CHAPTER XXVII
JENNY HEARS STRANGE WORDS IN THE DARKNESS
ON the night succeeding that of her visit to the Farm Jenny was returning from Lindum after darkness had fallen. It was New Year’s Eve, a dark night, the moon had not risen; and the sky behind her lay in heavy streaks of grey above the line of brilliant lights on the top of Lindum Hill. Jenny was tired, for she had walked from the town; she had been to buy dainties for Annie, who became more ill every day; and the copper or two that would have been required for the railway journey made it too expensive. And yet she was almost exhausted; she had not been well herself, and the continual nursing of the last week had left her no time to rest.
It was to this reason Jenny ascribed the fact that, just as she drew near to the village, there came over her the most strange desire to sleep, a desire so burning and so overmastering that to struggle against it seemed impossible. She told herself, after some efforts which proved to be in vain, that she would only rest for a moment, for a moment close her eyes—it seemed excusable to snatch a brief repose, since so little rest was possible at home. But perhaps she was more worn out than she had supposed herself to be, for as she set down her basket she almost dropped by its side—she lay on the slope of the ditch, half-supported by the basket, which partially raised her right arm and her head. The position was pleasant, or it seemed so to her exhaustion; her eyelids dropped eagerly, her head sank, and she slept ....
How long she lay thus she had no means of knowing. She was roused by the sound of voices which seemed close to her ears. Half-startled, and yet too weak and stiff to move, she lifted herself against the basket on which she was leaning. Some time must have passed, for a thick mist had risen; and the moon, which had not been visible, was now high in the sky above the dark outlines of village roofs and chimneys, and the dim mass of the Squire’s trees on the hill. The voices were close to her, in the field beyond the ditch, and although they were almost in whispers she could hear every word. Exhausted, scarce conscious as she was, the sounds stole to her ears before she was even aware that she had heard them.
‘I tell you, Tina,’ one voice said to the other, ‘there is no need for all this excitement. I have done what you told me to do, although I hated to do it. I have seen her—I have seen Annie—Annie Salter, to-night.’
He had seen Annie—Annie Salter—it was her daughter’s name! A sudden, tingling thrill passed through Jenny as she lay. She attempted to rise, but she was not strong enough; she tried to speak, but her lips seemed to be held. She appeared to be in a dream, lying there in the darkness, with this strange voice near her that had pronounced her daughter’s name. And then, through the darkness, she heard the voice again, its sound more broken and agitated now.
‘I have seen her .... it was hateful .... the most hateful thing I have done. I should never have done it if it had not been for you .... I tried to remind her of the time when I first knew her, when I was staying near Warton, before you came there with me. She would only answer that I never loved her; she thrust me away when I tried to kiss her face. She would accept no money for herself or for the child; she said she would starve rather than take anything until I owned them both. But she said that she would not betray me .... I might go with you to my uncle .... I might leave her, as I had done already, to be alone with her wretchedness.’
‘And why should she not be alone,’ another voice cried, sharp and piercing, the voice of Tina Gillan, though it seemed strangely altered now; ‘what other man on earth would have behaved as honourably to her as you have done? You only ask her to wait—you offer to pay her an allowance—and this wretched village girl must stand on her dignity—this detestable hussy, who should feel herself too much honoured in having her name linked to that of a gentleman! Mr Lee has asked us .... let us hasten off to him .... when we leave this vile village all will be well with us.’
‘It ought to be well,’ the other voice replied, in a whisper that appeared to hiss through the night, ‘though for other reasons besides that of the hussy of whom you speak with so little reserve to me.... Mr Lee has been talking to the Squire about that letter .... the letter that you opened, though you would not tell me till last night .... and the Squire would have made a tempest about it before now, only that he has not been willing to accuse the boy. If the matter is inquired into, and your dear Nat betrays you, I would not give much for your chance with Mr Lee.’
‘He will not betray me—he dare not!’ cried the other, with a stamp that echoed upon the frosty ground .... ‘it would not save him from ruin if he did, and he would be afraid to do any harm to me! Let us go to Mr Lee; when we are once inside his house, the village and the Salters may look out for themselves.’
Her voice had risen, and her companion appeared to check it, to draw her away, to speak in lower tones; through the darkness came the sound of their retreating footsteps, like echoes becoming fainter in the night. It seemed to Jenny as if her brain were ringing, as if flakes of fire fell and shone before her eyes; when she lifted her head giddiness overpowered her, and she could not attempt to follow them or rise. Her head fell, she caught at the basket for support, and into the blackness that followed all sank, and all was lost....
A rumbling cart roused her, and once more she raised her head; the cart had gone by and she was alone in the night; the moon was shining above the houses in the village; there were no whispers now in the dark field by her side. Had she been dreaming, was all she had heard a fancy, what ought she to think of it, what should she do? She was weak from exhaustion, and stiff with pain and cold, it seemed almost impossible to rise; but the tension of her brain made it clear, and keen, and steady, as the eyes of a brave man who sees a danger near. With resolute movements she rose up to her feet, remained still for an instant to control her shaking limbs; and then, with a motion every moment rendered stronger, set off through the darkness in the direction of her home. If her children had been prevailed upon to keep their danger secret, she knew now what to ask them, and they should answer her.
Without a falter, without any hesitation, she went through the mist and moonlight on the streets, the strong impression keeping its hold upon her brain, as if it had been some mechanical impulse guiding her. She passed the dim outlines of the village-houses, the lighted public-house; she entered the Thackbusk lane; she did not tremble, not even from weariness, until she stood once more on the threshold of her home. As she opened the door a stream of light rushed forth; the house appeared to be full of people, full of light; a sound of wild laughing passed through her like a stab, and the whole place began to reel before her eyes. Exhausted, staggering, with a fearful dread upon her, she felt the door close behind her, and knew that she stood within her home.