WHILST Nat lay alone in the dark church the lamp had been lighted for the evening in his home, and in the room with yellow rafters Tim sat by Annie’s side. It was the first time he had seen her since the summer morning when he had gone to visit her with anxiety in his heart. That anxiety had now become unspeakable pain and dread; but it was at least some comfort to be by her side again.
And that comfort was all the greater because Annie was so gentle, so much more gentle than he had expected her to be. Her old fierceness appeared to have deserted her; she had the patience, the languor of an invalid. Upon her shoulders her beautiful hair was resting—she excused herself for its condition by saying that she had been too weak to fasten it—and her wan, delicate cheek leant upon her hand as she sat and looked into the fire. Tim had never seen her in such a mood before; he sat down by her side, but he could not speak to her.
‘Mother’s gone out,’ said Annie, speaking softly, ‘I don’t know when she’ll be back. But it won’t be long .... I’m not sorry. I wanted to think. I can’t think while she is near.’ And then, as if afraid that he would misunderstand her and be vexed, she raised her dark eyes almost timidly, and looked at him. ‘It is good of you to come and see me, Tim,’ she said.
Tim felt his heart throb, and a lump rose in his throat; he did not say a word, but he held out his hand to her. Her left hand was the nearest; and, taking hold of it, his eyes caught sight of the gleam of her wedding-ring. As he started, he knew that she had observed his glance. Very gently she tried to draw away her hand, but he held it tightly, though he did not look at her.
‘Annie—Annie?’ the words sounded like a cry; they were an appeal, a question that he could not express otherwise. She did not attempt now to release her hand, but she put up her other hand and veiled her eyes.
‘Do they talk much of me .... in the village?’ she whispered; and he could see that slow tears were falling down her face. He could not answer otherwise than by his silence; no words seemed gentle enough to express what that silence meant.
‘They say I’m a bad girl .... they say I’ve shamed my mother .... I know they say so, though mother will not tell me so .... They willent forget as they found me o’ the door-step; I shall never have any credit here again.’
‘Annie, tell me you’ve done no wrong,’ cried Tim, with a sudden effort, which expressed itself first by a convulsive gulp; ‘I wouldn’t find fault wi’ you, whatever you told to me; but I’ll believe you if you say you’re not to blame.’ His words had the agony of a final effort—he still kept her fingers within his own; but his eyes had become afraid to look at her face. In the instant of silence that followed he was afraid that he might burst out into some violence of tears.
Perhaps Annie perceived his emotion and wished to comfort him; at any rate it appeared as if she had made up her mind. She pressed his hand softly with the fingers that it held, and drew the fore-finger of her right hand across her wedding-ring. It was a little action, but it seemed significant; when she saw that he had observed her she raised her dark eyes, and smiled. And then, after she had drawn away her fingers from his clasp, she laid them softly within his hand again. Reassured, though not knowing why he felt more at ease, he clasped them firmly, and there was silence for a while.
‘Tim,’ whispered Annie at last, with her face turned away .... ‘I should like to tell ye .... if I could, if I only could .... ye don’t know, maybe .... there’s times when one must be silent .... that is, if there’s any one as one loves better than onesel’ .... I didn’t think so that night when I came back; I was angry; I was mad, I didn’t know what I did. But I think so now, I can’t help thinking so .... He said if I wouldn’t speak it would all come right at last; and I was angered, and I went away from him .... But I won’t speak now; I’ll do that for him at least .... I keep on waiting till it is as he said .... the talk’s hard to bear, but I’ll bear that for him ....’
Again after a while, with her face still more turned away, so that the burning glow was only just visible on her cheek .... ‘It’s not all .... I can’t tell ye .... there’s a new trouble coming .... I was thinking of it at the moment when ye came.’
With a renewed effort she turned round her face; he could see the dark, tear-flooded eyes she bent on him. For a moment only; his own filled fast with tears, and all became dim, so that he could not see her face.
‘I’m not a bad girl, Tim,’ Annie whispered, softly; ‘I’m not all unworthy of your goodness to me .... I thought I wouldn’t be able to speak to ye again; but I’m pleased to have seen ye this once, though everything is altered now .... Tim, I don’t belong here, only for this while of trouble .... but I’m glad I can wish ye good-bye before I go.’ She drew closer to him; he held her in his arms; for one instant their faces touched, both of them wet with tears; then, as if that embrace were some final leave-taking, he got up, mutely, and at once prepared to depart. At the door-way he paused, and looked back on her; she stood leaning against the mantel-piece, and smiled on him. That vision of her pale face, and of the smile in her dark eyes, remained in his mind as he went out into the night. But it was as the vision that accompanies the wanderer when he knows that to its reality he will not return again.
Was that Annie’s thought as she sank back in her chair with a weary sigh as soon as she was left alone, leaving him to return to the Farm and its hospitable welcome, to Mrs Robson’s new mysteries, and Alice Robson’s saddened face?—was there mingled with the remembrance that she had tried to say farewell to her friend some feeling of separation and of loss? Perhaps, but at that time she was attempting to be strong, nerved by the new trial that she could not escape; for it was always her instinct, like that of others in her family, to meet trial with pride, if not with fortitude. She bound up her hair, and got the tea-things ready, before she sat down to wait for her mother and for Nat .... Tim had tried to be good to her; oh, he had tried to be good; if she never saw him again she would be grateful still ....
The sense of the new danger, however, was more overwhelming when she awoke to the remembrance of it in the darkness of the night; and when, with the memory, there came shame, and pain, and fever as on those first nights after she had returned to her home. She tried to be still and to bear it, in the silence of her mother’s room where she was sleeping now; but the loneliness and misery were too much for her, and she broke out at last into suffocating cries. Jenny heard her, and was by her pillow in an instant; but, although she clung to her mother, she would not confess to her.
‘Oh, mother, it’s coming,’ she sobbed out in the darkness; ‘I know that it’s coming, and they all will know. They’ll make me a shame and a by-word in the place—I shall never be happy, whatever happens now. The Lord might have spared me, He might have helped me in my trouble; but I’ve been a bad girl, and He won’t give help to me.’
Dark, terrible sentences thus uttered in the night-time without the confession that gives breaking hearts relief; for, although she sobbed out these words in her anguish and delirium, the broken sentences were all the confession that she made. Whatever might be the weight that was resting on her spirit, it was evident then and through succeeding days, that with all the strength that was left to her she was determined to bear that weight alone.