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.