A MORNING CALL
THAT home was in order although it was the morning, and daintily ready
for the business of the day--an appearance that was always conspicuous
wherever the hands of Jenny moved and worked. She had risen before the
dawn to get her son’s breakfast ready, and she had not been idle since
the dawn had passed; already all things were ‘straight,’ and she was
able to get out her stitching and to sit down to it. If the echoes of
the ‘Rantan’ of the night before were lingering stormily about the
place, no signs of that hidden tempest could be seen in the room in
which she and her daughter sat and worked. And yet it may be that the
clamour of the night was sounding in the hearts of both women as they
sewed.
Their room had a raftered ceiling, which was painted yellow, whilst
paper, woodwork and fire-place were a sober, greyish green, the quaint
colouring being contrasted round the window with dimity hangings,
exquisitely white. In the corner was an old clock which reached from
floor to ceiling, whose face of brass made a familiar brightness there,
and the sober walls were everywhere ornamented with numbers of little
photographs in frames. Annie sat in an easy chair upon one side of the
hearth, and her mother was opposite, each with work on her knee, for
the master here had no reason to complain of any want of industry in
the women of his home. The echoes of the ‘Rantan’ were in those women’s
ears, and, as they sat silent, their thoughts were turned to him.
‘When’ll father be comin’ back,’ Annie cried at last, and fiercely;
‘comin’ back in his shame to disgrace us all agen? I wish he’d come
back to-night so as he might hear the sound o’ that clamour ringin’ in
his ears. I’ll not stay here to be made a laughin’ stock, to hear the
village rejoicin’ over us, I’ll go and wander away, for miles away, so
as no one may see me, or know whose child I am.’ She had never before
spoken in that manner of her father, but her mother had not the heart
to rebuke her now.
‘I have tried to be good and to be respectable,’ Annie cried, with a
feverish movement of her hands; ‘I’ve liked for to think as men should
think well on us, and shouldn’t not breathe a word agen our name. I
won’t try so hard now, I’ll have some fun mysel’; it isn’t no good
whate’er I think or do; I’ll not shut mysel’ so close as I ha’ done;
they may answer for it as drives one past one’s hope.’ She relapsed
into silence, but her lips were working as if the thoughts she had
spoken were wrestling in her mind. Ah! Annie, a dangerous thought
and a dangerous resolve, however natural to despair as young as yours.
Her mother heard the words, and in some degree felt the danger; but,
herself sad at heart, she had no power to speak.
The sound of a footstep--Annie raised herself suddenly, whilst a
brilliant flush crimsoned both her face and neck, and her breath began
to come and go hastily, though her dark eyes sparkled as if with sudden
hope. In another instant, as the young workman knocked and entered, she
lay back wearily, with her face pale again. Her change of expression
caught her mother’s passing notice, but poor Jenny was not learned in
such signals. Ah! was there some hope, not confided to her mother,
working in the girl’s mind in spite of her passionate despair?
It was Tim who entered, appearing taller than usual, as he descended
the step into the low, yellow-raftered room, taking off his blue cap
with civility, and advancing with more timidity than was usual with
him. He was still in his blue working jacket and in his corduroys, but
his dark hair had been brushed and he looked spruce and fresh, and
there was a red rose in the buttonhole of his jacket, although he was
not accustomed to wear a flower. A lean, lithe figure, he advanced into
the room, his bright eyes seeming to take in the whole of it as he
came, and with it the delicate mother with her sewing in her hand, and
the bright-haired girl on whom his gaze lingered last.
‘I’ve come early to see thee, Annie,’ he said, (his honesty inducing
him to speak first to her) ‘for I must get back to the town this
afternoon, and I’d a bit word to say to thee ere I go.’ He turned for
the first time to Jenny, who gave him for answer her rare, pretty
smile, although with the reserve that belongs to North country folk,
she did not put into words the welcome that she gave. Another mother
would have been alert, suspicious, but in certain matters poor Jenny
was not quick; she was ready to welcome the young fellow as a friend,
without pausing to consider why he came. A certain reserve and caution
in her nature, born of her hard lot and sad experience, and of the care
with which she guarded both her treasures, made the list of her
acquaintances very short. But Tim Nicol! there was no reason to be
afraid of _him_, no one in the village was without a good word for Tim!
He had seated himself upon a chair by her daughter, having disposed of
his cap by placing it on the floor, and without seeming to be in any
haste to speak, let his eyes follow the young girl’s fingers as she
sewed. There was nothing sentimental, however, in his face--no one
could well have been less sentimental than Tim--and anyone seeing him
there, bright and business-like, might have doubted whether indeed he
had come there as a _swain._ It may be, notwithstanding, that Annie did
not doubt--a beautiful girl is generally conscious of her power, and
the daughter was without the ignorant humility that had belonged to
her mother all her life. But it was observable that she made no effort
to attract, her passionate nature had a proud sincerity.
‘I wonder as you come to see us, in this quiet way, Tim,’ she said,
‘now we’re so public as all the village knows; I’m thinkin’ it ’ud be
more fun for you to come wi’ the rest o’ the lads an’ shout at us. It
isn’t surprisin’ if we get strange an’ proud, now as we’ve all this
notice taken of our ways.’
Annie knew very well that of all the moods she owned there was none Tim
liked less than this one of passionate bitterness; his own steadfast
nature, trained in self-restraint, had little sympathy with such
outbursts. But this morning, although she was willing to offend him, he
seemed unusually disposed to be merciful, softened perhaps by the sight
of the face still pale from illness, which rested against the white
pillow in her chair. And indeed it is true that she was looking very
pretty, the languor of illness gave her face another charm, her mouth
had drooped into soft, weary lines, and her dark eyes had a young, and
appealing look. Then, although her fair hair had been carefully
arranged, there were still loose hairs that would ripple as they
pleased, and behind this bright framework the whiteness of the pillow
made a distinct background. Tim’s eyes saw these things, and then
wandered thoughtfully amongst the red bricks of the cottage floor;
when he raised his face and spoke, it was with something of tenderness
that could not often be heard in his voice. It had not been in this
manner that he had spoken to her brother; but it is so easy for a young
man to be tender to a girl!
‘Don’t be troubled, Annie, don’t think on ’em,’ he said; ‘they isn’t
worth as ye should give thoughts to ’em. They ought to be thrashed,
these lads as do the mischief; but, there, they’re past schoolin’, so
we must let ’em be. I’ve often wished there was a school for bigger
boys, as could give ’em a lickin’ sometimes, an’ help to keep ’em
straight.’
‘I wish Nat could be licked then,’ cried the sister, fiercely,
‘a-givin’ us trouble when we’re not in need of it! He went an’ he
looked at t’ Rantan yester-e’en.--Mother was sore an’ angered’--(Jenny
had just left the room) ‘an’ then when she spoke to him he turned up
sulky, and ran off in t’ night, an’ didn’t get back home till late. I
wouldn’t ha’ given him breakfast, that I wouldn’t, until as he’d told
me what he’d been an’ done, but mother’s that soft as she won’t ask no
questions, so there’s no knowing what he’ll be up to next. It’s all
along o’ what the Squire says to him; he don’t ought to have no favour,
that he don’t.’
‘He wasn’t i’ mischief last night, as I can make out, Annie;’ (Tim’s
sense of justice was always keen and clear) ‘he told me as he’d been up
to t’ Manor Farm to take back a basket o’ Miss Gillan’s as had been
left by mistake. It was that as made me uneasy like for him, for
Alice had told me as he’d been to t’ house, an’ I was afeard as he
might ha’ fallen in wi’ that Jim Gillan as is a-lodgin’ there.’
A sudden movement like a quiver in his companion arrested his voice,
and brought a cloud on his face, but Annie had turned herself towards
the fireplace, and from where he sat he could not see how she looked.
For a while he was silent, as if he were meditating, with his eyes
fixed again on the red bricks of the floor.
‘Alice she don’t like ’em, these Gillans,’ he said at last with an
effort; ‘she wishes they’d take ’emselves off and leave t’ place; she
says as we donno what they done in London, or what’s the reason as have
brought ’em here. They say as they’ve come to see Mr Lee i’ Lindum, but
if they’re his nephy an’ niece he don’t take no heed to ’em; he’s good
an’ respectable, and’s got a deal o’ money, an’ it’s happen he doesn’t
like ’em or their ways. They call ’emselves lady and genelman, but
they’re not a piece o’ that; the girl’s like a play-actor, wi’ her eyes
an’ tricks; an’ as for t’ lad, he’s not no good at all, he goes to t’
town most evenings, as I hear. I don’t like no strangers here, nor
never did; t’ village is best wi’out such folk as them.’
Again there was silence, whilst Annie leant on her pillow, with her
work on her lap, and her face turned to the fire; whilst Tim, without
trying to catch a sight of her face, looked hard at the bricks as if he
were counting them. The storm which had been slowly rising all the
morning, was beginning to beat in slow drops on the panes; from the
room overhead could be heard some gentle movements, the footsteps of
Jenny at her work. The increasing gloom may have served as
encouragement, for Annie turned her face slowly towards her companion
at length.
‘Do you know--Mr Gillan?’ she asked below her breath; and even as she
spoke there rose in her pale cheeks the slow burning flush that tells
of hidden fire. Tim’s eyes were on her face, he appeared to be uneasy;
it was only after a while that he could compel himself to speak.
‘I--know him?--I’ve seen him oftens’--he muttered, brokenly; ‘I’m
likely to see him sin’ I lodge in t’ house; but I’ve never not gone to
speak no word to him; he goes upon his way, and I go on mine.’ He
paused for a moment as if he had something on his mind whose utterance
was almost more than he could compass.
‘_Do ye know him, Annie?_’ he asked in a low voice, with a terrible
effort, and turning his face away--at the last moment afraid to read
upon her features the answer to this question which he had come to her
home to ask. It may be that the pain and difficulty with which the
question came were like a revelation even to himself. But Annie allowed
him no time for meditation, for with a sudden movement she sat upright
and spoke.
‘What dost mean?’ she cried to him, with her eyes bright and sparkling,
and her voice indescribably sharp in utterance, a tone and a manner
that might have been sufficient to crush the courage of any questioner.
But Tim was confident in his good intentions; and, moreover, he was not
easily overwhelmed.
‘I mean, Annie,’ he replied, low and gravely,--with a gravity indeed
that seemed beyond his years--‘I mean as there’s things as I don’t much
like to tell, an’ yet as make me feel anxious over thee. It’s only a
night or two agone, as Alice says, as she were stannin’ i’ t’ passage
in t’ dark, an’ Jim Gillan come in fro’ an evenin’ in t’ town,
a-staggerin’ an’ a-talkin’ as if he couldn’t mind hissel’.... An’ his
words they was all upo’ “Jenny Salter’s daughter”--“he’d have Jenny
Salter’s pretty girl,” he said--he called her “t’ handsomest lass in
all t’ parish,” an’ said as he’d “get a sight o’ her agen.” I don’t
like to think, Annie, as thy mother’s name an’ thee should be made free
like that upon such lips as his’n--I would as he hadn’t got thee upon
his mind, as thinks he’s a gentleman’s rights, a plague on him! Alice
thinks he pays Molly to do what things he will, to sneak out wi’
letters an’ messages for him.’
‘Ye think I write to him,’ cried Annie in a frenzy, ‘ye think as I meet
him an’ let him talk to me!--me as hasn’t spoke with him sin’ he came
with his sister, an’ lodged at t’ Farm to be spied upon by all. What is
it to me if he does think me pretty, I reckon as I can take care of
mysel’? An’ if he do write to me at all, what’s that, so as I don’t
take it on mysel’ to answer him? I tell thee, Tim Nicol, thee think’st
a deal o’ thysel’; thee’dst best keep thy hands from off thy
neighbour’s ways.’
Indeed it is certain that poor Tim had not prospered in either of the
warnings which he had bestowed that morning, although it is possible
that the passion with which he was now accused was not otherwise than
consoling to his heart. It did enter his mind that he might ask Annie
if the dangerous stranger _had_ ever written to her, but he was afraid
to rouse her wrath again, and thankful to take her word and be content.
After a minute’s silence during which he seemed to ponder, he rose from
his seat, and then took up his cap.
‘Well, good-day, Annie, I must be off,’ he said; ‘I’m thankful to hear
what thou hast told to me--thou knowest it is a bad world, this of
ours, and we’ve got to be careful and to mind our steps. Look after
thyself, I can’t think thou art strong, thou used not to have a face as
pale as that!’
Annie raised for an instant a softened countenance, whose dark eyes
glistened as if tears were not far. Her passionate anger had been like
her brother’s--the brother to whom she would not own resemblance--it
would be inquiring too curiously to ask if it had not, like his,
concealed a suppression of the truth. Tim did not go near her, or even
take her hand, for out of his admiration for her sprang a certain
reverence; he just gave for farewell a little, awkward nod, and put his
blue cap on his head and turned away. Annie did not stay to look after
him as he went; she turned her face to the pillow, and hid it there,
and cried. Upstairs, poor Jenny, who had been settling drawers, with a
delicate care that performed the task well, heard the door of the
cottage shut, and at once determined that she would come down to her
daughter’s side again. ‘I’m glad for her to have had a bit chat wi’
Tim, it’ll happen amuse her a bit, and do her good; I’m so dull always,
and I’m not like to be better, whilst I’m still feelin’ the bruise Rob
gave to me. But if only the childer can do well, an’ be happy, I’m sure
it’s no matter what becomes o’ me.’
‘If only the childer’--ah! anxious mother’s longing, that stirred with
her pulses as she went down the stairs, with a step as light, one might
almost say as timid, as in the past days when she had been herself a
girl. Annie heard the footsteps and raised herself from the pillow,
removing with haste the trace of recent tears, for her nature, proud
and impatient of sympathy, was accustomed to keep its sorrow to itself.
Far away Nat was toiling wearily amongst wet vegetables, with resentful
feelings against his mother and his home, and a conscious throbbing of
excitement in his heart at the thought of an interview to which he
had pledged himself. The guardian angel in blue cap and corduroys
had delivered his warning to both lass and lad; but, that warning
delivered, he could not stay for further guidance, but was compelled to
turn back to the Manor Farm again.