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.