THE NEXT MORNING
NAT awoke the next morning, feeling sore and stiff, a feeling not
uncommon with people who have spent their night on the floor; but,
tired as he was, the habit induced by training made him wake with the
sun as he was used to do. Even at that hour he was not the first awake,
although there was no one else present in the room--a fire had been
lighted, a white cloth had been laid, and his solitary breakfast was
spread daintily. His mother’s hands must have been there at work,
although she would not stay in the room to speak to him; but to such
silent displeasure he had been long accustomed, and neither that nor
the tender care astonished him. Himself so proud and reserved that it
would have been difficult for him to meet her after all that had passed
the night before, he was only relieved that he had not awaked when she
was there, and determined to escape as soon as possible. So he made a
hasty toilet with the assistance of a pail, and swallowed quickly the
breakfast so carefully prepared; and, then, seizing upon his can and
bag of tools, he hastened out into the cool, fresh morning air. By
the evening she might choose to forget that she had been vexed, and at
any rate the evening was hours away. For it is the privilege of a man
to go out into the sunlight, and forget in his daily work the vexations
of his home.
Oh, beautiful sunrise! at which he glanced for a moment, leaning over
the gate that led into the Thackbusk field, without much notion of
seeking consolation in a sight so familiar as that of the rising sun.
The whole of the eastern sky was a mass of countless ripples, such as
in old pictures make a floor for angels’ feet, save where here and
there they were broken by lines of vivid light, or contrasted against
the horizon by one unbroken glow of red. Nat glanced at these things
and thought that the day seemed stormy, and that there might possibly
be rain before the night; and then, swinging his can of provisions up
and down, he turned away from the sight to the village streets. He
wanted to fall in with other working-lads, for he was in the state of
mind that longs for company. The scene at the Manor Farm lingered still
before his eyes, but he did not wish to think about it yet.
The village was grey in the early morning light, with a great stillness
upon cottages and roads, though already blinds were drawn up, and doors
open here and there, showing that the work of life was even now astir.
And, every now and then, from one of these open doors would come out
some man or boy in working-clothes, in a blue or white jacket, as
the case might be, with his tools slung over his shoulder, and his can
in his hand. The form of the worker would not long remain solitary, for
he would hasten his footsteps to join some man or lad in front, or
else, with a glance at the road behind, would loiter for some companion
to come up. In spite of the loneliness of the morning hours it is a
sociable business, going to work. But Nat, notwithstanding his late
desire for company, was seized with another mood, and preferred to be
alone. He was able for some while to be solitary, but as he passed the
red chapel a hand laid hold of him.
‘Hallo, boy, you’re early to-day,’ so spoke his companion’s voice; ‘I
must walk by thy side a bit, for I have to speak to thee.’
It was a young fellow who spoke, a lad who might have been twenty,
dressed like all the rest in the street in workman’s clothes, but
without any dinner-can or bag of tools, in spite of his blue jacket and
his corduroys. He had a face that was intelligent and quick, with dark,
bright eyes, over one of which was a scar, and a figure that appeared
upright and lithe, although so lean that it gave the impression of
having no flesh to spare. The grasp of his hand upon the shoulder of
the boy was not one from which it would have been easy to escape, and
Nat, who knew him, did not cherish any such intention, although not
altogether pleased at the enforced companionship. It appeared,
however, that he was not to be let go, so he resigned himself with as
good a grace as he had.
‘It was Alice, lad, as told me to speak to thee--I see Alice last
night, for I was late at t’ Farm--and she seem to me to be just a bit
uneasy, a-worritin’ lest all things shouldn’t be quite right. She don’t
like these Gillans as is lodgin’ there, an’ she heard as ye’d been
a-comin’ to t’ Farm; an’, says she, “Tim, I can’t bear to think as
Jenny Salter’s boy should get mixed up wi’ that Jim Gillan an’ his
ways.” An’ so, as I thought I might happen speak to ye, I told her I’d
mention it when as so we met. An’ I hope ye won’t take it bad, or be
angered wi’ me, lad, seein’ as I don’t mean nought that’s hurt to ye.’
It was evident Tim was conscious that he had undertaken an unpleasant
task, although he possessed the resolution to go on with it to the end.
Perhaps he was not surprised that Nat turned away his head with every
indication of sullenness and pride, for the man who gives good advice
must be prepared not to have that friendship received with gratitude.
He kept on walking, notwithstanding, by his companion’s side, as if he
were waiting to hear what the boy would say; but he had to wait for
some considerable while, for Nat was by no means willing to condescend
to speak.
‘It’s a fine day the morn,’ he deigned to say at length; ‘if it keeps
itsel’ up they’ll do good work wi’ the hay.’
‘That’s not what I wanted, Nat, thou know’st it’s not’--in Tim’s clear
tones there could be severity--‘it’s not doin’ well by me to talk like
that when I’ve ta’en the trouble to come and speak to thee.’
‘Ye may tell Alice then,’ Nat burst out suddenly, for his passionate
nature could no longer be restrained, ‘that she needn’t go pokin’ an’
pryin’ into me as if I were somethink bad to be kept fro’ wickedness. I
ain’t done no harm to her, nor I don’t mean, an’ I’ll go my own ways
for all that she may say. I don’t know Mr Gillan, nor I don’t wish to
know; I’ve not spoke a word to him in all my life; I came up last
evening to bring Miss Gillan’s basket, an’ I didn’t see him, nor I
didn’t want to see. Ye may tell Alice she may keep her bad thoughts to
herself, if she goes for to think I want to do all that’s wrong. Ye had
best get ye back to her, sin’ ye come fro’ her, and tell her all the
things I’ve said to ye!’
‘Fair and softly, lad,’ murmured Tim, unmoved by this vehemence, ‘it’s
not like as I’ll tell Alice what ’ud make her grieved to hear, an’ she
such a good friend to ye as she’s allays been. If it’s so as ye don’t
know a bit o’ Mr Gillan, that’s every bit as she wants to know or me;
an’ I’m glad eno’ to have heard ye say the words, an’ to see as there
wasn’t no need for me to speak.’ He was evidently determined to be
magnanimous, almost to the point of an apology.
But Nat remained silent, as if he had not heard, and appeared to be
lost in thought, as indeed he was; his promise to go up to the Manor
Farm that night returning with some unpleasant compunction to his
heart. The beauty of the stranger was still before his eyes, the sound
of her wild singing seemed to fill his ears; he longed to be alone in
the grey morning light, that he might walk by himself and dream of her
.... Tim was not unwilling to leave him to himself; he was never
disposed to loiter a long time over talk.
‘Well, lad,’ he said to him, ‘I will not hinder thee; go on to thy
work. I’m right down glad all the same as thou know’st nought o’ this
young Gillan--he’s an idle chap as ’ud do no good to thee. It’s like as
I may be going to thy home--Annie will be there, I suppose--’ there was
a tremor in his voice. ‘One must make the best o’ such days as one can
get, it isn’t oft as I can be free. Good-day to thee, lad,’ but Nat
only bestowed a nod for answer, and without looking back went on
quickly to his work. The eyes of the young workman followed him as he
moved, a solitary figure in the grey morning light, a shapely lad with
hair crisp beneath his cap, and his bag of tools slung upon shoulders
that bore the burden well. Before him, in front of the flat fields and
roads, rose an ominous mass of heavy storm-clouds, whose shadow,
falling upon the earth and trees, made the grey morning appear still
greyer than before; though in the east, through the ripples that
seemed made for angels’ feet, the rising sun broke in resistless might.
It was towards the east that the workman turned his face, as, with
something of a sigh, he began to walk on again; but its brightness made
no impression on his thoughts, which appeared to be bent beneath a
weight of anxiety. ‘I’ll go an’ see Annie,’ he thought, ‘an’ talk to
her; I’ll happen persuade her a bit; poor child--poor child. I’ve not
done much good wi’ the lad, but I donno care for him, I’ll do what I
can to save Jenny Salter’s girl.’ With these words, and with renewed
vigour in his steps, he walked on rapidly towards the village street.