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.