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.