LYING ON THE DOOR-STEP
IF there were any truth in the oft-repeated assertion that Mrs Salter
was very ‘proud and high,’ and that the reason of her preference for
solitude lay rather in a sense of superiority than a love of
loneliness, the errors of poor Jenny, even in the opinion of her
enemies, must have been held to have received due punishment when that
fatal night arrived. Upon the door-step!--there, lying on the
door-step!--Annie Salter, who had been reckoned the beauty of the
place, Annie Salter, who had always held her head so high, and would
not have anything to say to any lad! The reputation of Jenny’s daughter
had fallen very low, so low that it lay in the dust where last night
her head had lain; the idlest gossip was busied about her name, the
most cruel judgment did not seem too hard for her. Oh! beautiful Annie,
the most beautiful of the village daughters, would your mother ever
raise her head with a mother’s pride again?
‘They say she’ve a wedding-ring, but I don’t think much to that,’
observed Mrs Smith, of the largest village-shop; ‘there’s a many
as goes to put wedding-rings on their fingers that they may appear
a bit more like honest folk.’ Mrs Smith had been established for some
years in the shop; she had a respectable husband and a baby-child--a
dark-eyed, eighteen-months’ child, too plump and heavy to walk, who
insisted upon crawling, to the danger of its clothes. When wretched
wayfarers lay on door-steps in the night-time it will be understood
that she did not feel akin to them--they were only of assistance in the
way of exciting tidings which she could impart to the ears of her
customers. This little excitement may be considered the advantage which
can be gained from wrong-doers by the virtuous.
But it was not only by virtuous shop-owners that the delinquencies of
poor Annie were discussed, they were turned into the favourite theme of
conversation by the lounging youths who were waiting for harvest-work,
and who meanwhile chose to lean against village-walls, and bask in the
blaze of the blue sky and August sun. There was one in particular who
had once been her admirer, and who now sneered perceptibly when he
spoke of her, a tall, not ill-looking lad of twenty years, whose face
had the shadow of dissipation or regret. I fear it is only in novels
and poems that discarded lovers are always generous--at any rate there
was no especial generosity in the words of the lads who were talking
beneath the August sky--they said ‘she would have to come down from her
high ladder, she wouldn’t find boys now as would speak to her.’
And then, having paused to take their pipes out of their mouths and
laugh, they returned to the enjoyment of their pipes again. The name of
Annie Salter had been turned into a by-word, that was certain at any
rate, there could be no doubt of it. And already it was beginning to be
considered desirable that further investigations into her conduct
should be made.
‘I thought as I’d like to call on Mrs Salter,’ said a blooming young
woman who was visiting the Manor Farm, and who lingered awhile in the
pleasant, ample kitchen to discuss village matters with Mr Robson’s
wife. ‘But I found her that high, and that silent in her manner, as I
don’t think there’s very much to be got from her.’ She gave a sigh
here, and a little shrug to her shoulders, and then took the seat that
Mrs Robson offered at once. Mrs Robson was really distressed, and in
anxiety, but she was willing to receive information all the same.
‘There’s Alice been crying,’ she said, as she sat down, and spread out
her hands upon her ample knees; ‘an’ I’m sure, though I say it as
should not be one to say it, she’s not one as often neglects her work
to cry. But you’ve been to Mrs Salter, as you say, Mrs Jones, an’ so
you’ll be able to give us a bit o’ news. Did you see Annie, tell us
now, did you see Annie, an’ what did her mother say about it all?’
Mrs Jones shook her head and gave a little sigh, and then shook her
head again before she addressed herself to speak--she had the
appearance of one who has been offended, so apparently poor Jenny
had not roused pity by her grief. Mrs Jones was a pretty young woman,
neat, dark-haired, and grey-eyed, with a fresh complexion, and a dimple
on her chin, but it is possible for these young, blooming wives to be
severe when they have received affronts. At any rate she began and
continued her tale with the manner of one who has sustained an injury.
‘I came to Mrs Salter,’ she said, ‘with the best intentions--_with the
best intentions_,’ she added, emphatically; ‘but there’s some people
as is that constituted as they can’t understand when one means to be
kind to ’em. Jenny opened t’ door--she was in her working-dress, an’ all
t’ cottage looked very neat an’ clean: she didn’t seem not a bit
inclined to ask me in, but I said as I’d come to see her, an’, if she
pleased, I’d take a seat. An’ I sat down there, an’ she sat down an’
sewed, an’ I spoke a bit o’ the weather an’ such like things; an’ then,
all at once, as if it had come to me, I said, “So, Mrs Salter, your
girl’s got back agen.” An’ she looked at me straight i’ the eyes before
she said a word. An’ she said, “Yes, she is; she got back here last
night.” An’ she said it that short, an’ that disagreeable like, as I
said, “Good-morning,” an’ got up straight an’ went. For I think there’s
no good i’ wasting pity o’ people as thinks ’emselves allays a deal too
good for one.’
‘Ah, Jenny’s a proud spirit,’ chimed in Mrs Robson, ‘an’ she’ll
come to grief wi’ it, as I’ve allays thort. An’ she’ve brought up her
lad an’ lass to cock their heads, as if they was better nor other boys
an’ girls. They’re too good-lookin’, I’ve allays said it of ’em, it’s
well if they doesn’t come to ruin wi’ it. An’ yet she’s an industrious
woman, Mrs Salter, an’ keeps her cottage as a queen couldn’t do, but if
she will give her chil’en all those notions, it isn’t a wonder if they
break her heart. Well, good-day, Mrs Jones, I suppose ye must be goin’;
they’re busy times for all on us, t’ mornin’ hours.’
So one spoke, another spoke, with nods and head-shakings, with
whispered comments and breathlessly uttered words, for a story of shame
and ruin has attraction for many who will not speak of shame and ruin
aloud. Poor, beautiful Annie, so proud and sensitive, at what strange
fate had your wayward life arrived, into whose unworthy hands had it
been committed, before it could sink into such forlornness, such
desperation as this? The gossipping village, although it asked these
questions, was not possessed of any means of answering them; it could
chatter of the figure that lay upon the door-step, but beyond that
door-step it had no right to pry. But we, who possess privileges that
the village could not gain, need listen no longer to its idle words; we
will cross the threshold of the cottage near the Thackbusk, and observe
the mother and daughter, alone there in loneliness.