IN SUMMER DAYS
THE August sunshine of a brilliant afternoon was shining upon the yard
of the Manor Farm when Mr James Gillan came out from the house, and
mounted the horse that the yard-boy held for him. It was an auspicious
afternoon for his expedition, the first splendid weather that had been
for many days.
For it had been a cold summer, and the harvest was very late, the
shimmering green of the barley having only just begun to turn pale
beneath the sun; though the wheat, more forward, more ready for the
reapers, was beginning to ripen to gold beneath its rays. A sober
summer! with but little unclouded splendour, with fields softly tinted
beneath a fleecy sky; or with shadowy foregrounds and deep blue
distances, between which the bright light fell upon the corn--a summer
of lights and shades, and of varying circumstances, amidst which the
harvest got ready as it could. They talked even in the lane near the
Thackbusk of the danger to the crops, though from the Thackbusk gate
there was no corn-land to be seen, only willows and marshy fields along
which at eventide the sinking sunshine lay in rays of level light.
That little lane, where was Jenny’s cottage home, was very quiet and
free from disturbance now; the grey cottages stood on one side, and the
white upon the other, and on one of the grey walls some pink rosebuds
were blooming. No one would have supposed, at sight of its sober look,
that the clang of the Rantan had ever echoed there.
And yet ...
People afterwards said when they talked of those summer days that Mrs
Salter had been very ‘still an’ skeared;’ and they certainly remarked
at the time that ‘she held her head so high there was no gettin’ near
to speak a word wi’ her.’ But the pre-occupation upon poor Jenny’s face
had seemed only natural after what had passed; and none thought that in
addition to her fears for her fugitive husband she might be anxious for
her boy and girl as well--_that_ was not thought of till other days had
gone, and the neighbours could speak of the ruin to which boy and girl
had come. For, although their wisdom came after the event, some threads
of doom were indeed being woven in the course of those summer days.
It was remembered afterwards, for instance, that there had been a
change in Annie, which was not such a change as might have been
expected; for she did not seem restless, disconsolate, or passionate,
as she might well have been after the event of the Rantan. She held her
head high, and looked more beautiful than before; her dark eyes were
full of a childish, glowing light; and she kept herself resolutely
apart from all her neighbours, as one who prefers to be quiet and dream
alone. To Alice, whom she met once, she whispered softly that she had
‘made up her mind, and would not be troubled now;’ and yet her
expression was not that of one who is at peace. Had she made up her
mind on the night of the Rantan, when she fled away from the misery of
her home; and were the hours of those golden summer days leading her to
an event that lay close before her now? No one knew, for she said no
word, even to her mother; but it was remembered afterwards that she had
been industrious and silent, and had bent continually over some pieces
of needlework, which she said she must finish ‘before autumn came.’ Now
and then, in the evening, she would be absent from her home, on her
return refusing obstinately to say where she had been; and once or
twice her mother found her on her bed, in convulsive, passionate
weeping which could not be accounted for. But she remained silent, as
it was her wont to be, and was busy and quiet, though there was the
strange light in her eyes; and no one who saw her pure, childish beauty
would have been easily ready to believe much evil of her. For Annie had
been educated to the ideals of her mother, which were higher than those
which most village mothers own; and although her disposition was wild
and passionate it seemed too lofty to incline easily to falls. And
yet--dare we say that any feet are safe from peril--we who are aware of
the countless snares of life?
One safeguard was lost to Annie, for Tim could not see her now; he had
been removed to the Farm, where he lay ill, watched over with
tenderness by Alice and her mother, but shut out from all other society
by the doctor’s law. He had been removed to the Farm before his
consciousness returned--otherwise he might possibly have preferred the
cottage in the Thackbusk lane--and perhaps in his heart he felt some
slight impatience at the restraint which kept him in his room. But Mrs
Robson was kind, and her daughter very helpful, and it would have been
ungrateful to show discontent to them. He liked to think that Annie
must be anxious, and that when he was stronger he would visit her
again; Alice did not tell him that Annie Salter made no inquiries, nor
even Nat, though he was often at the Farm. In her heart she blamed both
the brother and the sister for their silence, but she imagined that
some feeling of shame made them conceal the interest they felt. For it
was known that their father’s hand had struck the blow--there was not a
man in the village who was not aware of the fact. And Nat seemed
altered; he had an uneasy, hungry look, as if for some reason all was
not well with him.
So matters were going on that August afternoon when Mr James Gillan
mounted his horse in the Manor yard, whilst the pigeons sunned
themselves upon the roofs. A well-dressed, slender-figured,
well-appointed gentleman, he aroused the admiration of the boy who held
his horse; even though he appeared to be in a state of abstraction from
which he could not rouse himself to any expression of gratitude in the
shape of thanks or fee. Was it possible that in the mind of this
easy-tempered gentleman were some perplexities that he knew not how to
solve, that some woven threads that he could not disentangle were
beginning unpleasantly to cling about his life? His delicate eyebrows
were knitted, almost frowning, above the languid eyelids that drooped
upon his eyes; and he did not raise his head to where, from a passage
window, his sister stood watching his departure from the yard. He
passed the red School-house with its white lilies, and, taking the turn
to Lindum, rode on to the town.