicious expectations of spending the evening at the Manor Farm. With the fear of detection heavy on his soul he sat down silently in a corner of the cottage. If any discovery were to occur that night he would wait for it in his home.

The blood-red radiance, that seemed like a dream of judgment, paled, faded, and the evening twilight came; and then the moon rose behind a dim, fleecy sky, with streaks of dark blue between the pallor of the clouds. No servant came through that clear, sober light to summon the unfaithful messenger to the presence of the Squire; and, although a few footsteps passed down the Thackbusk lane, the cottage near the Thackbusk was left unvisited. It was not until the depth of the night had come that, according to the report of the morning, there arrived a visitor.

Was it true? Oh, could it be true? The startling rumour fled faster through the village than the first report had done, awakening the excitement of an eager curiosity, and of a gossip that would be in no haste to cease. For it was said that in the dead of that August night a figure had been seen lying on the door-step of Jenny Salter’s home; and that two labourers, returning from their work, had paused by its side, and had then aroused the house. It was Annie Salter who lay there in the darkness, forlorn, exhausted, too much worn out to move, her hair loose, untended, and hanging upon her shoulders, and on one of the fingers of her hand a wedding-ring. In this manner, after her mysterious disappearance, the daughter of Jenny returned once more to her home.

CHAPTER XXI

LYING ON THE DOOR-STEP

IF there were any truth in the oft-repeated assertion that Mrs Salter was very ‘proud and high,’ and that the reason of her preference for solitude lay rather in a sense of superiority than a love of loneliness, the errors of poor Jenny, even in the opinion of her enemies, must have been held to have received due punishment when that fatal night arrived. Upon the door-step!—there, lying on the door-step!—Annie Salter, who had been reckoned the beauty of the place, Annie Salter, who had always held her head so high, and would not have anything to say to any lad! The reputation of Jenny’s daughter had fallen very low, so low that it lay in the dust where last night her head had lain; the idlest gossip was busied about her name, the most cruel judgment did not seem too hard for her. Oh! beautiful Annie, the most beautiful of the village daughters, would your mother ever raise her head with a mother’s pride again?

‘They say she’ve a wedding-ring, but I don’t think much to that,’ observed Mrs Smith, of the largest village-shop; ‘there’s a many as goes to put wedding-rings on their fingers that they may appear a bit more like honest folk.’ Mrs Smith had been established for some years in the shop; she had a respectable husband and a baby-child—a dark-eyed, eighteen-months’ child, too plump and heavy to walk, who insisted upon crawling, to the danger of its clothes. When wretched wayfarers lay on door-steps in the night-time it will be understood that she did not feel akin to them—they were only of assistance in the way of exciting tidings which she could impart to the ears of her customers. This little excitement may be considered the advantage which can be gained from wrong-doers by the virtuous.

But it was not only by virtuous shop-owners that the delinquencies of poor Annie were discussed, they were turned into the favourite theme of conversation by the lounging youths who were waiting for harvest-work, and who meanwhile chose to lean against village-walls, and bask in the blaze of the blue sky and August sun. There was one in particular who had once been her admirer, and who now sneered perceptibly when he spoke of her, a tall, not ill-looking lad of twenty years, whose face had the shadow of dissipation or regret. I fear it is only in novels and poems that discarded lovers are always generous—at any rate there was no especial generosity in the words of the lads who were talking beneath the August sky—they said ‘she would have to come down from her high ladder, she wouldn’t find boys now as would speak to her.’ And then, having paused to take their pipes out of their mouths and laugh, they returned to the enjoyment of their pipes again. The name of Annie Salter had been turned into a by-word, that was certain at any rate, there could be no doubt of it. And already it was beginning to be considered desirable that further investigations into her conduct should be made.

‘I thought as I’d like to call on Mrs Salter,’ said a blooming young woman who was visiting the Manor Farm, and who lingered awhile in the pleasant, ample kitchen to discuss village matters with Mr Robson’s wife. ‘But I found her that high, and that silent in her manner, as I don’t think there’s very much to be got from her.’ She gave a sigh here, and a little shrug to her shoulders, and then took the seat that Mrs Robson offered at once. Mrs Robson was really distressed, and in anxiety, but she was willing to receive information all the same.

‘There’s Alice been crying,’ she said, as she sat down, and spread out her hands upon her ample knees; ‘an’ I’m sure, though I say it as should not be one to say it, she’s not one as often neglects her work to cry. But you’ve been to Mrs Salter, as you say, Mrs Jones, an’ so you’ll be able to give us a bit o’ news. Did you see Annie, tell us now, did you see Annie, an’ what did her mother say about it all?’

Mrs Jones shook her head and gave a little sigh, and then shook her head again before she addressed herself to speak—she had the appearance of one who has been offended, so apparently poor Jenny had not roused pity by her grief. Mrs Jones was a pretty young woman, neat, dark-haired, and grey-eyed, with a fresh complexion, and a dimple on her chin, but it is possible for these young, blooming wives to be severe when they have received affronts. At any rate she began and continued her tale with the manner of one who has sustained an injury.

‘I came to Mrs Salter,’ she said, ‘with the best intentions—with the best intentions,’ she added, emphatically; ‘but there’s some people as is that constituted as they can’t understand when one means to be kind to ’em. Jenny opened t’ door—she was in her working-dress, an’ all t’ cottage looked very neat an’ clean: she didn’t seem not a bit inclined to ask me in, but I said as I’d come to see her, an’, if she pleased, I’d take a seat. An’ I sat down there, an’ she sat down an’ sewed, an’ I spoke a bit o’ the weather an’ such like things; an’ then, all at once, as if it had come to me, I said, “So, Mrs Salter, your girl’s got back agen.” An’ she looked at me straight i’ the eyes before she said a word. An’ she said, “Yes, she is; she got back here last night.” An’ she said it that short, an’ that disagreeable like, as I said, “Good-morning,” an’ got up straight an’ went. For I think there’s no good i’ wasting pity o’ people as thinks ’emselves allays a deal too good for one.’

‘Ah, Jenny’s a proud spirit,’ chimed in Mrs Robson, ‘an’ she’ll come to grief wi’ it, as I’ve allays thort. An’ she’ve brought up her lad an’ lass to cock their heads, as if they was better nor other boys an’ girls. They’re too good-lookin’, I’ve allays said it of ’em, it’s well if they doesn’t come to ruin wi’ it. An’ yet she’s an industrious woman, Mrs Salter, an’ keeps her cottage as a queen couldn’t do, but if she will give her chil’en all those notions, it isn’t a wonder if they break her heart. Well, good-day, Mrs Jones, I suppose ye must be goin’; they’re busy times for all on us, t’ mornin’ hours.’

So one spoke, another spoke, with nods and head-shakings, with whispered comments and breathlessly uttered words, for a story of shame and ruin has attraction for many who will not speak of shame and ruin aloud. Poor, beautiful Annie, so proud and sensitive, at what strange fate had your wayward life arrived, into whose unworthy hands had it been committed, before it could sink into such forlornness, such desperation as this? The gossipping village, although it asked these questions, was not possessed of any means of answering them; it could chatter of the figure that lay upon the door-step, but beyond that door-step it had no right to pry. But we, who possess privileges that the village could not gain, need listen no longer to its idle words; we will cross the threshold of the cottage near the Thackbusk, and observe the mother and daughter, alone there in loneliness.

CHAPTER XXII

IN THE HOME NEAR THE THACKBUSK

THE cottage near the Thackbusk was closed to visitors—Jenny said that her daughter was ill, and must be quiet. The statement was supposed to be intended as a protection against intruders, but at the same time there may have been truth in it. For, from the moment when Annie had been carried from the door-step, she had lain in her room upstairs, too weak to move. Jenny went about quietly, and was upstairs or below, and her light foot-fall was the only sound that could be heard.

Poor Jenny! If those who made free with her name could have kept their eyes on her through those silent hours they would not have seen her give way to lamentation, or leave off her employments to indulge herself in grief. Working people have little leisure for idleness—not even for the idleness that calls itself despair—and the habits of life are not easily discarded, even in the midst of overwhelming bitterness. Jenny went about quietly, and filled her pail with water, or prepared Nat’s breakfast, or cleared the meal away, her blue working-apron above her neat black dress, and a red handkerchief on her head to protect it from the dust. A stranger, setting eyes for the first time on Mrs Salter, would have been pleased with her quiet movements, her slim, girlish form; he would have had keen eyes to have been able to discover also the traces of a sorrow that was not a girlish grief. For that only showed itself in a little more pallor than usual, a little more compression of what was still a pretty mouth. Mrs Salter was not likely to have the sorrow that makes outcries; but the grief that is silent is the grief that kills.

Poor Jenny! If she was not quite forgiving she was yet very pitiful, and her pride was little more than the outcome of her reserve; she had shown no want of a mother’s tenderness, although she had scarcely spoken to her child. Annie lay in her room upstairs, and was gently watched and cared for; little dainties were set by the side of the bed for her to eat; the beautiful hair that had hung loose on the door-step was now plaited loosely, and gently brushed and smoothed. She lay on her pillows, her eyes bright with fever, and one hand hanging languidly on the counterpane; it was the left hand, on which shone the wedding-ring. Now and then, as she lay, there would pass across her features a convulsive spasm as of sudden pain or fear; but with the determination that still belonged to her she would make an attempt to check it, although such attempts almost always resulted in terrible shudderings that shook the bed-clothes under which she lay. These shudderings must have been evidence of some internal conflict; but, if it were so, she would not express it in words. The little circle of gold was her mother’s consolation; but it was a desperate consolation to which even the mother dared not cling.

Ah! do they know much of the feeling of a mother who imagine that at such a time it is composed of injured pride, of the dread of gossipping voices and a tarnished name? Is not its worst grief the knowledge, owned in silence, that the daughter, once close, is now distant, far away; that some unfathomable gulf has intervened between the souls of the mother and the child? Jenny had felt that gulf widening through the summer months, when she knew that her son and daughter had secrets of which they would not speak to her—and now, on one side at least, the ruin had come, and her daughter lay silent on her bed, whilst the village talked outside. Ah! what could she do, poor Jenny, the Jenny we have known, the gentle, upright, the timid, shrinking soul, but fulfil her house-duties with eyes too tired for tears, and surround her child with proofs of a mother’s tenderness? The authority that can rouse and awe the sinner is not for the affection that is strong in feebleness; the clarion voice that pierces and subdues finds no note in the accents of such a mother’s love. Yet Jenny had some strength in her calamity; her child was not left untended, or her house-work undone. It may be said that she should have trusted in religion, but then she had not been educated to understand such trust—to do her day’s duty well and carefully had, until now, made the chief part of the religion of her life.

Yet something stirred in her like religious bitterness, as she stood in the evening by the Thackbusk gate, with her eyes on the wide fields and the mellow light, and the sore pain pressing its heavy weight on her life. It is not always easy for those who have breadth of knowledge to escape from the point of vision of an individual pain; and the uneducated, with their narrower sympathies, see little clearly beyond the limits of their lives. To poor Jenny life seemed a hard thing at that moment, an irremediable, inexorable doom.

‘The Lord is hard on us working folk, He’s hard,’ a low voice was murmuring within her heart; ‘He knows as we’ve nothing but work an’ trouble left, when He lets there be no comfort in t’ husband or t’ child. T’ rich folk can buy themselves a heap o’ pleasures; I’ve nought but t’ lad an’ lass, an’ they bring grief to me.’

But the gentle nature had only risen for a moment; the echo of rebellion died away immediately into a murmur of the pitiful patience which from her childhood upwards had been the keynote of poor Jenny’s life.

‘I’m stupid—I’ve allays been so,’—she whispered to herself. ‘T’ lad an’ t’ girl would ha’ done well eno’ if they’d had another woman for a mother instead o’ me.’

The pathetic words were just audible in the evening stillness, but there was no one near enough to hear them. For one moment she stood leaning on the gate, looking with sore eyes at the wide fields, the evening light; and then, with a little sigh, she took up her burden of vegetables, and turned away from the gate towards her home. For her daughter might be wanting to have her evening meal; and oh! she must do her best to take care of Annie now. The time might come when she would resent the silence of her daughter, but as yet she could have no feeling towards her but that of a mother’s tenderness—the tenderness which still clings when all else has departed.

CHAPTER XXIII

ALICE AND TIM MAKE RESOLUTIONS

ALL else, however, had not departed yet from the wilful life that seemed openly disgraced—for, although Annie had been found on the door-step in the darkness, there were still true hearts beating with anxiety for her. And of these the truest might have been found that evening at supper together in the kitchen of the Farm—a special supper in honour of the lodger, for Tim had been away, and had returned that night.

He sat in the great kitchen, which at this time of the night was shuttered, for always at nine o’clock the house was closed and barred. The ceremony might have been omitted on that evening, for it was a stifling, breathless night, and the closing of the shutters seemed to shut in the heat. But Mr Robson was great on some ceremonies, he had his own notions of forms and propriety.

No matter! the kitchen at any rate was bright enough, for the big lamp was lighted, and the candles in the brass candlesticks; and an ample meal was spread upon the kitchen table, prepared by the skilful hands of the farmer’s wife. The farm-boy was there, and little Molly, and Mr Robson, his wife, and Alice, as well as Tim—they did not always have supper together, but Mrs Robson had said that they should ‘all have a spread’ that night. She was possibly aware that they would have a subject for conversation, for the best of women like to gossip now and then; though her husband would have disclaimed that taste on his own account, for he was accustomed to say that he did not like idle talk.

He had the appearance of a fine old gentleman, Farmer Robson, as he sat in his usual place with his broad back to the fireplace, his ordinary position in winter as well as summer, for village backs can endure a surprising amount of heat. The accident which had injured his limbs had left him his faculties, and he was still shrewd on farming matters, although, perhaps on account of the idleness permitted to an invalid, there was a look of peaceful repose upon his face—a broad-featured face to which age had been kind, since it was now crowned with the beauty of snowy hair. A life of comparative indolence, without the restlessness induced by education (which even in times of indolence will not permit the mind to be still), is a fine, quiet reservoir for the facts and maxims that can be stored easily through uneventful days. Mr Robson had not been reckoned more wise than other men until the accident which made him an invalid, but he was now considered to be a village sage, whose sayings could be quoted as of authority. As this reputation caused him to be visited it must be owned that it gave occasion sometimes to ‘idle talk;’ but then these gossipping visitors had the advantage of receiving the wisdom that they came to hear. In fine, Mr Robson, in spite of his affliction, might be considered a happy, peaceful man—an affectionate husband besides, and a most doting father, who ascribed the virtues of his daughter entirely to himself. Alice sat by his side now that she might wait on him, for this duty belonged to her at every meal.

Mrs Robson, who sat at the other end of the table, with her daughter opposite, and her husband on her left hand, was not pleased to see Alice so pale and quiet that evening, as if she had not recovered from the anxiety of the day. ‘If she’d ’a been downright fond of Annie Salter I might ha’ understood it,’ the farmer’s wife reflected; ‘though, e’en then, she ought to ha’ more spirit than to appear to be in mournin’ for a girl as has made hersel’ an open shame an’ sin. She’s troubled perhaps about Nat, because she’s known him so long; but I daresay the lad’s like his sister, no better nor he ought to be. I never did like his bein’ up here every night; but Miss Gillan seems done wi’ him, and that’s as well.’ In all which reflections, though they were made without much pondering, the farmer’s wife was more accurate than she knew.

On the other side of the table to the farmer sat Tim, Molly, and the boy-about-the-place, who on that evening was allowed to stay to supper, because he had been kept so late at work. The boy was small, dull, light-haired, with an overweighted look, which was due perhaps to the poverty of his home; and he did not even rouse himself to pay attention to little Molly, although she would have been more than ready to accept such interest. For little Molly, although unprovided with novelettes to train her feelings, was always in love with someone at the Farm; her affections had already been reached by Nat, Tim, and the farm-boy besides Mr Gillan who was ‘a gentleman.’ Molly had been at Board School, but she remained quite ignorant, without even a knowledge of the laws of right and wrong, always ready for bribes and little pilferings, such as stolen lumps of sugar, when Mrs Robson’s back was turned. She sat on this occasion between Tim and the farm-boy, who were neither of them disposed to look at her, although she made timid offerings of salt and mustard, which were not received with much apparent gratitude. Tim was pale, and inclined to be silent and absorbed; he was glad that the farmer’s daughter seemed disposed to be silent too.

Poor Tim! The shock of unexpected tidings that morning had occurred just before he set out for the Farm, and was doubtless the reason that he came back to its shelter without being visibly improved by his holiday. He could not get rid of a ceaseless, foolish regret that he had not been the man to find Annie the night before; ‘for then there needn’t ha’ been no gossip over her, sin’ I’d never ’a breathed a word to any soul.’ Alas! the gossip was only too well started now, although he shrank from the thought of it as from the touch of fire; murmuring always, ‘If I could ha’ found her; if I only could ha’ found her—they’ll make her a byword now in all t’ place.’ With these inward voices to hear, it is not to be wondered at that Tim sat silent, and ate as little as he could; and that he appeared to be even more thin than usual, although his wound had healed without leaving a second scar. Of all the company he was the most absorbed, though Alice was almost as down-cast as himself.

There was one other present who must not be omitted, the black dog who had been brought up on the Farm; and who, as a recognised favourite, wandered round the table, thrusting a cold nose into the hand of anyone who would receive the gift. Peter was of the correct colours, black and tan, with a curly coat, and also a bushy tail; but he had a peculiarity which the farmer could not forgive—his ears, instead of drooping, stood straight up on his head, and were capable, in moments of excitement and agitation, of being laid back after the manner of a horse. He wandered about, and distributed his favours, but to Alice he attached himself more particularly, although she only bestowed on him such absent notice as we give to the child who would fain disturb our thoughts. For Alice was visibly lost in thought that evening, in spite of the surprise and vexation of her mother. There was one at the table who was not surprised or vexed—Tim felt more in sympathy with the farmer’s daughter than he had ever been before.

Perhaps it may have been true that he had never observed her before, for Alice was a maiden whom it was possible not to observe; and even those who had been long acquainted with her were not always able to describe her face—her charm consisting chiefly in the minuter details, the quiet tones of her voice, or the order of her dress. To-night she looked downcast, but that made her face more expressive, and Tim observed it with a new interest. At any rate, they were not all triumphant, there was one who was grieved and anxious like himself.

‘Why, ye’re not eatin’ much, Tim,’ said Mr Robson across the table; ‘have some of the cheese, it’s rare and good, I can tell ye. Ye’ve not brought much appetite back wi’ ye to the Farm; have ye left it all wi’ t’ lasses of the town?’ Mr Robson considered a mild jest of this sort to be a concession to the weakness of the young, and therefore not to be included under the head of ‘idle talk.’ His wife, however, took up the subject more seriously; she had perhaps her own reasons for pursuing it.

‘I should be right down glad, Tim, to hear ye’d a lass,’ she said; ‘it ’ud help to settle ye an’ keep ye straight in life. For why don’t ye think a bit about a sweetheart? there’s pretty lasses where’er ye choose to go.’

‘Ah, there’s one pretty lass here,’ observed Mr Robson, solemnly, ‘as won’t be so quick in counting sweethearts now—it’s a poor thing when a young ’oman makes hersel’ into a talk, so as all t’ lads may have idle words on her. There won’t be a steady one now as’ll own her for a wife—an’ yet she’s well-lookin’ eno’—a poor tale that!’

‘I never did think her not so very pretty—’ Mrs Robson could not restrain herself any longer—‘not no prettier nor many as doesn’t think such a deal of ’emselves. But howso that be, it makes no differ now, no honest lad’ll marry her, as my husband says.’

She would have added more, but she found herself restrained by the sight of the excitement that was too visible in Tim, and which gave to his face such a flushed and bright-eyed look as had never been known to appear on it before. He tried to eat, and then he tried to drink; he got up from his chair, and then sat down again, and then rose once more, and stood before the mall. It was evident that he was struggling with conflicting feelings; but one rose above the rest—and then he spoke.

‘If it’s Annie Salter as ye be speakin’ on,’ he said, ‘ye be not so quite so right, Mrs Robson, as ye think. I’d marry her to-morrow if she’d give me t’ chance, an’ yet I reckon mysel’ an honest man. I won’t believe none of all these tales an’ words—not until I hear ’em from her own lips. God bless her! t’ prettiest lass in all t’ village, an’ t’ best; I won’t be the lad to be cryin’ shame on her!’

There followed—silence. The air seemed to vibrate, as if some particles of excitement were lingering in it still. The pleasant kitchen, which had such cheerful meals, had not been witness to such a scene as this before.

‘Well, Tim,’ said Mrs Robson, ‘I won’t say nought to yer taste—like goes to like, as they tell me—ye can choose best for yersel’. But, as ye seem to ha’ done wi’ supper, I think we’d best retire.’ She got up accordingly, and at once dismissed the farm-boy, and with a few sharp words, sent off Molly to her work; and then, offering her husband his crutches, though this was the business of her daughter, she assisted him in his progress from the room. Her stateliness appeared greater than the occasion warranted, but her lodger was not in the mood to reflect upon it.

Tim was left in the room with Alice, who had taken out her knitting, and had seated herself in her father’s chair upon the hearth, without looking towards him, or attempting to say a word, but still obviously with no inclination to depart. Through the silence in the room he felt her sympathy, and he drew his chair up to the hearth, and sat by her. The summer night stillness was on all the house—a low sound of singing came from Miss Gillan’s room. The two young companions raised their heads to hear; then they turned to each other, and their glances met.

‘Oh, I’m so glad Nat does not come here,’ cried Alice, suddenly; ‘I can’t bear these people—I hate for ’em to be here.’

Her sudden passion might have astonished her companion, if his own thoughts had not entirely occupied him at the time; and if her words had not chimed suddenly and strangely with the vague suspicion that was weighing on his heart. He looked at her with an almost startled expression, but his surprise was due to his own thought, and not to hers.

‘Alice, tell me it all,’ he whispered, almost hoarsely. ‘I’m her friend .... ye can trust me .... I will not tell on her.’ And then, as he saw by her face that she had not understood him, he could contain himself no longer, and poured out all the rest. For at that moment he was overwhelmed, distracted, he knew not which way to turn, or what to do.

‘I’ve told her all I’ve said to ye, I did;’ he said, when he had repeated what he had told once to Jenny’s daughter; ‘an’ she would have it as she’d had nought to do wi’ him, though she didn’t deny as he might ha’ thought on her .... I don’ know what to think on it, I don’t .... It comes to me .... as he’s a gentleman .... as he may ha’ deceived her .... ha’ told her he would make her a lady, thinking no such a thing .... She mightn’t ha’ known his ways; poor child, poor child, she doesn’t know t’ world .... she’ll know it now .... An’ for me, I’m in a hunder minds, I don’t know what to do .... I’ve thought as I’d go to him, but then he’s away, they say .... An’ she’s ill, an’ has fever, an’ I’ve no right to ask her questions, for all as I don’t mean nought but what’s good to her .... God forgive me, I might feel even glad that she was shamed if it ’ud make her turn a thought down to me at last.’

‘Turn a thought down to me’—the words were sufficiently pathetic from the young man who had been proud and upright all his life—the hard life that might have been easily excused if it had fallen from neglect and ill-treatment into evil. And not less pathetic was the unwonted stir of passion that would not allow him to sit down, but forced him to pace about the room. Alice remained seated on the hearth, with her knitting on her lap; but, as he moved about the room, she followed him with her eyes. A woman is never so little inclined to reticence as when a man confides to her friendship his trouble and his love—the sense of security from misconstruction brings with it a feeling of freedom that is almost dangerous. Alice remained silent—it was her nature to be quiet—but the desire to comfort was rising in her heart.

So when Tim, tired of pacing, came to the hearth again, and sat down by her side, she put out her hand, and, without looking at him, laid it on his arm. It was but the softest movement, lightest touch, but the slightest touch is electric when it conveys sympathy. For one moment she waited, with her hand still on his arm; and then, without removing it, she spoke.

‘Ye must go to her, Tim,’ said Alice, very gently, and yet with decision in her gentleness; ‘ye must tell her as ye come to her as a friend .... that ye will help her if ye can .... It may be as she’ll confide in thee, she have known thee long. Wait only a bit while till her fever is better, and then go to her, an’ speak.’ With another quiet movement she removed her hand; and, taking up her strip of red knitting, began to work again.

‘Ye’re a good girl, Alice,’ cried Tim, in gratitude—a gratitude all the more intense because it had something in it of surprise—‘I never imagined, it wasn’t in my thoughts, as ye’d be so kind to me .... and to her. I see as ye love her, I didn’t know that before, I’d have spoken to ye of her before now, if I had. An’ she’s worthy of love, whate’er they say on her; we’ll not be the friends not to stand by her now.’

‘Oh, but it’s not on Annie I’m thinking,’ cried Alice, suddenly; ‘ye mustn’t think better on me nor I deserve .... I am sorry for her .... indeed, indeed I am .... but she’s not been my friend, and I can’t think most on her. It’s Nat .... he feels it so .... it’s so bad for him ....’ and her eyes filled with tears. Tim sat still, and looked at her with a sudden, great surprise—the discovery of an interest of which he had not been aware before; for, indeed, it is even possible that he may, unconsciously, have been led to the idea of another preference. The farmer’s wife had taken so much interest in him—he could not but be aware of the fact, although he had never asked himself to what cause that interest was due.

‘Is it Nat as ye be thinkin’ on?’ he asked, still with surprise, and even with a feeling of vexation which he could not have accounted for—‘t’ lad’s well eno’; I’ve heard no harm on him, a well-lookin’ lad as t’ Squire fancies to. I don’t think ye need make a trouble out of him, a good working boy as there isn’t a better in t’ parish—but, if ye think that a word might do him good, ye’ve been his friend long, an’ it’s not hard for ye to speak.’ He had echoed to her the advice she gave to him, but at the moment they were not aware of it. For some minutes they were both silent, whilst the sound of the distant music rose and fell, its vibrations distinct through the stillness of the summer night.

‘Oh, but it does make a differ, I know it does,’ cried Alice, passionately, putting up her hands to her ears; ‘she talks to him, and flatters him, an’ makes believe to care about him; there’s a change in him that has come sin’ he knew her. If it’s true, as ye say, that t’ brother wanted Annie—there’s a pair on ’em then, an’ they’ve both on em’ done harm. I wish as Mrs Salter’s children had never known ’em, or as they’d never come to our house to work their harm from here.’ Her unwonted trouble sent a quiver through her frame, and the black dog pressed against her, and looked at her with surprise; whilst Tim rose to his feet, without knowing that he did so, with a confused instinct of ending the scene or giving help. That might have been made into the subject for a picture—the big, lighted kitchen, the table still spread and covered, the two young companions in their attitudes of distress and earnestness, and the black dog with quivering ears and listed eyes. The distant echoes of Mrs Robson’s footsteps warned Tim that he must not delay to speak at once.

‘Look ye, Alice,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I’ll tell the best I can. And we’ll do our best, you an’ me. I don’t understand any part of this. Maybe the Lord’ll make it all clear some day—I can’t say. But you an’ me, we’ve got to help ’em both, if we can, Mrs Salter’s boy an’ girl; we’d do as much as that for t’ mother’s sake alone, t’ poor mother as has had such a deal of trouble all her days. Let’s take hands on that, Alice, and we’ll do our best .... and good-night.’

Their hands met for an instant, and then they separated, and, with as few words to others as possible, went upstairs to their rooms—in each heart alike a desire to give assistance that was as pure as human frailty and self-interest would permit. If Tim’s brave defence were due only to his love, if Alice’s sisterly anxiety were influenced by other feelings too, it is at any rate certain that the friendship of each was pure and steadfast, and likely to endure the strain that trouble brings. For trouble was coming, the friends were not deceived—the clouds which had always lowered over Jenny Salter’s quiet home were threatening to overwhelm it at length in utter ruin. The beginning of evil had seemed hard enough—but we are more impressed with the danger of the future than of the present when we stand in darkness before the storm has fallen.

CHAPTER XXIV

NAT IN DESPAIR

THE rest must follow—was already on its way, in as sure a course as that of the golden autumn days—and already with speculations concerning Jenny Salter’s daughter were mingled others with regard to her son. For the lad was altered, that could not be denied—the disgrace of his sister seemed to have wrought a change in him.

Indeed it would be difficult to express in sufficiently vivid words the alteration that was observed in Nat—a change all the more apparent from the strength and youth which continued persistently to belong to him. His hair was still crisp, with a tendency to curl, his colour still bright with heat and harvest-work; and beneath the broad straw hat, convenient for harvest-time, his face was as handsome as it had ever been. But he seemed careworn, was restless and abstracted, started when he was called, preferred to work alone—to his features had come that look of ceaseless trouble which does not often accompany the trouble of the young. The disgrace of his sister might account for this alteration, but there appeared to be much that was strange in it all the same. Poor Nat! he could not have told, even if he had asked himself, how much of his own trouble was caused by his sense of the continual suspicion under which his sister lay—the abiding home-grief, which was renewed every evening by the sight of her obstinate silence and his mother’s dumb despair. It was that sense of disgrace which aggravated the knowledge that he himself deserved disgrace; the double weight was a load intensified, a burden that had become unendurable. At night, when he awoke, he could hear himself muttering; but in the day-time his pride supported him, and his misery was dumb. For he had no friend to whom he could confide his trouble, and the atmosphere of his home-life had not been one of confidences.

Yet there was danger! he had felt it from the moment when he knew that the Squire was dissatisfied with the letter he had received from Mr Lee, that he had laid it on one side as a matter in need of explanation, and that he was determined to speak to Mr Lee on his return. The letter might have been opened, he could not be sure that it had not been; and in any case investigations were dangerous—for he was aware that the slightest suspicion on the part of his employer would be sufficient to alter the conduct of the Squire. Meanwhile the continued kindness with which Mr Mallory treated him supplied the burn of a perpetual reproach; and there were moments when he could have found it in his heart to throw himself at his master’s feet and confess his fault. He could not—the fault belonged also to another, and he could not betray another in the attempt to save himself.

So struggled his feelings during the course of harvest-work, whilst blue sky shone down upon the golden fields, and gleaners with children by their sides made up their bundles, and men and boys shouted above last loads of corn. It was only when harvest was over, and the days became short and grey, that he began to be torn with another pain. Miss Gillan had never seen him since a too-well-remembered evening; she had never again sent for him to the Farm. At first to poor Nat this seemed only natural; but, as time went on and there came no sign from her, the desire to see her became a craving pain.

Oh, he had made up his mind in the first rush of penitence that he would never go to the Farm again, that if she asked for him he would send a refusal, and that he would break resolutely from her influence. And now there was no need for so much determination, for it was evident that she did not care for him. And all his resolve became lost in the craving; ‘If he could only see her and speak to her again!’

Through a warm, cloudy morning in September when the Fens were grey, shadowy, and misty sunlight lay on the village streets, whilst far in the eastern sky was an ominous tinge of red—through these signs of approaching tempest Nat found his way once more to the Farm. He was trying to justify himself by many reasons—the poor dog, crawling back to his owner’s feet. Oh, he could not do without her, though he had tried to do so; it would be enough if he could see her face again.

The back-door was open, and he could hear the sound of music—she was in the old kitchen, and was playing dances there. Nat trembled to feel how fast his heart was beating, so that he could scarcely pronounce the words that asked if she were within. In another minute little Molly brought back her message—Miss Gillan was obliged to him, but she would not need him again. Nat did not answer, he felt that he could not answer; without looking back he turned away at once.

He was engaged to do harvest-work, but he knew that labour was impossible—he went out into the fields and wandered there for hours. When he returned home in the evening, he found that a message had preceded him—Mr James Robson had sent to ask Jenny why her son had not appeared; and had added, moreover, that the lad was getting ‘strange and idle,’ and that he wished the mother would ‘say a word’ to him. Jenny did say a word, she even said many words, with the cold severity that was her manner of greatest displeasure; and she ended by refusing to let Nat have his tea, telling him that she could not afford to give him meals for which he did not work. No doubt, it would have been better if she had avoided that childish punishment, but the sore weight of her own troubles lay upon her heart; and, moreover, it is not always easy for a mother to be certain whether to treat a lad of seventeen like a man or like a child. Nat found himself next morning too sick and depressed to eat; but he would not make any complaint, and went doggedly to his work—not relieved when he was told by his master before the other boys and men that a ‘moocher’ deserved a thrashing, and, if he were his son, would get it too. Mr James Robson intended to give a kindly warning, but a proud nature does not receive warnings well; and although Nat set to work with stubborn earnestness, his resolution only issued from pride and despair. He knew indeed that it would not be difficult to regain his credit as long as he continued to be the Squire’s favourite; but even that thought was a bitter consolation, which could not comfort him in his temporary disgrace. If he should ever fall from the favour of the Squire, he would not again hold up his head amongst his companions.

Poor Nat! If any artist had passed by the harvest-field he must have been struck by the sight of his youth and strength, of his well-formed arms with shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and of the beauty of his flushed, sunburnt face. But this picture, so ready for an artist’s hand, was under conditions which might render it less desirable—though the mental torments under which the lad was writhing had not been able to work much outward ravage yet. For the first time Nat felt drawn to forbidden pleasures, to anything that would still the raging thirst of life—he longed to enter the lighted public-house, to sing and dance there, and drink away his fear and shame. His old pride restrained him, that pride of old respectability which is too often the only safe-guard left. He would wait till he saw if the Squire had any suspicion; after that it would not matter what became of him.

And then, on an autumn evening, as he went by the wall of the Farm, going down into the village after his work for the Squire, the little door in the wall opened suddenly before he reached it, and Tina Gillan came out, without seeing him. She was in black, except for a knot of red ribbons in her hat; she walked with uncertain steps as if she were quivering. In this strange, restless manner she went down the road; and, at some distance, Nat cautiously followed her.

It was a grey evening, and there was a stormy wind. About the streets lay straw fallen from the loads of corn; the dead leaves had been whirled into drifts, or lay scattered upon the path; the rising ground in the distance was dull with purple mist. A mournful time, as full of suggestions of trouble as the restless, black figure that went down the village street, that passed the old tree with its yellow, withering leaves, and pushed open with difficulty the heavy church-yard gate. Nat followed her—she went down the church-yard path, and turned through the open door into the church, into the dim church where she at length stood still, and in which his footstep at length became audible. In another instant she had turned round, and then turned upon him, with the wildest gestures, and with wild, flashing eyes.

‘Oh, have you come here to taunt me,’ cried Tina, ‘to repeat to me again what my brother’s letter tells, to remind me how clever you have all been in deceiving me, so that he has been able to disgrace and ruin us both? It was a fine scheme you concocted with my brother—you and your sister, the low, hateful, village hussy—but if it brings shame to us I can assure you that at any rate it will bring no good to you. If I had known more I need not have wished for the Squire’s letter, in order to try and discover what my brother would not tell me! Mr Lee will not forgive us, you need not think he will; you will not be able to squeeze money out of him!’

She put out her hands as if she would have torn him; and, as she did so, Nat seized her in his arms. He was so much excited that he did not know what he did ... he poured out protestations .... he grasped her arms with his hands. And, even at that instant, he became aware in his turn of a footstep—Alice Robson was standing in the dim church by his side.

A terrible moment! He felt blind and faint, he could not resist the escape of Tina from his grasp; with a blind movement he put out his hands, and leant on the font to keep himself on his feet. And as he leant against it, in darkness and bewilderment, he heard the voice of his old companion.

‘Oh what have you done, Nat, what will become of you? Mother came to fetch her hymn-book, she has heard and seen everything.’

No answer. The lad slowly raised himself from the font, and stood with his head bent, looking down upon the ground. For once, Alice was excited, and could not restrain herself, although he had not so much as looked at her. For, whatever the meaning of this intimacy might be, she could not imagine that it would bring aught but ruin to him.

‘Oh, if she was good and would do you good,’ cried Alice, ‘I wouldn’t say a word to you, I’d be glad as you was glad. It’s not so, it isn’t, she’s bad, she flatters you, she tries to persuade you as she cares for you. What’s this as she’s been telling you about a letter? you haven’t been doing any wrong to the Squire for her?’

‘So you’ve been a-spyin’, Alice Robson,’ Nat screamed out in a frenzy—the overmastering frenzy, which is the result of rage and shame; ‘you do things as t’ dirt in t’ street ’ud be ashamed to own, and then speak to me as if ye was t’ parson, an’ had t’ right to preach. I’ll make ye t’ laughing-stock of all t’ lads, I will! I’ll tell ’em as ye cared about me though I’ve never cared for ye! Ye’ve gi’en me a lot o’ preaching as ye thort must win my heart, but I’ve never had a grain o’ love for ye—did ye ever think I had?’

He flung out the words as men fling blows in darkness, intent upon striking and hurting if they can; and, as if borne backwards by the violence of his passion, the farmer’s daughter retreated, and leant against a seat. For one instant her face was averted, and he could only see that she trembled; but then, with no visible effort, she turned to him again. Her voice sounded gentle, restrained, in the intense silence of the church; it was evident that she had regained her self-control.

‘Nat,’ said Alice, gently, though with a slight quiver in her tone, ‘there was mother with me, she’s heard and seen everything. Ye had better speak to her, ask her to be quiet; she might do ye harm with the village and the Squire.’

It is impossible to say what there was in her tone and manner that made these words have the sound of a farewell, but he understood them—he knew that a sense of duty would not allow her to leave him without a warning even then. She was turning away, but she changed her mind, and stood still, leaning her hand upon the back of a seat; her voice was as gentle in its utterance as that of a child, who wishes to confess a fault. ‘I’m sorry I’ve given you trouble,’ those soft tones said to him; and she went on to the great doors, reached them, and was gone. Her footstep was only just audible on the stones, but it had the sound of the departure of a friend.

And he—left alone in the darkening autumn evening, which was all the more dark and still within the church—he flung himself over the backs of the nearest seats, and lay there with his arms hanging down, and his face towards the ground, a shadowy, strangely extended figure in the gloom. He did not move, he was too miserable to move, he could not rouse himself to either tears or prayers. Some tears gathered slowly at length, so slowly that they could not fall—he dropped to his feet, and stole out into the night.

CHAPTER XXV

TIM AND ANNIE

WHILST Nat lay alone in the dark church the lamp had been lighted for the evening in his home, and in the room with yellow rafters Tim sat by Annie’s side. It was the first time he had seen her since the summer morning when he had gone to visit her with anxiety in his heart. That anxiety had now become unspeakable pain and dread; but it was at least some comfort to be by her side again.

And that comfort was all the greater because Annie was so gentle, so much more gentle than he had expected her to be. Her old fierceness appeared to have deserted her; she had the patience, the languor of an invalid. Upon her shoulders her beautiful hair was resting—she excused herself for its condition by saying that she had been too weak to fasten it—and her wan, delicate cheek leant upon her hand as she sat and looked into the fire. Tim had never seen her in such a mood before; he sat down by her side, but he could not speak to her.

‘Mother’s gone out,’ said Annie, speaking softly, ‘I don’t know when she’ll be back. But it won’t be long .... I’m not sorry. I wanted to think. I can’t think while she is near.’ And then, as if afraid that he would misunderstand her and be vexed, she raised her dark eyes almost timidly, and looked at him. ‘It is good of you to come and see me, Tim,’ she said.

Tim felt his heart throb, and a lump rose in his throat; he did not say a word, but he held out his hand to her. Her left hand was the nearest; and, taking hold of it, his eyes caught sight of the gleam of her wedding-ring. As he started, he knew that she had observed his glance. Very gently she tried to draw away her hand, but he held it tightly, though he did not look at her.

‘Annie—Annie?’ the words sounded like a cry; they were an appeal, a question that he could not express otherwise. She did not attempt now to release her hand, but she put up her other hand and veiled her eyes.

‘Do they talk much of me .... in the village?’ she whispered; and he could see that slow tears were falling down her face. He could not answer otherwise than by his silence; no words seemed gentle enough to express what that silence meant.

‘They say I’m a bad girl .... they say I’ve shamed my mother .... I know they say so, though mother will not tell me so .... They willent forget as they found me o’ the door-step; I shall never have any credit here again.’

‘Annie, tell me you’ve done no wrong,’ cried Tim, with a sudden effort, which expressed itself first by a convulsive gulp; ‘I wouldn’t find fault wi’ you, whatever you told to me; but I’ll believe you if you say you’re not to blame.’ His words had the agony of a final effort—he still kept her fingers within his own; but his eyes had become afraid to look at her face. In the instant of silence that followed he was afraid that he might burst out into some violence of tears.

Perhaps Annie perceived his emotion and wished to comfort him; at any rate it appeared as if she had made up her mind. She pressed his hand softly with the fingers that it held, and drew the fore-finger of her right hand across her wedding-ring. It was a little action, but it seemed significant; when she saw that he had observed her she raised her dark eyes, and smiled. And then, after she had drawn away her fingers from his clasp, she laid them softly within his hand again. Reassured, though not knowing why he felt more at ease, he clasped them firmly, and there was silence for a while.

‘Tim,’ whispered Annie at last, with her face turned away .... ‘I should like to tell ye .... if I could, if I only could .... ye don’t know, maybe .... there’s times when one must be silent .... that is, if there’s any one as one loves better than onesel’ .... I didn’t think so that night when I came back; I was angry; I was mad, I didn’t know what I did. But I think so now, I can’t help thinking so .... He said if I wouldn’t speak it would all come right at last; and I was angered, and I went away from him .... But I won’t speak now; I’ll do that for him at least .... I keep on waiting till it is as he said .... the talk’s hard to bear, but I’ll bear that for him ....’

Again after a while, with her face still more turned away, so that the burning glow was only just visible on her cheek .... ‘It’s not all .... I can’t tell ye .... there’s a new trouble coming .... I was thinking of it at the moment when ye came.’

With a renewed effort she turned round her face; he could see the dark, tear-flooded eyes she bent on him. For a moment only; his own filled fast with tears, and all became dim, so that he could not see her face.

‘I’m not a bad girl, Tim,’ Annie whispered, softly; ‘I’m not all unworthy of your goodness to me .... I thought I wouldn’t be able to speak to ye again; but I’m pleased to have seen ye this once, though everything is altered now .... Tim, I don’t belong here, only for this while of trouble .... but I’m glad I can wish ye good-bye before I go.’ She drew closer to him; he held her in his arms; for one instant their faces touched, both of them wet with tears; then, as if that embrace were some final leave-taking, he got up, mutely, and at once prepared to depart. At the door-way he paused, and looked back on her; she stood leaning against the mantel-piece, and smiled on him. That vision of her pale face, and of the smile in her dark eyes, remained in his mind as he went out into the night. But it was as the vision that accompanies the wanderer when he knows that to its reality he will not return again.

Was that Annie’s thought as she sank back in her chair with a weary sigh as soon as she was left alone, leaving him to return to the Farm and its hospitable welcome, to Mrs Robson’s new mysteries, and Alice Robson’s saddened face?—was there mingled with the remembrance that she had tried to say farewell to her friend some feeling of separation and of loss? Perhaps, but at that time she was attempting to be strong, nerved by the new trial that she could not escape; for it was always her instinct, like that of others in her family, to meet trial with pride, if not with fortitude. She bound up her hair, and got the tea-things ready, before she sat down to wait for her mother and for Nat .... Tim had tried to be good to her; oh, he had tried to be good; if she never saw him again she would be grateful still ....

The sense of the new danger, however, was more overwhelming when she awoke to the remembrance of it in the darkness of the night; and when, with the memory, there came shame, and pain, and fever as on those first nights after she had returned to her home. She tried to be still and to bear it, in the silence of her mother’s room where she was sleeping now; but the loneliness and misery were too much for her, and she broke out at last into suffocating cries. Jenny heard her, and was by her pillow in an instant; but, although she clung to her mother, she would not confess to her.

‘Oh, mother, it’s coming,’ she sobbed out in the darkness; ‘I know that it’s coming, and they all will know. They’ll make me a shame and a by-word in the place—I shall never be happy, whatever happens now. The Lord might have spared me, He might have helped me in my trouble; but I’ve been a bad girl, and He won’t give help to me.’

Dark, terrible sentences thus uttered in the night-time without the confession that gives breaking hearts relief; for, although she sobbed out these words in her anguish and delirium, the broken sentences were all the confession that she made. Whatever might be the weight that was resting on her spirit, it was evident then and through succeeding days, that with all the strength that was left to her she was determined to bear that weight alone.

CHAPTER XXVI

IN WINTER NIGHTS

BUT, meanwhile, the village had recovered from its wonder to become aware of a deeper mystery, and its astonishment and gossip had only subsided to give place in their turn to a more absorbing interest. For it is pleasant to find some topic which may serve for conversation through the long winter evenings whilst we sit beside the fire.

Certainly, if poor Annie’s misery had been only that common story—that too often repeated story all villages know so well—it could but have served to make a nine-days’-gossip, and even ill-natured exultation must in time have died away. Her persistent silence, however, gave rise to other talk, it seemed like a suggestion of some mystery; and floating ideas that could be scarce expressed in words began to rise and to hover round her name. The most likely and probable of the suggestions that were made was that she was attempting to screen some village lad, for to all who knew Jenny Salter it could not appear surprising that her daughter should have inherited a piteous faithfulness. There were some rumours that spoke of ‘a gentleman,’ but they were but rumours and had no support in facts.

And, meanwhile, thus developed into a living mystery, poor Annie lived her secluded life at home, rarely leaving the cottage even to enter its strip of garden, or to go through the gate into the Thackbusk fields. She continued altered; she remained wan, gentle, patient, as one on whose head perpetual sorrow rests; her old pride and fierceness did not flash for an instant to disturb the habitual sadness of her face. And yet to a close observer there must have been visible in her eyes a look of yearning, a strange expression suggestive of some unsatisfied desire, suggestive also of the possibility that her disposition was still not without fever or perhaps delirium. If she were waiting for tidings none seemed to come to her, and the slow days passed on towards the closing of the year.

It was maliciously observed sometimes by the gossips in the village that Tim Nicol did not visit one whom he had professed to love, and that sufficient amusement for his leisure hours could be found within the boundaries of the Manor Farm. The observation was unfair, for Tim had never been a constant visitor anywhere, and was now much occupied at the foundry, which was ‘on overtime;’ and if in his spare moments he was more at the Manor than before, there were many reasons why he should not leave its shelter. He had never quite recovered from the scene at the Rantan, and was obliged to be careful of his health; and, besides, he was studying for some science classes, for the sake of which he stayed in the town two evenings in the week. No doubt, when he was not there he could be found in the Manor kitchen, but then the kitchen was warm and bright for study, whilst his own little bedroom was dark and cold above; and, if he had to endure much wisdom from the lips of Farmer Robson, he could be sure that Farmer Robson would not be always in the room. Alice was there, almost always, but she sat at her knitting, and did not speak to him. ‘There never was such a good girl as Alice,’ Tim reflected; ‘she stays at her work so as you’d not know she was near.’ For this power of being present and yet inaudible is a decided virtue in a woman—in the opinion, that is to say, of a man.

So these two were often together—young companions—whilst, without, the winter evenings were dark and indistinct, or the yard was full of the pallor of dense grey mist, which hid the light of the rising moon behind it. Within, all was bright and tending to cheerfulness, and Tim’s books would be piled on one of the wooden chairs; and, whilst he made mechanical drawings, or knit his brows in study, Alice’s strips of red knitting grew longer on her lap. It is so comfortable, in one’s times of trouble, to be near to another who has suffered like oneself, and to feel, through the silence of uninterrupted business, the presence of an unspoken sympathy. But it is the sheep in the fold who can thus draw near to each other; the wanderers are in darkness and alone.

Was it wrong then of Jenny that, coming in one evening to get some butter she had been buying from the Farm, she should stand still on the threshold of the kitchen, as one who has been struck with sudden bitterness? The kitchen looked so cosy with its gleaming pots and pans, the young companions appeared so comfortable, the black dog, who pricked up his ears at her entry, completed the picture so well as the guardian of the place. There was no guardian needed for the home from which she came, the home that had always been one of poverty, the home in which she must watch her daughter’s increasing misery, and feel daily that the distance was greater between her and her son. Other sons and daughters were prosperous, comfortable—there was Alice, well-dowered, well ‘thought on’ in the place; there was Tim who had escaped from early trials and hardships, to sit by her side and seem quite contented there; there was Miss Gillan, ‘all fine in silks an’ lace o’ Sundays,’ already supposed to be the heiress of her uncle in the town. At that moment, the feeling of the contrast was more than she could bear, oppressed as she was continually by an increasing sense of ruin—she hastily completed the errand for the sake of which she had come, resisted invitations to sit down, and went out into the night. It was better there, better in the cold and in the darkness, for darkness and solitude seemed companionship.

Poor Jenny! To those who are struggling with blind efforts in the night-time, it seems as if any revelation would be desirable. And, indeed, there was coming to this village mother some knowledge of which she had not thought or dreamed. But it is not always easy to recognise, as a light to help and save, the lightning-flash that reveals the precipice.

CHAPTER XXVII

JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS

ON the night succeeding that of her visit to the Farm Jenny was returning from Lindum after darkness had fallen. It was New Year’s Eve, a dark night, the moon had not risen; and the sky behind her lay in heavy streaks of grey above the line of brilliant lights on the top of Lindum Hill. Jenny was tired, for she had walked from the town; she had been to buy dainties for Annie, who became more ill every day; and the copper or two that would have been required for the railway journey made it too expensive. And yet she was almost exhausted; she had not been well herself, and the continual nursing of the last week had left her no time to rest.

It was to this reason Jenny ascribed the fact that, just as she drew near to the village, there came over her the most strange desire to sleep, a desire so burning and so overmastering that to struggle against it seemed impossible. She told herself, after some efforts which proved to be in vain, that she would only rest for a moment, for a moment close her eyes—it seemed excusable to snatch a brief repose, since so little rest was possible at home. But perhaps she was more worn out than she had supposed herself to be, for as she set down her basket she almost dropped by its side—she lay on the slope of the ditch, half-supported by the basket, which partially raised her right arm and her head. The position was pleasant, or it seemed so to her exhaustion; her eyelids dropped eagerly, her head sank, and she slept ....

How long she lay thus she had no means of knowing. She was roused by the sound of voices which seemed close to her ears. Half-startled, and yet too weak and stiff to move, she lifted herself against the basket on which she was leaning. Some time must have passed, for a thick mist had risen; and the moon, which had not been visible, was now high in the sky above the dark outlines of village roofs and chimneys, and the dim mass of the Squire’s trees on the hill. The voices were close to her, in the field beyond the ditch, and although they were almost in whispers she could hear every word. Exhausted, scarce conscious as she was, the sounds stole to her ears before she was even aware that she had heard them.

‘I tell you, Tina,’ one voice said to the other, ‘there is no need for all this excitement. I have done what you told me to do, although I hated to do it. I have seen her—I have seen Annie—Annie Salter, to-night.’

He had seen Annie—Annie Salter—it was her daughter’s name! A sudden, tingling thrill passed through Jenny as she lay. She attempted to rise, but she was not strong enough; she tried to speak, but her lips seemed to be held. She appeared to be in a dream, lying there in the darkness, with this strange voice near her that had pronounced her daughter’s name. And then, through the darkness, she heard the voice again, its sound more broken and agitated now.

‘I have seen her .... it was hateful .... the most hateful thing I have done. I should never have done it if it had not been for you .... I tried to remind her of the time when I first knew her, when I was staying near Warton, before you came there with me. She would only answer that I never loved her; she thrust me away when I tried to kiss her face. She would accept no money for herself or for the child; she said she would starve rather than take anything until I owned them both. But she said that she would not betray me .... I might go with you to my uncle .... I might leave her, as I had done already, to be alone with her wretchedness.’

‘And why should she not be alone,’ another voice cried, sharp and piercing, the voice of Tina Gillan, though it seemed strangely altered now; ‘what other man on earth would have behaved as honourably to her as you have done? You only ask her to wait—you offer to pay her an allowance—and this wretched village girl must stand on her dignity—this detestable hussy, who should feel herself too much honoured in having her name linked to that of a gentleman! Mr Lee has asked us .... let us hasten off to him .... when we leave this vile village all will be well with us.’

‘It ought to be well,’ the other voice replied, in a whisper that appeared to hiss through the night, ‘though for other reasons besides that of the hussy of whom you speak with so little reserve to me.... Mr Lee has been talking to the Squire about that letter .... the letter that you opened, though you would not tell me till last night .... and the Squire would have made a tempest about it before now, only that he has not been willing to accuse the boy. If the matter is inquired into, and your dear Nat betrays you, I would not give much for your chance with Mr Lee.’

‘He will not betray me—he dare not!’ cried the other, with a stamp that echoed upon the frosty ground .... ‘it would not save him from ruin if he did, and he would be afraid to do any harm to me! Let us go to Mr Lee; when we are once inside his house, the village and the Salters may look out for themselves.’

Her voice had risen, and her companion appeared to check it, to draw her away, to speak in lower tones; through the darkness came the sound of their retreating footsteps, like echoes becoming fainter in the night. It seemed to Jenny as if her brain were ringing, as if flakes of fire fell and shone before her eyes; when she lifted her head giddiness overpowered her, and she could not attempt to follow them or rise. Her head fell, she caught at the basket for support, and into the blackness that followed all sank, and all was lost....

A rumbling cart roused her, and once more she raised her head; the cart had gone by and she was alone in the night; the moon was shining above the houses in the village; there were no whispers now in the dark field by her side. Had she been dreaming, was all she had heard a fancy, what ought she to think of it, what should she do? She was weak from exhaustion, and stiff with pain and cold, it seemed almost impossible to rise; but the tension of her brain made it clear, and keen, and steady, as the eyes of a brave man who sees a danger near. With resolute movements she rose up to her feet, remained still for an instant to control her shaking limbs; and then, with a motion every moment rendered stronger, set off through the darkness in the direction of her home. If her children had been prevailed upon to keep their danger secret, she knew now what to ask them, and they should answer her.

Without a falter, without any hesitation, she went through the mist and moonlight on the streets, the strong impression keeping its hold upon her brain, as if it had been some mechanical impulse guiding her. She passed the dim outlines of the village-houses, the lighted public-house; she entered the Thackbusk lane; she did not tremble, not even from weariness, until she stood once more on the threshold of her home. As she opened the door a stream of light rushed forth; the house appeared to be full of people, full of light; a sound of wild laughing passed through her like a stab, and the whole place began to reel before her eyes. Exhausted, staggering, with a fearful dread upon her, she felt the door close behind her, and knew that she stood within her home.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A NIGHT OF DELIRIUM

‘OH, mother, I’m glad you’ve come,’ Annie’s voice was crying to her—she could hear her child’s voice, though she could not see her face—‘I want you to send away all these women as is keepin’ me, that I may get ready for my wedding-day. I’ve took my hair down so as to be ready for t’ flowers, but they will hold my hands so as I can’t put it up; an’ t’ clergyman an’ ladies is all gone to t’ church, an’ I shan’t be there, an’ they willent wait for me. I’ve waited for ye. I didn’t think ye’d be so long. I’ve waited for ye to help make me nice to go.’

She attempted to rise, but was held down by two women, who seemed to have been assuming some guardianship over her; Jenny slowly recognised the portly Mrs Robson, and the more blooming matronliness of Mrs Jones. Through all the trials that had pressed on her since her marriage the poor mother had never known such a sight as this before—her cottage full of lights and the staring eyes of friends, her daughter delirious, and her son crouching and ashamed.

Annie was on a chair, with her dress loose and disordered, her arms held by the two women, and her hair hanging free; she made every now and then a convulsive effort to get up, which could be scarcely checked even by those who held her arms. The light on her face showed that it had a fearful beauty; her eyes were wide, brilliant, her lips hot and dry, her convulsive efforts at breathing seemed to be more than she could endure as they heaved through her frame and tossed her shining hair. The women who held her were not gentle in their movements, but then her struggles were almost too strong for them.

‘Ah, it’s a poor tale,’ cried Mrs Jones, with due severity—‘a poor tale when young ’omen behaves theirsens like this.’

‘I haven’t done wrong—I haven’t’—Annie cried in piercing shrieks, aware even through her delirium of the implied reproach—‘I married him honest, I did.... I say, I married .... I wouldn’t have gone with him unless he’d married me. An’ he brought me, he did, to a village nigh to here; an’ he began talkin’ to me when as t’ night had come; an’ I got up fro’ bed, and dressed, an’ ran away, ’cause I said I wouldn’t stay near him if he were ’shamed o’ me. An’ he wants me to be silent .... he wants me to be silent ....’ her voice died away into low, gasping sobs; and then, with a cry; ‘I am a wicked girl, I can’t keep fro’ talkin’, t’ fever burns me so.’

‘I hope ye see now what she’ve come to, Jenny Salter,’—Mrs Robson felt that it was her turn to give advice—‘with her pride an’ her obstinacy, an’ her evil way, as set hersel’ up above t’ village lasses. Ah, it’s a good tale if she doesn’t break thy heart; there isn’t a mother in t’ village as ’ouldn’t be ashamed to own her now.’ With unconscious dexterity she had touched the only chord of pride that could vibrate even yet through poor Jenny’s misery.

‘Get out wi’ ye, all of ye,’ cried Jenny, starting forward, her thin, Madonna face glowing with wrath; ‘what call have any of ye to get into my house, to look in at my daughter, an’ say hard words to her? There isn’t a mother as won’t be proud to own her yet, she’s better nor any of yours, or ye’d not be hard on her. If Nat had t’ spirit of a man, or even of a lad, he’d not ’a let ye in to say such things to me.’

‘An’ for what shouldn’t the boy call for help,’ cried Mrs Robson, ‘when ye wasn’t yersel’ in a hurry to get back fro’ t’ town? He’s not so proud as his mother is, maybe, an’ he hasn’t no call to be so, if all’s true as I’ve seen and heard. I was just a-speakin’ to him as ye come in, Mrs Salter, an’ a-tellin’ of him as I ’ud tell ye all; I think it’s as well ye should know about your chil’en, as seem mighty well able to keep what they do from ye. No, I won’t stand no whisperin’, Alice, I intend to speak this once; it’s not for t’ lad’s good as I’ve kept still so long. I’ve seen him mysel’ in his goings on wi’ Miss Gillan, an’ if t’ Squire knew he’d lose his place for it. I’d ’a spoken afore, but Alice begged an’ prayed; I’m too good a mother, that’s t’ long an’ short of it.’

‘So you’ve had your secrets,’ cried Jenny, sharply, suddenly, turning round upon Nat, who crouched in his corner still; ‘it’s not for nothing then as ye’ve been so idle lately, a-worretin’ about as ye couldn’t eat y’ food. Ye’ll be like the father; ye’ll be my misery; but one house sha’n’t hold us both, if ye don’t submit to me.’ In the heat of her bitterness she had no sense of injustice; her anger was perhaps a relief to her misery.

But Nat sprang from his corner with the sudden, violent anger into which his impatience could be kindled by reproach, his cheeks flushed into feverish beauty, and his lips shaking with the emotion that quivered through his young frame like starts of pain. ‘It’s allays the way—it’s been allays so,’ he said; ‘ye care for my sister, but ye willent care for me. It’s nothin’ to ye as she’s the talk of all t’ village, as she’s shamed an’ disgraced you till she’s well-nigh mad with it. So long as it isn’t me ye can forgive, though I’ve done no harm, I’ve been allays good to ye. T’ Squire’ll do me justice; he don’t think harm on me; he’ll give me money so as I can get away from you. I won’t be your son nor care for ye no longer, ye doesn’t deserve to have a son like me.’

He had spoken so fiercely that he was quite past hearing that during his words there had been a knock at the door; but now, with a start, he realised that it was open, and that dark figures were standing in the winter night beyond it. A sudden silence fell upon all within the place; even Annie’s struggling and chattering were hushed. For it was Tim Nicol who stepped into the cottage, with a face as dark with anxiety as a night before a storm.

‘I’m come for ye, Nat; t’ Squire has sent his servants; but they asked me if I’d be the one to say t’ word. They thought as I knew ye, and your mother an’ your sister, as it might happen to come more light from me. T’ Squire has sent; he wants to ask ye a question; there’s a five poun’ note lost, an’ he wants to ask of it. I trust, for the sake of Heaven, as ye’ll contrive to clear yoursel’; but come quickly now, for there’s no escape for ye.’

For one dreadful instant Nat felt the cottage reel, and lights, darkness, people, were hidden from his sight; and then through that blindness he heard the sound of a fall, and knew that his mother was lying upon the floor near him. He could not speak .... could not answer his accusers .... could only catch hold of Tim to support himself on his feet; and speechless, staggering, without a word to defend himself, was half-supported, half-dragged into the night. The door was closed .... there was silence in the cottage .... Jenny lay on the ground, without strength to raise herself. The accumulating misery that had been gathering so long had risen at length like a flood and she had sunk....

‘Oh, dear Mrs Salter,’ whispered Alice in her ear, as she sat on the floor and held Jenny in her arms—‘do raise your head now, I’ve sent ’em all away; there isn’t any one here besides my mother and me. Annie’s lyin’ upstairs; she seems to be quieter now; an’ my mother’s with her, an’ I’m alone wi’ ye .... an’ oh, do tell me if there’s aught I can do for ye, whilst ye are waitin’ to have more news o’ Nat. T’ Lord is good,’ Alice murmured with streaming eyes, ‘He gives a blessing to them as wait for Him.’

‘Ye’re a good girl, Alice,’ Jenny thanked her quietly, as, having risen, she began to move about the room—‘I’m glad to think ye’ll be in the house with Annie to take care on her whilst I am away. My bonnet an’ shawl are on a chair there, will ye give ’em to me? My head’s a bit tired still, but I’ve a deal to do. No, don’t stop me, I must go out of t’ house. I’m goin’ to them as has robbed me of my children, they shall give me to-night an account of all they’ve done.’

No words would restrain her, her pale face was resolute; with trembling fingers she fastened her bonnet and shawl, allowed Alice an instant in which to cling to her, and then turned to the door, and went out into the darkness. Some mechanical impulse appeared to be her guide—or perhaps some sense of an effort that should be final and supreme—if there were those who had done harm to her children they should give account to the mother of the things that they had done. With steady fingers she closed the door behind her; and, weak yet resolute, went out into the night.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT

WHILST Jenny was making her solitary way through the darkness, the library at the Hall had been lighted with wax candles, and Nat was standing there before Mr Mallory. It was a more quiet scene than that of the tumult at the cottage, but to an observer it must have appeared to be still more fraught with doom.

For let us try to imagine it for a moment—the dark room, the wax candles, the pale face of the Squire in his usual seat by the table, the ill-concealed delight of the butler who stood behind him, the interest of the two footmen who guarded the criminal. And that criminal! a boy from whose face, hard, reckless, sullen, all beauty and even all that might interest had fled, whose whole nature appeared to be absorbed in the silent resistance which opposes itself to inevitable doom. A self-evident wrong-doer, a convicted criminal, this son of a respectable mother, who had been himself respectable. And this was the lad who had been the Squire’s favourite, the boy whom the Squire’s little son had played with, and had loved!

‘If I had not known you for so many years,’ said Mr Mallory, in the relentless tone Nat had never heard from his lips before, ‘I would not have treated you so mercifully, but I would have sent for the police, and let them deal with you. This matter would have been investigated earlier, but Mr Lee has been absent from the town; and, although he made some allusions to an enclosure he had sent, I never supposed it was of money that he spoke. I was writing about you at that time to Mr Lee. I have not the least doubt that you were aware of it. It is possible that you opened his letter from idle curiosity without any suspicion that money was within it. Confess everything to me. It is your only chance. It will be of some advantage to you to be kicked from the premises instead of being sent to gaol.’

The Squire pronounced all these words—even the last—in the same cold, even tone, as if he would not disturb himself enough to have anger in his voice; and the dark eyebrows that always seemed so black beneath his white hair were not drawn lower than usual on his eyes. But the lines of his face, which were always fine and subtle, appeared as hard as if they had been graved with an instrument; and, to one who had been accustomed to be treated by him with the utmost gentleness, his tone and glance must have been like a scourge of steel. A proud nature is not won in this manner to repentance and confession; but Mr Mallory was hardly in the mood for inducing penitence.

‘Did you open my letter?’ he asked, after a pause, with a glance which was not that of a dreamer now. There was time for the delight of the butler to become more strongly marked before the low answer was audible in the room.

‘No, sir, I did not.’

They were the first words Nat had spoken since he had been brought into the house, and he spoke in a tone that was in accordance with the expression of his face, the hard, sullen tone of defiance and despair. But it must be understood that, during the time that he was silent, burning waves and struggles had been passing through the boy, a doubt whether he should attempt to clear himself by revealing a tale that would be held incredible. He shrank inexplicably from pronouncing Tina’s name; he was not sure that his statement about her would be believed; he was convinced that any attempt to connect her with his fate could only end in involving her in ruin with him. And he told himself—the poor fool! he could tell himself even then—that if he betrayed her she would never speak to him again, and that it was even yet possible that of this dreadful action she might be as innocent as he was himself. If he had been himself absolutely guiltless the shock of the suspicion might have made him reckless about her; or if he had been secure that he could clear himself he might possibly have prevailed on himself to leave her to ruin. But on every side there appeared to be destruction, and he was not conscious of any desire to drag her down with him. His own fate was sealed, he knew that he had been condemned from the moment that he attracted the suspicion of the Squire.

The wax candles burned as if they were burning in a dream; the footmen stood by him, ready to lay hold on him; and then, after a pause that was not so long as it seemed, he heard the voice of Mr Mallory again.

‘You did not open my letter?’ said the Squire, in the tone of one who does not attempt to seem credulous. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to answer a few more questions. Was this letter given to you at the house of Mr Lee?’

‘Yes, sir, it was.’ There had been a pause before Nat could speak.

‘And it had been opened then?’

‘Not as I know on, sir.’

‘You brought it to me?’

‘Yes, sir—’ but with hesitation.

‘Was it opened in your presence?’

‘No, sir, it was not.’

‘It was not opened,’ said Mr Mallory, who spoke much faster now; ‘the seal was not taken off, and was not again replaced, replaced with a much larger drop of sealing-wax, and pressed with the seal that you take about with you?’ His tone and his manner were so terrible that Nat lost his self-command, and broke out into tears.

‘We will have no whimpering,’ said the Squire, sternly. ‘Come, sir, control yourself, and answer one more question—Did you seal this envelope with your own hands, or did you not?’

‘I did not, sir,’ cried Nat, in a voice weak with crying, and in a tumult of agitation that cannot be described, uncertain whether he should not fling himself before his master, and, revealing to him all that had happened, implore mercy at his feet. But the tempest of rage that broke at once upon him swept away all his strength like a thread before a storm. The Squire did not often lose his self-command, but on this occasion his self-command was gone.

‘You liar!’ he cried, ‘you ungrateful vagabond! Look at this!’ and he flung on the table the letter which he had held. ‘Will you dare to deny that it has been sealed with your seal, the seal which you dropped, and left in my room to-day? Oh, the seal is a plain one—you counted upon that—but the size is the same, the crack in the corner corresponds—you were very clever, no doubt, you imagined yourself to be clever, but you were not quite so clever as you supposed yourself to be! Come, sir, make your statement. We will have no more lies from you. Did you seal this letter again with your seal, or did you not?’

A moment of doom!—but if Nat had possessed the courage either to deny boldly or to confess the truth, he might even then have produced some reaction in his favour, or have made it at any rate more difficult for him to be condemned. He could not—at that moment there swept over him like a tempest the remembrance that Tina had given back his seal to him, and the sense of her perfidy, the conviction of her guilt, rushed on him like a flood he had no power to stand against. He could only declare with violent, broken words that he had not taken the money, he had not!—the protestations appearing to be that final vehemence which serves as the last outbreak of lying and despair. With a movement of frenzy the Squire put out his hand; but, recollecting himself, he drew it back again, drawing in his lips at the same time with an expression of disgust. And then, pushing away his desk with a motion of disdain, as if even that action gave him some relief, he rose from his seat and paced about the room. The eyes of his servants followed him, although they did not speak; no doubt they were expecting the order that had not been given yet.

The clock ticked, the wax candles burned, there was no cessation of the footsteps of the Squire. It seemed to the miserable culprit, who stood with hanging head, whilst the sound of each footstep trod upon his nerves, that the summons of a policeman would be more than he could bear, that he must make some desperate effort to save himself from doom. And still the footsteps paced up and down the room, and no voice broke the silence to pronounce the words of condemnation.

We ascribe merciful actions to the merciful, and Mr Arundel-Mallory was not a man of mercy; the kindness and even consideration that were habitual to him proceeded rather from indifference and courtesy than from lack of relentlessness. And yet it must be recorded that in these instants, whilst he walked, the Squire found himself more oppressed than he would have thought to be; this lad, his favourite, must have been closer to his heart than he had imagined—this relic of the past, and of the son whom he had lost. He did not like to be sensible of the triumph of his butler, it seemed as if that exultation were a reflection on himself; his mind wandered also to a remembrance of the wretched boy’s poor mother, who was so much respected, and who kept her home so neat! And then he thought how in that last day of the fever, in the last words that could be distinguished from his lips, his little boy, in the wandering of his delirium, had chattered of the boy who came to play with him. It seemed, indeed, as if it were weakness not to punish, especially when the miserable wretch deserved punishment so much! But then it might be possible to inflict pain and shame enough, without that punishment of a prison, that is held to be the last disgrace. And with this thought, with a firm and steady motion, the Squire came back to his chair, and sat down there again. He felt that he must resign himself to the loss of a sum of money, but he had never been a man who valued money much.

‘Listen! You!’ he said, with a movement of his hand to enforce attention. ‘And do not attempt to say a single word! I am entirely satisfied that it was you who stole my money. No doubt it is spent now. I will not ask for it. I ought to send you to prison. It is my duty to do so. But I cannot forget that—that Willy cared for you.’ His voice trembled strangely, but he recovered himself; and went on in a tone that did not tremble again.

‘Do you know what I will do to you? You shall be soundly thrashed in my presence, and then turned out of my house with your shame and disgrace. I will not hide the story from the village or your mother—from this time you must find employment where you can. Get one of my whips. Stripes that he will not forget will be the best medicine that you can give to him.’

‘If they dare to touch me,’ cried Nat, in an overwhelming frenzy, as he felt his arms grasped by the footman who remained, ‘I will never go back to my home; I will drown myself to-night.’ The words sounded in his ears with the ring of desperation, but he could see only a slight smile on the thin lips of the Squire.

‘Ah! drown yourself?’ Mr Mallory murmured languidly, ‘I do not think that a liar and a thief has spirit left for that.’ And then, as he saw that the footman had returned, he gave a sign to the butler to begin.

It was over. The butler, who was a powerful man, had fulfilled his task with the most complete good-will, but it must be owned that Nat had not opposed to him the smallest resistance of movement or of sound. He stood now, still quivering with the pain of his punishment, and turned to the Squire such a pale face and such burning eyes that, although he was aware of the absurdity of the sensation, the Squire could not refrain from a thrill of uneasiness. Checking it, he raised his head, with a languid shrug of his shoulders, and told his servants to turn him out, and to close the house. The burning eyes of the boy rested still upon his face to the very last instant as he was dragged away. He was dragged from the room, and forced roughly through the passages, and thrust through the side-door, and out into the night. He could hear the sound of the bolts that were closed behind him: he was left to be in the darkness and alone.

CHAPTER XXX

BY THE RIVER IN THE NIGHT

AND now let us attempt to realise his position—the position of Nat, alone, and in the night, condemned, chastised, his teeth ground in helpless fury, dismissed from his employment, and left henceforth to contempt. The first few instants were like delirium, he knew not what he did or what he meant to do, until his head struck against one of the shadowy trunks of the trees, and the pain of the blow restored him to himself. He was not quite certain that he had not tried to hurt himself, but it had been only a half-conscious action, at any rate, and he was conscious now. With his hands raised to his head to still the pain and throbbing, he leant against the tree in the darkness, and he thought.

‘He says I am afraid,’ said Nat, ‘afraid—afraid.’

He did not think any longer. He gathered himself together, and found his way as he could amongst the trees—as he could, because the night was of more than usual darkness, and the singing in his brain still almost blinded him. But every moment seemed to restore his consciousness—a strange consciousness of a purpose that held him tenaciously. By the next night, or even before the morning came, they would not be able to say that he was afraid to act. They would be sorry, nothing else would make them sorry, but when he had done this they would be sorry then. And he would do it before more time was over; in one way or another, it would not be difficult.

If anything had been needed to keep his purpose firm it would have been the continual smart of pain, which stung him perpetually to unbearable frenzy, and rendered him physically almost unfit to walk. He got out, however, from the trees to the road; and as his head grew quieter, and it became more possible to see, he could look down upon the gloom that lay in front of him, and two station-lamps shining like eyes through the night. He was trembling with pain, but he could not make any pause, he would go on quickly until it all was done.

Oh, how would it have been possible for him to go back to his mother, the mother who despised him, who had never cared for him? She would be sorry now that she had not loved him like his sister. He was glad that he would vex her, that she would be grieved for him at last. All sorts of strange sounds were floating through his brain, but he had not time to attend to them, not time. If only no one appeared on the road to interrupt him, he felt that he would be driven to madness if there were any obstacle.

No! the night was dark, there was no one on the road, the trees and the roofs of the village were confused into gloom; only, far to the left, beyond long miles of darkness, the lights of the city shone upon the hill. He would not go round by the pathway to the station, for fear lest he might still meet some passer-by, but climbed into the wide field, shadowy in the night-time, and ran across it with footsteps that were noiseless on the grass. By the station he climbed into the road again; the station-lights were bright on the lines and the canal, and he was almost afraid to cross the railway, for fear lest he should be seen and recognised. But in the station there was no visible human being; he crossed the lines quickly, and was not stopped or disturbed; and, going through the little white gate upon the path, he stood in front of the river, flowing onwards through the night. The sight was a shock, and brought his heart into his throat, but he had made up his mind, and he would not be frightened now.

He stood on the path, and thought—before him were many lights, the lights of the distant city, and the signal-lights on the way, whilst a steady glow from the station signal-box cast the shadows of window-bars along the path. He could not help being afraid that he might be seen by the signal-man; and, in any case, the path to the town was too public a place for him; so he found his way round to the rougher path and grass on the other side of the signal-box, and crept along beneath the platform of the station, which was raised to some height above the river-bank. All was dim and confused; but lights shone from the station, and he wished to get quite away from any light, so he went creeping onwards till he was beyond the platform, and the distant country lay in gloom and stillness. There again he paused; behind him were brilliant lights, but he looked only once at them, and then turned his face away; he preferred the dark country with confused outlines of trees, and the wan river flowing between banks shadowy in the night. He must make preparations—he took comforter and handkerchief, in order that he might bind with them his ankles and hands; he could not swim, but he thought it possible that he might struggle, and he wished to render it certain that no struggles could save his life. Ah! the sound of footsteps! with his ankles bound together, he lay down on the grass that he might not be seen. Some men must be passing upon the railway-bank above; they would go by directly, and then his task would soon be done. But the men did not pass, they lingered to end their conversation, and through the darkness their voices reached to him.

*****

‘I say, Jim,’ it was the voice of our old acquaintance, Bill, ‘I can go on tellin’ ’ee now as there’s no one near to hear. I wish as I’d not got this bit job to do, or I’d ’a followed Mrs Salter to the town. It did make me skeared to see her white an’ bruised, an’ not a man near her to give help to her.’

After a while; ‘I says to her, says I, “Mrs Salter, an’ where be ye goin’ upon this stormy night?” an’ she says, “Don’t stop me, I’m goin’ on to t’ town, to see ’em as has harmed my chil’en, that they may give account to me. I’ll help my chil’en,” she cried, an’ she bursted out in tears. (I can’t bear t’ wimmin’s cryin’,’ added Bill, in parenthesis). ‘“He may push me agen t’ wall an’ say he’ll kill me, but I’ll foller him to t’ town, an’ see him there.”’

Again after a while, ‘I says to her, “Mrs Salter, an’ aren’t ye a bit afraid o’ being kilt?” but she cries out to me, “Oh, you’ve not had no children, or ye wouldn’t know what it was to be afraid. They’re as dear to me one as the t’other,” she says, all a-cryin’ still, “they’ve lain in my arms, an’ I’ve fed ’em from my breast; they’re my lad an’ my girl, though t’ world cries shame on ’em; an’ I’d sooner be kilt mysel’ than do nought to help ’em now.” An’ I says to her, “Go, then, Mrs Salter, though I don’t understan’ what ye mean; go then, if ye must, an’ t’ Lord be wid’ ye as ye go!” an’ she seemed to rush past me, she was in such a takin’; an’ she went down t’ river path, an’ away into t’ night. I hope as she’ll come to no harm, though I be skeared, for she seem so alone i’ t’ darkness, wi’ no one near to help. She be a good mother, she be, poor Jenny Salter, though t’ lass an’ t’ lad have not done well by her.’

*****

The voices had died away along the path, and the sound of the footsteps too had died away, when the boy, who had been prostrate upon the grass beneath, rose up in the darkness, and sat upon the ground. There was no light by which his features could be seen, or that light might have shone upon an altered face. He only knew that his eyes were full of tears, and that through that blindness there shone a newer life. With steady hands he undid the bandage he had tied, and arranged his comforter once more round his neck—his life should have steadier purposes in future than that of obeying and following his own insanity. With tearful eyes, but without any articulate confession, he let himself kneel for an instant on the grass; and, then, with a heart full of the strength that turns remorse to penitence, he prepared to follow his mother to the town. It should not be in vain—oh! it should not be in vain—that he had heard those words which he felt were meant for him. It might yet be possible to find his mother in the darkness; and when he had found her he would stay with her.

No doubt it would have been better if poor Jenny could have had her son by her side during her lonely walk in the night-time, but nearly an hour had passed now since her light footsteps made soft echoes on the path between the river and the town. She had gone on through darkness, looking straight in front of her, as if her glance could embrace the distant city, with a far more definite purpose than might have been imagined from her slight figure, and fixed, straining eyes. The darkness was nothing, pain and weariness were nothing, the throbbing of the bruise on her head, or the loneliness of night, she might remember these things when they were over, but at present they were scarcely able to touch her consciousness. In one way or another she would save her children; after that it would not matter what became of her.

CHAPTER XXXI

DRESSING FOR DINNER

AND, whilst poor Jenny was pursuing her lonely way through the darkness, one whom she deemed her enemy was in a very different case—Miss Tina Gillan, at that moment dressing for the evening, in an apartment of Mr Lee’s house at the top of Lindum Hill. It was a large room that had been prepared for her, the darkness and lights of the valley were hidden by closed blinds, there was a blazing fire which made cheerful, dancing radiance, and her dress for the evening was laid out upon the bed. After the cold, dark drive in an open carriage from the village, this seemed a haven of warmth, and rest, and peace. Only Tina was not quite pleased that no maid had been provided—it would have been so luxurious to have a lady’s maid!

She stood now in the centre of the large, lighted room, with a crimson wrapper beneath her rippling hair, and surveyed all the place with her bright, glancing eyes, and then threw herself in the armchair to make trial of it. Everything was complete, and of the best and softest—armchair, bed, sofa—there was no fault to be found. And she had been admitted to her uncle’s house at last, and this was the beginning of luxury. Only she was glad that the closed blinds shut out the valley, its lights and its blackness displeased her, though she did not know why they should.

And yet—oh! was it not natural that she should wish to turn from the wide-reaching blackness pierced by many points of light, now that she was at last in the shelter she had longed for, far removed from old hardships and wanderings? Every glance at the room told of comfort and riches—and comfort and riches meant everything else as well—they meant ease, safety, soft living, daintiness, rich dresses, fine lovers, theatres, music, all the rest! All sorts of possibilities were between her hands. It would be at length of some use to be beautiful! The old life of shabbiness, hardships, shifts, and recklessness might be cast on one side—it could be discarded now.

Who was that woman who had asked to see her brother, as they started, and for the sake of whom James had left her with the carriage, and had gone back into the yard, returning to her with a face so dark and terrible that she had not dared even to speak to him until they reached the town. It could not be that one, because he had already seen her, and had come to some understanding with her—so he said—but it might be some relation, indignant and suspicious, some reptile who knew they were going and who wished to have a bribe! James always made a pretence of being soft and kind, but she did not believe he could be outwitted easily; in all that she knew of his dealings, especially with women, she had found him to be still more unscrupulous than herself. He had indulged himself from his childhood onwards, and it is impossible to do so without being unscrupulous. This most recent, most wretched entanglement might have been easily avoided, if during their time of probation he had possessed the slightest self-restraint.

Indeed the habitual recklessness of the brother and the sister had never been more displayed than during those few months of village life—that short time of waiting upon the pleasure of their uncle, during which they had every inducement to be cautious and self-restrained. Ah, bah! that was true, thought Tina; but those village months were over, they had left that ‘detestable hamlet, that pest-house of the Fens’—and now that they found themselves in the midst of pleasures it would be more natural to be self-controlled. At length they were really in the house of Mr Lee; it would not be easy for them to be removed; every day would make it more difficult as each day would make less anxious the dangers that their imprudence had gathered round their feet. Mr Lee once charmed! that was the whole brunt of the matter, and Tina had never been without skill in charming men!

She rose to her feet, and stood upright, pretty Tina! her arms clasped behind her back, and her face very slightly raised, whilst her eyes appeared to be flooded with eager light and hope, in which there was only the least trace of terror left. Upon the bed lay her new black evening dress, her black silk slippers, and her great, embroidered fan—her cheeks were so brilliant and burning that they would need no touch of rouge, nor her dark eyes the slightest assistance to make them bright enough. Was that the drawing-room door? there were sounds of footsteps, voices!—how strange that the least noise was enough to make her start! She would be quick, and dress, and go downstairs for the evening, it would be better for her brother to have her woman’s wit by his side. This evening once over, this dear, nervous, terrible evening, their position would be more certain, and they could feel secure.

So she thought, but whilst she hastened to get ready, and whilst downstairs James Gillan sat by Mr Lee, and whilst he was making apologies for the lateness of their arrival the door of the drawing-room opened unexpectedly. It was the servant who entered, but before she could make any explanation, she was preceded by an intruder who had followed behind her unperceived—a poor woman, poorly dressed, quiet, and shabby, who stood in the midst of the room and courtseyed there. Mr Lee rose to receive her with annoyance on his face; and behind him, unperceived by him, James Gillan also rose—with a pang at his heart that smote, that stabbed his breath, and for the moment took away the power of speech. The sword had fallen!—he felt that it had fallen—he had not time to consider how ruin might be averted even then.

CHAPTER XXXII

IN THE DRAWING-ROOM OF MR LEE

‘IF you please, sir,’ said Jenny, and, as she spoke, she courtseyed again, ‘if it’s so as ye are Mr Lee I have come to speak with ye. I’ve been speakin’ to this gentleman as they say is your nephy, an’ he won’t listen to me nor make answer to what I say. But I’ve followed him to the town, so as I may see him in your presence, and tell before ye all I’ve to say to him.’

There was silence. The hearts of both men—even of the uncle—must have been beating quickly, for both were panting, and did not reply. Jenny stood in the midst of the room, very pale, and perfectly quiet, but with a self-possession that would have been impossible in her shrinking girlhood—the self-possession that comes with years and trials. Her dress showed signs of her long walk, but it could not conceal that her figure was slight; and her close black bonnet was no unfitting setting for her Madonna-like, worn, troubled face. For years and wretchedness had left her still a lovely woman, and it is possible that Mr Lee may have been aware of it. He did not speak; he had flung himself back in his arm-chair, and, with his chin upon his clenched hand kept his harsh face turned to her. Through the moments that followed the most intense silence reigned; but Jenny was gathering her strength, and after a while she spoke again.

‘It’s a few months ago, sir,’ she said, still addressing Mr Lee, ‘it was just before harvest time that my daughter Annie, my only daughter, went away from her home one night. And then, on the next night, very late, almost on to mornin’, she was lyin’ on my door-step as if she’d not no strength to move. And I took her in, an’ she’d not tell me what had chanced. But on one of her fingers there was a wedding-ring. And the neighbours they talked; they said strange things of her an’ me. But I couldn’t get her to confess, although I tried ever so. It was only to-night, sir, as I’ve been given cause to know who the man might be as took my child from her home.’

After another minute, ‘It’s perhaps I wouldn’t have courage to come to your house, sir, an’ say these things to you, if your niece and nephy had left one o’ my two children to stay in my home an’ comfort me for the t’ other one. But your niece she got hold o’ my boy—I didn’t know that till to-night—an’ she’s got him to give her a letter as you wrote to t’ Squire. An’ t’ Squire’s sent for him. An’ they say he’ll be disgraced. He’s my only son, sir, the only one I have. The father’s a bad one, an’ has been a bad husband; an’ t’ boy an’ t’ girl are all that I have left.’

Again after a pause; ‘I’ve been speakin’ to your nephy. An’ he pushed me agen t’ wall. Ye may see t’ bruise upon my face. An’ he said he’d kill me. But I don’t care for that. I’d be killed a hunderd times over to save t’ girl an’ boy. He ought to tell me if he’s t’ husband of my daughter. An’ he oughter do something to save t’ boy from harm. I’ve come to ye, sir, as I may speak to him before ye. He can’t hurt ye so easy, sir, as he hurts me.’

Her low voice appeared to thrill through the room, in which the most breathless, the most intense silence reigned. Jenny had used all her strength in order to get through her speech, as one who upon his last venture pours all the wealth he has. But she was upright still, and composed, though very pallid, and through her pale lips her breath came quietly. The servant was gone, although the door stood open, and in the room were only the two men she had addressed; Mr Lee, who sat in his armchair with his face turned away; and James Gillan, with rigid features, fixed lips, and glaring eyes. He seemed to have been swept from his usual self-possession, appalled by this spectre which stood in front of him; and now through the silence there came words stern and terrible as the formal questions that precede the uttering of doom. It was Mr Lee who spoke, but he did not rise from his seat, and even as he spoke he kept his face turned away.

‘Do you know this woman?’

The question had been asked, and as it compelled an answer the unhappy young man made some stammering reply—he faltered that on the woman’s own showing he was a stranger to her; and that it was hard to be obliged to reply to the lies a stranger told. His answer was immediately succeeded by a question, more stern, more relentless even than the first.

‘You have not known this woman. I will take your word for it. Have you been also a stranger to this woman’s daughter?’

If James Gillan had been allowed a minute, a few moments, in which to make up his mind whether to lie or tell the truth, his skill in deception, always greater than his courage, might have risen to the occasion even then. Appalled as he was, overwhelmed by this unexpected accusation, he could not decide immediately what course would be best; and, having opened his mouth as if he were forming some reply, he let it drop helplessly, and remained without a word. Mr Lee went on speaking as if he had received an answer; perhaps he thought that the silence might be accounted a reply.

‘And since we’re in the midst of discussions, Nephy Gillan, what is this tale of a letter that we’ve heard?’ He spoke the words sternly, but they came as a relief. His nephew seized on the diversion eagerly.

‘Oh, that! .... I don’t know .... it may have been some mischief of my sister’s .... my sister is a wild girl and is sometimes fond of tricks .... I will answer for it, sir, that there is nothing serious in the matter as in this other accusation that has reference to myself .... In any case, my sister will be able to reply, if she were here now I have no doubt she would answer you.’

He had scarcely spoken when the door, which had been left partly open, was suddenly flung forwards as far as it would go; and Tina, who had been standing at the entrance with the housekeeper, appeared at the threshold, and swept into the room. Her rich black silk dress rustled after her as she advanced; she seemed to be beside herself with rage, or fear, or shame; she advanced at once on her brother and on Jenny, as if with her little hands she would seize them both. But Mr Lee interposed with the manner of the master of a house, and laying a hand on her arm, turned her round to him. His manner, his voice, were very quiet and stern, as those of one who is in no doubt what to say.

‘My niece,’ he said, ‘ye will go back to your room. I haven’t the time to speak to ye just now. My housekeeper, I see, has been listening at the door, and I’ve not the least doubt she’ll show the way to ye. You, sir, I will trouble ye to come with me to my study that I may confer with ye on these matters that we’ve heard. Madam, I must ask ye to wait here a few minutes, before very long I’ll come to ye again.’

With a hand on the arm of each, and a manner not to be disputed, he turned with his niece and nephew from the room—Jenny following them with her eyes, but remaining perfectly passive, standing there in her worn, black dress like some image of despair. Outside the door he released the arm of Tina, and paused to lock the door, and then to take out the key; and then, without paying any further attention to his niece, he turned to the young man, and addressed a few words to him.

‘I must ask you, sir, to come with me to my study, that I may confer with ye on these matters. I can’t make no decision that I can tell ye, till ye’ve said your say, and I’ve heard ye to the end!’

CHAPTER XXXIII

ANNIE SEES A CATASTROPHE

IF James Gillan had possessed an amount of courage equal to the skill for which we have given him credit more than once, he might have been able to make some resistance to calamity, even now when he beheld before him the uttermost of ruin. He could not. He had been weakened, physically and morally, by the self-indulgence in which he had lived all his life; he was shattered by the prospect of the ruin of his hopes, was visibly trembling, and scarcely fit to walk. Wild, whirling visions scattered each other in his mind as he followed his uncle through the dark passages, remembrances of the fatal marriage-night that had resulted in his separation from his bride. He cursed the violence, the impatience of her conduct, the contempt she had poured on his proposal of years of secrecy, as before now he had cursed the beauty which had so fatally enchained him that it had even induced him to deal honourably. For he had considered his marriage to be an act of supremest virtue, an atoning action for other actions in his life; and not the price that a man who has uncontrolled desires flings down to obtain a wish not otherwise attainable. It was that sensation of having been honourable that made him so little disposed to be honourable now.

And yet, as he followed his uncle through the passages he did ask himself whether it might not be better for him to tell the truth, and, if he had nerved himself to that nobler course, he might even then have averted a tragedy. He could not!—it was not in his nature to take so straight a path, and at the moment the risk appeared too great; he would deal rather in faltering words and half-confessions until he could make out on which side safety lay. For the sake of Annie!... but he need not consider Annie; he had already done far too well to her!

Thus, tempest-tossed, shaken, with no definite resolution, he found himself once more in his uncle’s library; dark now, except for the candle that Mr Lee held in his hand, and which he set down on the table as he threw himself into a seat. The question that was to be expected came immediately and sternly, as James Gillan also sank into a chair. Oh, if he had been allowed a moment’s breathing-time, it might have been possible for him to decide!

‘Well, sir, I’ve no minutes to waste; I must ask ye for your answer. I’ve heard the woman. What have ye to tell me for yourself?’

Oh, how was it possible, thus taken unprepared, to know in what direction an answer should be framed, to be certain of anything, except that denial was dangerous and that equal danger attended the disclosure of the truth? The nephew murmured with pale, trembling lips that a man must not be judged too severely for the follies of his youth, that he had been brought up to a wandering life, an unsettled education, but that he was willing to repair any harm that he had done. His uncle caught up the words, almost before he had completed them, with another question that came faster than the first.

‘Oh! ah! Follies. Follies. I’ve not a doubt of it. But folly is a word that may mean an inch or may mean an ell. I have to ask you, sir, and I charge you to tell me honestly, to what extent has your folly, as you call it, gone?’ And then, as no answer came, he proceeded very slowly, with eyes and lips that were fixed and resolute.

‘There’s some folly, sir, that is easily bought and paid for. It can be forgotten, and no harm is done. There is other folly that clings to a man through life, and takes away from him every chance of raising himself. A low match, sir, that’s what can’t ever be got over. I’ve had reason to know for myself that marriage is a serious thing. I should like to ask ye, nephy Gillan, if you’re inclined to tell the truth, if the folly ye speak of has gone as far as that? For if it has, I consider ye a ruined man. I tell ye candidly before ye answer me!’

It was too much. James Gillan sprang suddenly to his feet, with a mind no longer in doubt, nor a manner that was wavering, and poured out his words on each other, fast and faster, as if he were striving to thrust inward shame aside. ‘Why, sir,’ he cried out. ‘I hope you don’t suspect me of binding myself so seriously without any reference to yourself, at the very time when I had come down to this neighbourhood with the intention of knowing you and being close to you! I have only to tell you of some foolish trifling which perhaps went further than I had intended it to do, but for which I am willing to pay any sum that may be demanded in order to satisfy the woman and the girl.... And now, sir, that I have, as I hope, explained myself, I must ask for the decision that you have promised me. These events may, I hope, be explained and cleared away. But what must I do meanwhile? Where shall I go?’

‘If you ask me the question,’ said Mr Lee, in a low voice and very slowly, ‘I think I shall be able to tell you, sir, where you may go!’

He spoke with composure, but he kept pushing back his chair so as to be further from that on which his nephew sat—the young man, who sat looking at him, with his eyelids more raised than usual—the charming glance few were able to resist. Mr Lee kept his eyes on his face as if he were fascinated, with the same slow, steady movement still pushing back his chair, till the side of it grated against the corner of the table, and, as if the jar roused him, he sprang up to his feet. In another instant his words burst forth with vehemence, the rush of a torrent that could no longer be restrained.

‘Ah, scoundrel, hypocrite, I have let ye have your tongue that ye might have leave eno’ to convict yourself! So ye call it a foolish trifle to ’tice a young girl from her home, and then to desert her, and leave her to misery! Why, sir, I married when I didn’t want to marry, because the lass believed as I’d made love to her, and ye come and boast to my face of the girl as ye have ruined, and ask me what ye’re to do and where to go. By the Lord that looks down upon ye and such like vermin, I think that I’m able to tell ye where to go. Ye may go to the devil, sir, your most fit companion, and his home, which is surely the fittest place for ye!’

He spoke, and at the same instant he advanced upon his nephew, with clenched hands, a vein-swollen forehead, and eyes darting from his head; and, as if pressed back by force, though no hand was laid upon him, James Gillan found himself retreating from the room. Shattered, overwhelmed, as one suffocated by nightmare, he heard his uncle roar to the servants to bring him his hat and coat, and, with that vision of fury still pressing on behind him, he was forced from the front-door, and out into the streets. It was all a dream .... there before him lay the valley .... a heavy pall of darkness, with innumerable points of light .... the night-wind was rushing, his brain rushed in its company, he could not remember what he should have said or done. Oh! he could not go back, there was no use in confession, he could never redeem his reputation now!

Wild sensations tossed, surged in him, as he staggered along without knowing where he went, as if all that was evil in him had risen, overpowered him, and was holding carousal, and high festival. He would go down to Annie, the siren who had ruined him, and seize her in her beauty, and tear her limb from limb—he could have laughed and sung at the prospect of his vengeance, and felt inclined to rush or to dance along the streets. He would go down to the river—ah! to the river-side—and drink with some old companions before he went on to her; he would be merry, would be warm and bright enough before he started on his dark walk through the night. The streets were strange .... the red sky on his left hand, on which were the darkness, the innumerable points of light .... the few lamps at intervals on the other side of the way .... the black dog whom he pushed with his feet, and who started off into the road. He went down the hill .... he would get to the river-side, though his brain was whirling as in delirium ... he could see Annie, hear her, could grasp her with his hands, although he was certain that she was miles away. He went always onwards .... no one saw him in the darkness .... the red lights were dancing, as if they laughed at him.

Is it possible that there are mysterious communications of which we in our ignorance are not aware, electric forces that can reach from distant places, and summon us by unconscious magnetism? Annie did not know, never realised what happened; but she remembered afterwards that she found herself forced to leave her bed, that she rose from where they had laid her, slipped by her sleeping watchers, and passed through the cottage, and out into the night. It seemed to her that her lover’s voice was calling, that his arms were stretching out to her from far away, that she was summoned to protect him from some immediate danger, from which only her presence could save him. She passed through the sleeping village, and crossed the railway lines, and found herself by the river, on the path leading to the town, with the lights of the city before her on the hill and in the valley, and the river flowing in pale course through the night. She could remember these things afterwards, but not what she had thought, except that her mind was delirious, feverish, that she was haunted by some agony that she would be too late, and kept crying out that the distance was long, and that she was too weak to run. And yet the lights became closer by degrees—she could see them burning beneath the bridge that crossed the water—could see the lamps at intervals on the other side of the river, and the quivering streams of light that ran down into the depths. At her side were the foundry-buildings .... and there, beneath the foundry arch, and the lamp that hung in it, was a black, strange swarm of men .... she could hear their voices, which came confusedly through the noise of the rush of the lock, and the silence of the night .... She drew close, closer, could hear the words they said .... that ‘he must have been drinking, by what some folk had seen’ .... could see them bend over something that lay upon the ground .... could distinguish the countenance of a villager, and by him her brother’s face. And then, all at once, as the crowd made way for her, her senses came back with a rush, and she understood it all .... the night-time, the staring eyes, her own loose dress, streaming hair, the amazement of the by-standers .... on the ground, her husband’s face .... For one instant she saw, and then everything forsook her, she could hear herself scream .... then her limbs gave way, and she fell.

And, as she fell, sinking, as it seemed, in unfathomable darkness, scarcely conscious of the arms put out for her support, she could hear a voice at her ear, speaking low and clearly, with a sound as of words that we hear even through our dreams. It seemed to be speaking of her, to be explaining who she was, to tear from her misery the last poor veil away. She heard the words; and then, as if nothing further could be borne, her consciousness deserted her and she knew no more. ‘This is Annie, Jenny Salter’s daughter, who lives by the Thackbusk!’

CHAPTER XXXIV

A PARTING IN THE STREET

THE words which rang in Annie’s ears were heard also by her brother, who stood almost unrecognised amidst the crowd of men, bewildered, gasping, scarcely knowing where he was, or that all was not some confusion of a dream. The terrible sight of the body taken from the river which had encountered him as soon as he reached the town, the more terrible recognition of its face, the realisation of a death that had nearly been his own—these things were overwhelming enough without the appearance of his sister, inexplicable as that was, unlooked for by any one, and yet affording, to other eyes besides his own, a clue that might serve to unravel a tragedy. He wished to help her, but he could not move his limbs, he appeared to be rooted to the ground on which he stood; but strong arms were round her, and the workmen who supported her seemed disposed to treat her with pity and tenderness. He saw her carried past him, pallid as a corpse, with the lamplight on her white face and streaming hair. He heard them say she was ‘only in a swounding; that in a little while she would be right again.’ And then, when he would have followed her he found that he could not stir; he could only watch, as if fascinated, all the preparations that surrounded one who would not wake and be ‘right.’ There were doctors present who had been summoned hastily; there were workmen eager to be relating all they knew; he could hear their voices, and the sound of women’s murmurs, and the tale that the better informed poured out upon the rest—this tale of the man who had been his sister’s lover, who was the brother of one whom he had loved. They said he had been drinking in a public-house like a madman, that he had risen suddenly and rushed out into the night, and that some, following him, had heard a sound in the water, and hastened, terrified, to the river’s edge. The catastrophe might have been an accident—none could be sure that it was not—they could only say that in the darkness it had been impossible to discover him at first, and that, when he was found and dragged up from the river, the light on his face showed at once that he was dead. The doctors talked of some injury which his head had received, but the time he had been in the water was long enough to account for death—and Nat realised, with feelings which cannot be described, that another had gained the fate he had desired. For an instant he saw the dead form on a shutter, and then, in its turn, it was carried past him and away. And then, as the crowd of people hastened after it, he knew that Tina Gillan was standing by his side. He had felt her touch on his arm, and recognised it; and, as he turned his head, he saw her face.

She was strangely attired, in a black silk evening dress, with necklace and bracelets upon her neck and arms, and over these things a black cloak lined with fur, which hung loose except where it was fastened at her throat; whilst an old black hat had been flung upon her hair, which was elaborately arranged, and glistening with pins of golden filigree. It did not seem strange to Nat that he should find her at his side—he was too much bewildered to be surprised that night—nor, considering the sight on which she had been looking, could he be amazed at the expression of her face—her eyes wide and wild, her cheeks and forehead twitching, whilst her limbs shook so that she could scarcely keep upon her feet. She clung to his arm, and kept muttering to him to ‘take her away from the river, to take her away from it,’ and, himself in such a condition that he was scarcely able to obey her, he half clung to her, half supported her to the streets. At the bridge he stood still, but fresh restlessness seized on her, and her low voice began muttering in his ear again.

‘Take me away from the river. I cannot bear to see it. I am going mad. Take me away from it.’

Yielding to her impulse, he went with her down a street, not knowing where to take her, or where to go himself, save that she kept muttering that he was to ‘take her from the water,’ and that the horror of the water seemed to accompany them—the river with its darkness, and streams of quivering light, its black foundry arch, and dark, strange swarm of men. He paused at length, however, in a dimly-lighted street, and attempted to gather his strength and speak to her; his voice sounded hoarse and horrible to himself, he had never imagined it could have such a sound. But, although he was almost unnerved by the tightening clutch of her fingers, he was able at least to say a few words audibly. ‘Tell me what I am to do, Miss Tina, tell me what I am to do. I will take you wherever you like. Where must I go.’

Tina only muttered, ‘Take me away from the river-side. I cannot bear it. Take me right away from it.’

He saw that she was not in a condition to be still, and moving again, went with her down the street, the horrible throbbings of his heart and limbs becoming in some degree less overpowering as he moved. The street was dimly lighted; there were not many people; no one seemed to pay any attention to them. They crossed it, and turned into another that was smaller, darker, with a long dark line of wall on one side of it; it was close to the railway, and he could hear the rush of some distant train going onwards through the night. He made for the wall, scarcely knowing why he did so, and leant against it, whilst she clung by his side. It was dark there, and silent, and no light shone upon them; the street was deserted, there were no passers-by.

‘Well, are you satisfied?’ cried Tina, springing from him, and yet clutching the front of his jacket with her hands. ‘You have killed my brother. I have seen it. He is dead. Are you satisfied now? Have you had your will with us?’

He could feel the clutch of her fingers on his jacket, as he had been feeling their grasp upon his arm; the thrill seemed to stir him from his head to his feet, and to take away from him all power to answer her. But she wished for no answer, her voice went on speaking rapidly, its wild tone quivering like a cry that is suppressed.

‘Do you know what has happened to me?’ she said quickly, with a laugh. ‘I’ve been turned off this evening from my uncle’s house. Dismissed like a beggar! He would not even see me. He says I may go to London, and amuse myself there again. Ha! ha! I’ll shame him,’ cried Tina, as she ground her teeth together. ‘I’ll let no one forget that I am his sister’s child.’

Her terrible passion, her wild eyes, grinding teeth, would have been dreadful enough under any circumstances—they were unspeakably horrible with her brother’s death so recent, uttered with such vehemence in the dark, silent night. Nat tried to speak, but his faltered words, ‘Miss Tina,’ were swept away almost before he had uttered them. And still she kept clinging and clutching at his jacket, as if but for its support she would have fallen on the ground.

‘Ha! ha! I’ll shame him, see if I don’t,’ cried Tina. ‘I’ll do harm to him, and I’ll do injury to you! It was your mother came to the house this evening, and was clever enough to bring us all to ruin. You haven’t spared me. You have told about the letter. I couldn’t expect that you would be good to me. I’ll hurt you. I will. You have brought us to destruction. My brother is dead .... he is dead .... and you shall die!’

‘Miss Tina,’ cried Nat, and his breath was lost in sobs. That seemed to startle her; for a moment she was quiet. Seizing on that instant, he wrestled with his agitation so as just to be able to speak—he could do no more than that.

‘Before God, Miss Tina, I’ve done no harm to thee. I’ve not said a word o’ ye, not to t’ Squire. If my mother knew anything as she’ve told to your uncle, I don’t know who she knew it from—it’s not from me. I’ve been beaten and shamed. I’ve been turned out from my place. They say I’ve stole money. I don’t know the rights of it. I went down to t’ river to-night to drown mysel’. There isn’t no hope in all t’ world for me. But I can’t bear to see ye .... so alone .... so left alone ....’ the sobs caught his breath, so that he could scarcely speak .... ‘I’ve got three shillen .... if ye will take ’em from me ... it’ll be the last thing as I can do for ye.’

He took out the money, and she took it in her hand, and then let it drop through her fingers to the ground. The clink of the money sounded strange in the night. They did not speak to each other. They scarcely seemed to breathe. And then, with a passionate movement, she threw her arms round him, and broke out into weeping, with her head upon his breast.

‘Poor Nat!’ she cried out to him, ‘Nat, Nat—poor Nat!—and so you would be giving your last poor coins to me. I don’t want them, dear. I can get work to do in London. I won’t do more hurt to you, who are the only friend I have. Nat, I will confess to you. I opened the Squire’s letter, although I knew it was wrong—I did, I did!—And the bank note dropped out, and I never noticed it, until I had fastened the letter and given it to you. I’m a wicked girl. I didn’t care if I did you harm—I wanted to see what Mr Lee wrote of James and me .... and now James is .... dead .... and I’m a wanderer again, and I must go to London, and live by my singing there .... I must stay here to-night .... though I know that James is dead .... I knew it from the first .... he is dead .... oh, he is dead .... and then I will get away from this place and the river—and you will never see me, or hear of me again.’

After a while, still clinging to him, ‘I will write to the Squire, and send him the note. It doesn’t hurt now if I do harm to myself, and if I tell him the truth I hope it will do you good .... And you mustn’t think hardly of me, poor, foolish .... though I have been naughty, and have led you into wrong .... I must kiss your hand .... oh, I cannot help my crying .... I want to tell you that you have been kind to me .... Oh, don’t tremble so much, dear, I cannot bear to feel it .... I have no other friend in the world .... good-bye, good-bye ....’ Blind, suffocated, almost past all consciousness, he felt that she slipped from his arms, and then she was gone.

An hour later, in intensest midnight blackness, through which the lights in the streets shone at intervals, Nat found his way through the night-time, with faltering footsteps, as one scarce waked from a dream. He must find his sister, his mother, and give them what help he could; in time he might be able to think how to help himself. The great bell had tolled, and now every bell was ringing .... he must get back to the river .... he went on through the night.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE GENERAL CONFESSION AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE

SO down into darkness sank that New Year’s Eve, with its half-revealed story, its completed tragedy, leaving town and country provided with surmises, and stirred with much talk, and a store of opinions. The history of the nephew and niece of Mr Lee, their flight in the darkness, the river-side tragedy, the appearance of the wretched girl by the body of her lover, her story and that of her brother, the conduct of Mr Lee to both—the tidings of all these things spread far and wide, and made the talk of the whole of the neighbourhood. There were thrilling statements about a secret marriage, and a separation said to have taken place upon a wedding-night; there was a story also about an opened letter, which, in its turn, could cause excitement. The village of Warton was naturally triumphant, because it knew the parties, and could give its own opinions; it was only by degrees that its triumph became mingled with a sense of dissatisfaction that was certainly natural. For, although it was evident that there had been wrong-doers, it appeared that all the wrong-doers would not meet with punishment—there were some, on the contrary, who would even be rewarded, as if they had behaved themselves like honest folk. Poor village! it is hard when tales have not a moral, and where Nemesis does not attend where she is due—although we may always console ourselves by reflecting that the stones of vengeance grind after secret laws, and that it is probable that by some means or other all wrong-doers do arrive at punishment. We would be more contented, no doubt, if we saw that sight visibly; our sense of justice is not satisfied with less; but then, in this world where so much is always hidden, we must take the actions of vengeance, as we take other things, on trust. With these few words, offered humbly, as an excuse for the good fortune that fell to the share of some culprits we have known, let us leave the village to virtue and indignation, and visit those culprits for the last time in their home. That home had been saved from destruction—it had reason to be thankful—but we will not be certain that it was triumphant. For, although it is doubtless a good thing to be rescued from a battle, there are pale ghosts that wait even on our victories.

*****

On the last night of the May of that year whose commencement we have seen, Nat and Annie were sitting together in their home—in the yellow-raftered room which had echoed to the clamour of the Rantan less than a year before. It is true that Annie ought not to have been sitting up so late, but Nat was with her, and in a few hours he was going away, and some silent impulse on one side and on the other, made the brother and sister desire to spend that evening side by side. Annie also was leaving; she had no excuse for remaining now; she had only asked to be allowed to remain in her old home until her child was born.

They sat together silently; the lamp was on the table; now and then the young mother rocked the cradle with her foot. It was perhaps the same impulse which made them wish to be together that held their lips, and kept them quiet, although side by side. For it was impossible that old memories should not be stirred to-night, connected with others as well as with themselves. The next day, which would witness the departure of Nat for new employment, would be the wedding-day of Alice Robson and of Tim.

‘They’ll have a fine day,’ said Annie, very softly—she had not spoken on the subject before, but she knew she would be understood—these were the first words that had passed between the brother and sister since their mother had left them and they had been alone. ‘I’m glad to think so, they’ve been so good and kind, such kind friends to us, though it will be different now. Tim came to see me last night. I was very glad to see him. He thought me altered, I know, for he looked so hard at me.’

Nat did not answer—it may be that he remembered why, on his part, he could not go to see the bride; it must have been shame that brought the colour to his face, for he had been pale and heavy-eyed before. But the feeling that his sister had been communicative, although she had always previously been more than reserved to him, stirred him with a sense of answering sympathy. He spoke with an effort, he had not spoken much that evening since he had come back from his visit to the Squire. Both his mother and sister had understood without difficulty why he should be silent with regard to that experience.

‘I’ve seen t’ Squire, Annie,’ he said now, with an effort. ‘It’s been very cutting. Ye know that I went to him? I’ve never seen him sin’ that last night o’ the year. He seems to be older, even in that little time. He said he was glad Mr Lee had given me learning, that Mr Lee had told him I should be a good business lad. And he wasn’t angry. He talked as if he was sorry—as he’d been more hasty nor he should ha’ been wi’ me. But I couldn’t answer him a bit, I was so afeard o’ crying—I think I’ve not felt so bad in all my life.’

Annie moved her chair in the least degree closer to him, whilst the glance of her dark eyes rested on his face, her eyes which had grown so large, and sad, and gentle, during all these months that she had been an invalid. He understood the movement, and after a while he went on speaking, with the manner of one who is relieved to be able to speak.

‘It seems to make a differ—my going away to London, although I’ve not been much at home all these months. I was so close at Lindum, an’ I could think of home, even when I was at office-work or classes, or the rest. It won’t be the same when I’m at Westminster, in that big place o’ business where there’s so much to do—now that t’ home ’ll be gone, an’ mother’s weak an’ poorly, an’ ye’ll be livin’ wi’ her an’ Mr Lee. It’s cut me a deal too, to be thinkin’ about father—they say he’s real silly sin’ his illness, an’ll not be himsel’ again—he’ll have to be allays in some kind o’ keepin’, although they don’t think as he’ll be dangerous. I’m thinkin’—I’m his son—I felt desperate last winter—it wouldn’t ha’ ta’en much to make me drink like him. It makes me afraid to go away to London—afraid like and sorry when I think what last year has been.’

‘Nat,’ said Annie suddenly, ‘I mind me of a day when Alice took me to be with her at a class—it’s been on my mind sin’, the confessin’ an’ t’ prayin’, an’ then t’ hymn-singin’ an’ all t’ rest of it. You an’ me’s both sorry .... I think that we are sorry .... shall we kneel down together an’ say a prayer to-night?’

‘I’d like to,’ he answered, readily enough, ‘only I don’t understan’ what sort o’ prayer to say. We can’t make up prayers like as t’ preachers do. An’ t’ prayer-books is all together at t’ church. There’s the General Confession,’ he added, as a new idea struck him; ‘we’ve heard that often, I should think we remember it. It’s all about being sorry, an’ doin’ better, an’ t’ like. I should think it’s possible that it might do for us.’

‘Then we’ll have it,’ said Annie, agreeing readily, ‘we’ll kneel down together side by side upon the rug. You may say the words first as if you was t’ preacher, an’ I’ll be repeatin’ them as t’ people do. It’ll do me good .... I’m sure I’ve been bad eno’ .... it’ll maybe make my heart a bit lighter that’s such a weight to me.’

They arranged a chair, and knelt by it side by side, the brother and sister, still so young in years, and yet with such evident traces of recent trouble that their young faces had assumed an older look. Nat’s features were already in the transition-time, and some of the charm of his boyish grace was gone; but Annie was yet more lovely than before, though her illness had left her pale and delicate; and the black dress that hung so loosely on her figure set off the bright hair which had not yet a widow’s cap. They knelt together with their clasped hands almost touching, and after a pause of a minute Nat began; the simple gravity of his boyish earnestness breathing as with new meaning the familiar words:

‘Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against Thy holy laws....’

So far he proceeded, and then a great sob caught his breath, the familiar words had become all too painful. Annie waited an instant to see if he would recover; then her soft voice took up the words, and he followed her:

‘We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no health in us;’

‘But Thou, O Lord,’ proceeded Nat, to whom she left the precedence, ‘have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare Thou them, O God, which confess their faults. Restore Thou them that are penitent; According ... According ... Annie,’ cried out Nat, in the greatest agitation, ‘I don’t remember how it goes! I don’t remember how it goes!’

He remembered well enough, but he had become unnerved; and in his emotion the familiar words were lost. Annie quieted him with a touch upon his arm; and went on speaking as if there had not been a pause.

‘According to Thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for His sake; That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, To the glory of Thy holy Name. Amen.’

And Nat repeated after her, ‘Amen.’

For a minute they waited, and then rose up from their knees; and Nat took his sister into a close embrace; it was not possible for words to pass between them in that moment when their kisses met, and each face was wet with tears. Then they separated; and, moving quietly about the room, he began to put together some things that he would need.

‘Nat,’ cried Annie, with a sudden impulse, ‘you shall be the baby’s godfather.’

He stood still, looking at her, and she went on, speaking rapidly; ‘I’ll get some one in the village here to stand for you. An’ when you come home .... you can tell me about t’ boy .... if I don’t bring him up right you can let me know. Mr Lee’ll be the t’other, I daresay; but that won’t be the same; I shall be glad to think as you will be near the child!’

Was that like Annie, so proud and self-sufficient, so scornful of the brother with whom she had shared her youth? Nat was very much touched, so much moved he could not speak; he went to the baby and kissed it, and then turned to her again. For a while he stood by her, and held her in his arms—his grasp had already the strong clasp of a man.

‘We’ll be better children,’ said Annie, as soon as she could speak. ‘An’ we’ll do better by mother as has been so good to us. The doctor’s feared she won’t be so strong again; but we’ll try to do well by her, we owe her that! Oh, I must be going; I am too tired already; but I’m glad to have seen you this once, Nat, good-night.’

They kissed and separated; and the next day, in the morning, Nat said farewell to his relations, and set off for the town; not again, perhaps, to be brought so close to his sister as in the white heat of penitence which for a while had made them one. Yet never in vain is it for two human souls to be brought thus near together before the throne of God; that evening must have remained as a sanctifying influence in the minds and the lives of Annie and of Nat. They were not soon to meet; he went to work in London; and Annie was to share with her mother the home of Mr Lee.

That morning passed on, and before the strokes of noon the whole air was full of the sound of wedding-bells. Alice Robson and Tim Nicol had a bright day for their marriage; and many were the friends who came to see the sight. Neither Jenny nor her daughter were present at the wedding—there were reasons why their absence was not astonishing; but they had sent their warmest good-will to the bridegroom and the bride, and with that a tea-service; and they received some wedding-cake. This marriage might not perhaps make old friendship closer, but their friends had been faithful to them all the same, and no tenderer memories cling about our days than those of the friends who have stood near our distress. Such faithfulness merits the best that earth can give, and even on earth it gains a sure reward.

And so our story draws to its close at length—the story of an episode in village-life, not of occurrences altogether ordinary, and yet not unlike much that passes day by day. In Warton the memory of the Salters was enduring, and the remembrance also of the events with which we have concerned ourselves—mingled, as I have said, with some natural dissatisfaction at a certain incompleteness of justice to be discovered in the tale. I have said that such discontent was natural—but, for my own part, I am not strictly just, and, however certain of the necessity of traps and cats, am liable to inclinations in favour of the safety of the mouse. And, for such reasons, I cannot bring myself to be sorry that the children of Jenny, though not always wise or right, had their feet restored to the paths of peace and comfort, and even to higher hopes than their birth warranted. I think the possession of these new-found relations did much to bring happiness to Mr Lee, shaken by the tragic event of his nephew’s death, and by the uncertainty in which his niece’s life was lost. The old man made efforts to discover Tina Gillan, but they proved fruitless, and at length he sought no more.

Poor Jenny! It seems to me I see her now, in the position of Mr Lee’s house-mistress and friend, a gentle creature, with a timid, patient manner, with quiet movements, and soft hair streaked with grey. Her memory had never entirely recovered from the physical strain of one dreadful New Year’s Eve; for her health had been broken before by many troubles, and it was not possible for her to regain her former strength. But she understood that her children were honoured and were happy, under the friendship and patronage of the Squire and Mr Lee, and that years only brought an added tenderness to the behaviour of her boy and girl to her. If she was glad it was with a quiet happiness—she knew not how she had deserved it, or, how it had come to her—only that her bark had floated at last into peaceful waters, after many years of clouded, troubled life. Perhaps Nat understood—Nat, happy, useful, honoured, with an ever-widening education, and with ever higher hopes; or perhaps Annie knew—beautiful, admired, and prosperous, in spite of the shadow of sorrow that rested always on her face; her children had more education than herself, and could understand better how things should come to be, could look back on the timid love that had trained and tended them, and in their worst moments had risen, and proved itself strong to save. Such love, unobtrusive, unpraised, unknown to fame, may be found in our homes through the whole length of our land; unrewarded sometimes—but the ‘Infinite Pity is sufficient’ for even the ‘infinite pathos’ of a mother’s life.

I was standing the other day by the side of a low tombstone, grey, green with age, lying horizontally in the grass, with winter bareness round it, itself chipped and defaced, without any inscription visible, and only a faint mark of a cross. And I remembered how in the summer months I had been attracted to it by a sight that made another kind of suggestiveness—the little blue speedwells which, springing close to it, converted it into harmony with their loveliness. So tender, so gracious, with such power to consecrate, are such influences as the mother’s love, which lay their soft colours against the hard stones of our lives, and transform that which might else seem sad and broken into beauty.

THE END

Transcriber’s Note

This transcription is based on scans made available by the British Library:

historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-000841726

The following changes were made to the printed text:

p. 15: a young work an was leaning outside the railings of the chapel—Changed “work an” to “workman”.

p. 69: thee think’st a deal o’ thysel;’—Moved the apostrophe after the semicolon to before the semicolon.

p. 93: he drew down his eyebrows into a more decided frown.’—Deleted the closing single quotation mark.

p. 101: there was at last a sound of foot-steps—Changed “foot-steps” to “footsteps”.

p. 106: have you seen t’ Thackbusk when its late at night—Changed “its” to “it’s”.

p. 124: an’ was not t’ mother’s son.’—Deleted the closing single quotation mark at the end of the sentence.

p. 143: he did not know how to spend his money ,... and if these young relations would submit to him—Changed the comma after “money” to a period.

p. 147: ‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an’ it please ye,—Deleted the apostrophe after “an”.

p. 152: she veiled with one hand whilst she held out the other—Added a period to the end of the sentence.

p. 154: her mother had not heard her foot-steps on the stairs—Changed “foot-steps” to “footsteps”.

p. 193: ‘Why, ye’re not eatin’ much, Tim, said Mr Robson across the table—Inserted a closing single quotation mark after the comma after “Tim”.

p. 193: ‘I should be right down glad, Tim, to hear ye’d a lass,’ she said; it ’ud help to settle ye—Inserted an opening single quotation mark before “it”.

p. 209: ‘Oh,’ if she was good and would do you good,’ cried Alice—Deleted the closing single quotation mark after “Oh”.

p. 264: Thus, tempest-tossed, shaken, with no definite resolution, be found himself—Changed “be” to “he”.

Inconsistencies of spelling and hyphenation were not changed, except where otherwise noted.