TIM AND ANNIE
WHILST Nat lay alone in the dark church the lamp had been lighted for
the evening in his home, and in the room with yellow rafters Tim sat by
Annie’s side. It was the first time he had seen her since the summer
morning when he had gone to visit her with anxiety in his heart. That
anxiety had now become unspeakable pain and dread; but it was at least
some comfort to be by her side again.
And that comfort was all the greater because Annie was so gentle, so
much more gentle than he had expected her to be. Her old fierceness
appeared to have deserted her; she had the patience, the languor of an
invalid. Upon her shoulders her beautiful hair was resting--she excused
herself for its condition by saying that she had been too weak to
fasten it--and her wan, delicate cheek leant upon her hand as she sat
and looked into the fire. Tim had never seen her in such a mood before;
he sat down by her side, but he could not speak to her.
‘Mother’s gone out,’ said Annie, speaking softly, ‘I don’t know when
she’ll be back. But it won’t be long .... I’m not sorry. I wanted to
think. I can’t think while she is near.’ And then, as if afraid that he
would misunderstand her and be vexed, she raised her dark eyes almost
timidly, and looked at him. ‘It _is_ good of you to come and see me,
Tim,’ she said.
Tim felt his heart throb, and a lump rose in his throat; he did not say
a word, but he held out his hand to her. Her left hand was the nearest;
and, taking hold of it, his eyes caught sight of the gleam of her
wedding-ring. As he started, he knew that she had observed his glance.
Very gently she tried to draw away her hand, but he held it tightly,
though he did not look at her.
‘Annie--Annie?’ the words sounded like a cry; they were an appeal, a
question that he could not express otherwise. She did not attempt now
to release her hand, but she put up her other hand and veiled her eyes.
‘Do they talk much of me .... in the village?’ she whispered; and he
could see that slow tears were falling down her face. He could not
answer otherwise than by his silence; no words seemed gentle enough to
express what that silence meant.
‘They say I’m a bad girl .... they say I’ve shamed my mother .... I
know they say so, though mother will not tell me so .... They willent
forget as they found me o’ the door-step; I shall never have any credit
here again.’
‘Annie, tell me you’ve done no wrong,’ cried Tim, with a sudden effort,
which expressed itself first by a convulsive gulp; ‘I wouldn’t find
fault wi’ you, whatever you told to me; but I’ll believe you if you say
you’re not to blame.’ His words had the agony of a final effort--he
still kept her fingers within his own; but his eyes had become afraid
to look at her face. In the instant of silence that followed he was
afraid that he might burst out into some violence of tears.
Perhaps Annie perceived his emotion and wished to comfort him; at any
rate it appeared as if she had made up her mind. She pressed his hand
softly with the fingers that it held, and drew the fore-finger of her
right hand across her wedding-ring. It was a little action, but it
seemed significant; when she saw that he had observed her she raised
her dark eyes, and smiled. And then, after she had drawn away her
fingers from his clasp, she laid them softly within his hand again.
Reassured, though not knowing why he felt more at ease, he clasped them
firmly, and there was silence for a while.
‘Tim,’ whispered Annie at last, with her face turned away .... ‘I
should like to tell ye .... if I could, if I only could .... ye don’t
know, maybe .... there’s times when one must be silent .... that is, if
there’s any one as one loves better than onesel’ .... I didn’t think so
that night when I came back; I was angry; I was mad, I didn’t know what
I did. But I think so now, I can’t help thinking so .... He said
if I wouldn’t speak it would all come right at last; and I was angered,
and I went away from him .... But I won’t speak now; I’ll do that for
him at least .... I keep on waiting till it is as he said .... the
talk’s hard to bear, but I’ll bear that for him ....’
Again after a while, with her face still more turned away, so that the
burning glow was only just visible on her cheek .... ‘It’s not all ....
I can’t tell ye .... there’s a new trouble coming .... I was thinking
of it at the moment when ye came.’
With a renewed effort she turned round her face; he could see the dark,
tear-flooded eyes she bent on him. For a moment only; his own filled
fast with tears, and all became dim, so that he could not see her face.
‘I’m not a bad girl, Tim,’ Annie whispered, softly; ‘I’m not all
unworthy of your goodness to me .... I thought I wouldn’t be able to
speak to ye again; but I’m pleased to have seen ye this once, though
everything is altered now .... Tim, I don’t belong here, only for this
while of trouble .... but I’m glad I can wish ye good-bye before I go.’
She drew closer to him; he held her in his arms; for one instant their
faces touched, both of them wet with tears; then, as if that embrace
were some final leave-taking, he got up, mutely, and at once prepared
to depart. At the door-way he paused, and looked back on her; she stood
leaning against the mantel-piece, and smiled on him. That vision of her
pale face, and of the smile in her dark eyes, remained in his mind as
he went out into the night. But it was as the vision that accompanies
the wanderer when he knows that to its reality he will not return again.
Was that Annie’s thought as she sank back in her chair with a weary
sigh as soon as she was left alone, leaving him to return to the Farm
and its hospitable welcome, to Mrs Robson’s new mysteries, and Alice
Robson’s saddened face?--was there mingled with the remembrance that
she had tried to say farewell to her friend some feeling of separation
and of loss? Perhaps, but at that time she was attempting to be strong,
nerved by the new trial that she could not escape; for it was always
her instinct, like that of others in her family, to meet trial with
pride, if not with fortitude. She bound up her hair, and got the
tea-things ready, before she sat down to wait for her mother and for
Nat .... Tim had tried to be good to her; oh, he had tried to be good;
if she never saw him again she would be grateful still ....
The sense of the new danger, however, was more overwhelming when she
awoke to the remembrance of it in the darkness of the night; and when,
with the memory, there came shame, and pain, and fever as on those
first nights after she had returned to her home. She tried to be still
and to bear it, in the silence of her mother’s room where she was
sleeping now; but the loneliness and misery were too much for her, and
she broke out at last into suffocating cries. Jenny heard her, and
was by her pillow in an instant; but, although she clung to her mother,
she would not confess to her.
‘Oh, mother, it’s coming,’ she sobbed out in the darkness; ‘I know that
it’s coming, and they all will know. They’ll make me a shame and a
by-word in the place--I shall never be happy, whatever happens now. The
Lord might have spared me, He might have helped me in my trouble; but
I’ve been a bad girl, and He won’t give help to me.’
Dark, terrible sentences thus uttered in the night-time without the
confession that gives breaking hearts relief; for, although she sobbed
out these words in her anguish and delirium, the broken sentences were
all the confession that she made. Whatever might be the weight that was
resting on her spirit, it was evident then and through succeeding days,
that with all the strength that was left to her she was determined to
bear that weight alone.