CHAPTER XXIII
ALICE AND TIM MAKE RESOLUTIONS
ALL else, however, had not departed yet from the wilful life that seemed openly disgraced—for, although Annie had been found on the door-step in the darkness, there were still true hearts beating with anxiety for her. And of these the truest might have been found that evening at supper together in the kitchen of the Farm—a special supper in honour of the lodger, for Tim had been away, and had returned that night.
He sat in the great kitchen, which at this time of the night was shuttered, for always at nine o’clock the house was closed and barred. The ceremony might have been omitted on that evening, for it was a stifling, breathless night, and the closing of the shutters seemed to shut in the heat. But Mr Robson was great on some ceremonies, he had his own notions of forms and propriety.
No matter! the kitchen at any rate was bright enough, for the big lamp was lighted, and the candles in the brass candlesticks; and an ample meal was spread upon the kitchen table, prepared by the skilful hands of the farmer’s wife. The farm-boy was there, and little Molly, and Mr Robson, his wife, and Alice, as well as Tim—they did not always have supper together, but Mrs Robson had said that they should ‘all have a spread’ that night. She was possibly aware that they would have a subject for conversation, for the best of women like to gossip now and then; though her husband would have disclaimed that taste on his own account, for he was accustomed to say that he did not like idle talk.
He had the appearance of a fine old gentleman, Farmer Robson, as he sat in his usual place with his broad back to the fireplace, his ordinary position in winter as well as summer, for village backs can endure a surprising amount of heat. The accident which had injured his limbs had left him his faculties, and he was still shrewd on farming matters, although, perhaps on account of the idleness permitted to an invalid, there was a look of peaceful repose upon his face—a broad-featured face to which age had been kind, since it was now crowned with the beauty of snowy hair. A life of comparative indolence, without the restlessness induced by education (which even in times of indolence will not permit the mind to be still), is a fine, quiet reservoir for the facts and maxims that can be stored easily through uneventful days. Mr Robson had not been reckoned more wise than other men until the accident which made him an invalid, but he was now considered to be a village sage, whose sayings could be quoted as of authority. As this reputation caused him to be visited it must be owned that it gave occasion sometimes to ‘idle talk;’ but then these gossipping visitors had the advantage of receiving the wisdom that they came to hear. In fine, Mr Robson, in spite of his affliction, might be considered a happy, peaceful man—an affectionate husband besides, and a most doting father, who ascribed the virtues of his daughter entirely to himself. Alice sat by his side now that she might wait on him, for this duty belonged to her at every meal.
Mrs Robson, who sat at the other end of the table, with her daughter opposite, and her husband on her left hand, was not pleased to see Alice so pale and quiet that evening, as if she had not recovered from the anxiety of the day. ‘If she’d ’a been downright fond of Annie Salter I might ha’ understood it,’ the farmer’s wife reflected; ‘though, e’en then, she ought to ha’ more spirit than to appear to be in mournin’ for a girl as has made hersel’ an open shame an’ sin. She’s troubled perhaps about Nat, because she’s known him so long; but I daresay the lad’s like his sister, no better nor he ought to be. I never did like his bein’ up here every night; but Miss Gillan seems done wi’ him, and that’s as well.’ In all which reflections, though they were made without much pondering, the farmer’s wife was more accurate than she knew.
On the other side of the table to the farmer sat Tim, Molly, and the boy-about-the-place, who on that evening was allowed to stay to supper, because he had been kept so late at work. The boy was small, dull, light-haired, with an overweighted look, which was due perhaps to the poverty of his home; and he did not even rouse himself to pay attention to little Molly, although she would have been more than ready to accept such interest. For little Molly, although unprovided with novelettes to train her feelings, was always in love with someone at the Farm; her affections had already been reached by Nat, Tim, and the farm-boy besides Mr Gillan who was ‘a gentleman.’ Molly had been at Board School, but she remained quite ignorant, without even a knowledge of the laws of right and wrong, always ready for bribes and little pilferings, such as stolen lumps of sugar, when Mrs Robson’s back was turned. She sat on this occasion between Tim and the farm-boy, who were neither of them disposed to look at her, although she made timid offerings of salt and mustard, which were not received with much apparent gratitude. Tim was pale, and inclined to be silent and absorbed; he was glad that the farmer’s daughter seemed disposed to be silent too.
Poor Tim! The shock of unexpected tidings that morning had occurred just before he set out for the Farm, and was doubtless the reason that he came back to its shelter without being visibly improved by his holiday. He could not get rid of a ceaseless, foolish regret that he had not been the man to find Annie the night before; ‘for then there needn’t ha’ been no gossip over her, sin’ I’d never ’a breathed a word to any soul.’ Alas! the gossip was only too well started now, although he shrank from the thought of it as from the touch of fire; murmuring always, ‘If I could ha’ found her; if I only could ha’ found her—they’ll make her a byword now in all t’ place.’ With these inward voices to hear, it is not to be wondered at that Tim sat silent, and ate as little as he could; and that he appeared to be even more thin than usual, although his wound had healed without leaving a second scar. Of all the company he was the most absorbed, though Alice was almost as down-cast as himself.
There was one other present who must not be omitted, the black dog who had been brought up on the Farm; and who, as a recognised favourite, wandered round the table, thrusting a cold nose into the hand of anyone who would receive the gift. Peter was of the correct colours, black and tan, with a curly coat, and also a bushy tail; but he had a peculiarity which the farmer could not forgive—his ears, instead of drooping, stood straight up on his head, and were capable, in moments of excitement and agitation, of being laid back after the manner of a horse. He wandered about, and distributed his favours, but to Alice he attached himself more particularly, although she only bestowed on him such absent notice as we give to the child who would fain disturb our thoughts. For Alice was visibly lost in thought that evening, in spite of the surprise and vexation of her mother. There was one at the table who was not surprised or vexed—Tim felt more in sympathy with the farmer’s daughter than he had ever been before.
Perhaps it may have been true that he had never observed her before, for Alice was a maiden whom it was possible not to observe; and even those who had been long acquainted with her were not always able to describe her face—her charm consisting chiefly in the minuter details, the quiet tones of her voice, or the order of her dress. To-night she looked downcast, but that made her face more expressive, and Tim observed it with a new interest. At any rate, they were not all triumphant, there was one who was grieved and anxious like himself.
‘Why, ye’re not eatin’ much, Tim,’ said Mr Robson across the table; ‘have some of the cheese, it’s rare and good, I can tell ye. Ye’ve not brought much appetite back wi’ ye to the Farm; have ye left it all wi’ t’ lasses of the town?’ Mr Robson considered a mild jest of this sort to be a concession to the weakness of the young, and therefore not to be included under the head of ‘idle talk.’ His wife, however, took up the subject more seriously; she had perhaps her own reasons for pursuing it.
‘I should be right down glad, Tim, to hear ye’d a lass,’ she said; ‘it ’ud help to settle ye an’ keep ye straight in life. For why don’t ye think a bit about a sweetheart? there’s pretty lasses where’er ye choose to go.’
‘Ah, there’s one pretty lass here,’ observed Mr Robson, solemnly, ‘as won’t be so quick in counting sweethearts now—it’s a poor thing when a young ’oman makes hersel’ into a talk, so as all t’ lads may have idle words on her. There won’t be a steady one now as’ll own her for a wife—an’ yet she’s well-lookin’ eno’—a poor tale that!’
‘I never did think her not so very pretty—’ Mrs Robson could not restrain herself any longer—‘not no prettier nor many as doesn’t think such a deal of ’emselves. But howso that be, it makes no differ now, no honest lad’ll marry her, as my husband says.’
She would have added more, but she found herself restrained by the sight of the excitement that was too visible in Tim, and which gave to his face such a flushed and bright-eyed look as had never been known to appear on it before. He tried to eat, and then he tried to drink; he got up from his chair, and then sat down again, and then rose once more, and stood before the mall. It was evident that he was struggling with conflicting feelings; but one rose above the rest—and then he spoke.
‘If it’s Annie Salter as ye be speakin’ on,’ he said, ‘ye be not so quite so right, Mrs Robson, as ye think. I’d marry her to-morrow if she’d give me t’ chance, an’ yet I reckon mysel’ an honest man. I won’t believe none of all these tales an’ words—not until I hear ’em from her own lips. God bless her! t’ prettiest lass in all t’ village, an’ t’ best; I won’t be the lad to be cryin’ shame on her!’
There followed—silence. The air seemed to vibrate, as if some particles of excitement were lingering in it still. The pleasant kitchen, which had such cheerful meals, had not been witness to such a scene as this before.
‘Well, Tim,’ said Mrs Robson, ‘I won’t say nought to yer taste—like goes to like, as they tell me—ye can choose best for yersel’. But, as ye seem to ha’ done wi’ supper, I think we’d best retire.’ She got up accordingly, and at once dismissed the farm-boy, and with a few sharp words, sent off Molly to her work; and then, offering her husband his crutches, though this was the business of her daughter, she assisted him in his progress from the room. Her stateliness appeared greater than the occasion warranted, but her lodger was not in the mood to reflect upon it.
Tim was left in the room with Alice, who had taken out her knitting, and had seated herself in her father’s chair upon the hearth, without looking towards him, or attempting to say a word, but still obviously with no inclination to depart. Through the silence in the room he felt her sympathy, and he drew his chair up to the hearth, and sat by her. The summer night stillness was on all the house—a low sound of singing came from Miss Gillan’s room. The two young companions raised their heads to hear; then they turned to each other, and their glances met.
‘Oh, I’m so glad Nat does not come here,’ cried Alice, suddenly; ‘I can’t bear these people—I hate for ’em to be here.’
Her sudden passion might have astonished her companion, if his own thoughts had not entirely occupied him at the time; and if her words had not chimed suddenly and strangely with the vague suspicion that was weighing on his heart. He looked at her with an almost startled expression, but his surprise was due to his own thought, and not to hers.
‘Alice, tell me it all,’ he whispered, almost hoarsely. ‘I’m her friend .... ye can trust me .... I will not tell on her.’ And then, as he saw by her face that she had not understood him, he could contain himself no longer, and poured out all the rest. For at that moment he was overwhelmed, distracted, he knew not which way to turn, or what to do.
‘I’ve told her all I’ve said to ye, I did;’ he said, when he had repeated what he had told once to Jenny’s daughter; ‘an’ she would have it as she’d had nought to do wi’ him, though she didn’t deny as he might ha’ thought on her .... I don’ know what to think on it, I don’t .... It comes to me .... as he’s a gentleman .... as he may ha’ deceived her .... ha’ told her he would make her a lady, thinking no such a thing .... She mightn’t ha’ known his ways; poor child, poor child, she doesn’t know t’ world .... she’ll know it now .... An’ for me, I’m in a hunder minds, I don’t know what to do .... I’ve thought as I’d go to him, but then he’s away, they say .... An’ she’s ill, an’ has fever, an’ I’ve no right to ask her questions, for all as I don’t mean nought but what’s good to her .... God forgive me, I might feel even glad that she was shamed if it ’ud make her turn a thought down to me at last.’
‘Turn a thought down to me’—the words were sufficiently pathetic from the young man who had been proud and upright all his life—the hard life that might have been easily excused if it had fallen from neglect and ill-treatment into evil. And not less pathetic was the unwonted stir of passion that would not allow him to sit down, but forced him to pace about the room. Alice remained seated on the hearth, with her knitting on her lap; but, as he moved about the room, she followed him with her eyes. A woman is never so little inclined to reticence as when a man confides to her friendship his trouble and his love—the sense of security from misconstruction brings with it a feeling of freedom that is almost dangerous. Alice remained silent—it was her nature to be quiet—but the desire to comfort was rising in her heart.
So when Tim, tired of pacing, came to the hearth again, and sat down by her side, she put out her hand, and, without looking at him, laid it on his arm. It was but the softest movement, lightest touch, but the slightest touch is electric when it conveys sympathy. For one moment she waited, with her hand still on his arm; and then, without removing it, she spoke.
‘Ye must go to her, Tim,’ said Alice, very gently, and yet with decision in her gentleness; ‘ye must tell her as ye come to her as a friend .... that ye will help her if ye can .... It may be as she’ll confide in thee, she have known thee long. Wait only a bit while till her fever is better, and then go to her, an’ speak.’ With another quiet movement she removed her hand; and, taking up her strip of red knitting, began to work again.
‘Ye’re a good girl, Alice,’ cried Tim, in gratitude—a gratitude all the more intense because it had something in it of surprise—‘I never imagined, it wasn’t in my thoughts, as ye’d be so kind to me .... and to her. I see as ye love her, I didn’t know that before, I’d have spoken to ye of her before now, if I had. An’ she’s worthy of love, whate’er they say on her; we’ll not be the friends not to stand by her now.’
‘Oh, but it’s not on Annie I’m thinking,’ cried Alice, suddenly; ‘ye mustn’t think better on me nor I deserve .... I am sorry for her .... indeed, indeed I am .... but she’s not been my friend, and I can’t think most on her. It’s Nat .... he feels it so .... it’s so bad for him ....’ and her eyes filled with tears. Tim sat still, and looked at her with a sudden, great surprise—the discovery of an interest of which he had not been aware before; for, indeed, it is even possible that he may, unconsciously, have been led to the idea of another preference. The farmer’s wife had taken so much interest in him—he could not but be aware of the fact, although he had never asked himself to what cause that interest was due.
‘Is it Nat as ye be thinkin’ on?’ he asked, still with surprise, and even with a feeling of vexation which he could not have accounted for—‘t’ lad’s well eno’; I’ve heard no harm on him, a well-lookin’ lad as t’ Squire fancies to. I don’t think ye need make a trouble out of him, a good working boy as there isn’t a better in t’ parish—but, if ye think that a word might do him good, ye’ve been his friend long, an’ it’s not hard for ye to speak.’ He had echoed to her the advice she gave to him, but at the moment they were not aware of it. For some minutes they were both silent, whilst the sound of the distant music rose and fell, its vibrations distinct through the stillness of the summer night.
‘Oh, but it does make a differ, I know it does,’ cried Alice, passionately, putting up her hands to her ears; ‘she talks to him, and flatters him, an’ makes believe to care about him; there’s a change in him that has come sin’ he knew her. If it’s true, as ye say, that t’ brother wanted Annie—there’s a pair on ’em then, an’ they’ve both on em’ done harm. I wish as Mrs Salter’s children had never known ’em, or as they’d never come to our house to work their harm from here.’ Her unwonted trouble sent a quiver through her frame, and the black dog pressed against her, and looked at her with surprise; whilst Tim rose to his feet, without knowing that he did so, with a confused instinct of ending the scene or giving help. That might have been made into the subject for a picture—the big, lighted kitchen, the table still spread and covered, the two young companions in their attitudes of distress and earnestness, and the black dog with quivering ears and listed eyes. The distant echoes of Mrs Robson’s footsteps warned Tim that he must not delay to speak at once.
‘Look ye, Alice,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I’ll tell the best I can. And we’ll do our best, you an’ me. I don’t understand any part of this. Maybe the Lord’ll make it all clear some day—I can’t say. But you an’ me, we’ve got to help ’em both, if we can, Mrs Salter’s boy an’ girl; we’d do as much as that for t’ mother’s sake alone, t’ poor mother as has had such a deal of trouble all her days. Let’s take hands on that, Alice, and we’ll do our best .... and good-night.’
Their hands met for an instant, and then they separated, and, with as few words to others as possible, went upstairs to their rooms—in each heart alike a desire to give assistance that was as pure as human frailty and self-interest would permit. If Tim’s brave defence were due only to his love, if Alice’s sisterly anxiety were influenced by other feelings too, it is at any rate certain that the friendship of each was pure and steadfast, and likely to endure the strain that trouble brings. For trouble was coming, the friends were not deceived—the clouds which had always lowered over Jenny Salter’s quiet home were threatening to overwhelm it at length in utter ruin. The beginning of evil had seemed hard enough—but we are more impressed with the danger of the future than of the present when we stand in darkness before the storm has fallen.