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.