IN WINTER NIGHTS
BUT, meanwhile, the village had recovered from its wonder to become
aware of a deeper mystery, and its astonishment and gossip had only
subsided to give place in their turn to a more absorbing interest. For
it is pleasant to find some topic which may serve for conversation
through the long winter evenings whilst we sit beside the fire.
Certainly, if poor Annie’s misery had been only that common story--that
too often repeated story all villages know so well--it could but have
served to make a nine-days’-gossip, and even ill-natured exultation
must in time have died away. Her persistent silence, however, gave rise
to other talk, it seemed like a suggestion of some mystery; and
floating ideas that could be scarce expressed in words began to rise
and to hover round her name. The most likely and probable of the
suggestions that were made was that she was attempting to screen some
village lad, for to all who knew Jenny Salter it could not appear
surprising that her daughter should have inherited a piteous
faithfulness. There were some rumours that spoke of ‘a gentleman,’ but
they were but rumours and had no support in facts.
And, meanwhile, thus developed into a living mystery, poor Annie lived
her secluded life at home, rarely leaving the cottage even to enter its
strip of garden, or to go through the gate into the Thackbusk fields.
She continued altered; she remained wan, gentle, patient, as one on
whose head perpetual sorrow rests; her old pride and fierceness did not
flash for an instant to disturb the habitual sadness of her face. And
yet to a close observer there must have been visible in her eyes a look
of yearning, a strange expression suggestive of some unsatisfied
desire, suggestive also of the possibility that her disposition was
still not without fever or perhaps delirium. If she were waiting for
tidings none seemed to come to her, and the slow days passed on towards
the closing of the year.
It was maliciously observed sometimes by the gossips in the village
that Tim Nicol did not visit one whom he had professed to love, and
that sufficient amusement for his leisure hours could be found within
the boundaries of the Manor Farm. The observation was unfair, for Tim
had never been a constant visitor anywhere, and was now much occupied
at the foundry, which was ‘on overtime;’ and if in his spare moments he
was more at the Manor than before, there were many reasons why he
should not leave its shelter. He had never quite recovered from the
scene at the Rantan, and was obliged to be careful of his health;
and, besides, he was studying for some science classes, for the sake of
which he stayed in the town two evenings in the week. No doubt, when he
was not there he could be found in the Manor kitchen, but then the
kitchen was warm and bright for study, whilst his own little bedroom
was dark and cold above; and, if he had to endure much wisdom from the
lips of Farmer Robson, he could be sure that Farmer Robson would not be
always in the room. Alice was there, almost always, but she sat at her
knitting, and did not speak to him. ‘There never was such a good girl
as Alice,’ Tim reflected; ‘she stays at her work so as you’d not know
she was near.’ For this power of being present and yet inaudible is a
decided virtue in a woman--in the opinion, that is to say, of a man.
So these two were often together--young companions--whilst, without,
the winter evenings were dark and indistinct, or the yard was full of
the pallor of dense grey mist, which hid the light of the rising moon
behind it. Within, all was bright and tending to cheerfulness, and
Tim’s books would be piled on one of the wooden chairs; and, whilst he
made mechanical drawings, or knit his brows in study, Alice’s strips of
red knitting grew longer on her lap. It is so comfortable, in one’s
times of trouble, to be near to another who has suffered like oneself,
and to feel, through the silence of uninterrupted business, the
presence of an unspoken sympathy. But it is the sheep in the fold who
can thus draw near to each other; the wanderers are in darkness and
alone.
Was it wrong then of Jenny that, coming in one evening to get some
butter she had been buying from the Farm, she should stand still on the
threshold of the kitchen, as one who has been struck with sudden
bitterness? The kitchen looked so cosy with its gleaming pots and pans,
the young companions appeared so comfortable, the black dog, who
pricked up his ears at her entry, completed the picture so well as the
guardian of the place. There was no guardian needed for the home from
which she came, the home that had always been one of poverty, the home
in which she must watch her daughter’s increasing misery, and feel
daily that the distance was greater between her and her son. Other
sons and daughters were prosperous, comfortable--there was Alice,
well-dowered, well ‘thought on’ in the place; there was Tim who had
escaped from early trials and hardships, to sit by her side and seem
quite contented there; there was Miss Gillan, ‘all fine in silks an’
lace o’ Sundays,’ already supposed to be the heiress of her uncle in
the town. At that moment, the feeling of the contrast was more than she
could bear, oppressed as she was continually by an increasing sense of
ruin--she hastily completed the errand for the sake of which she had
come, resisted invitations to sit down, and went out into the night. It
was better there, better in the cold and in the darkness, for darkness
and solitude seemed companionship.
Poor Jenny! To those who are struggling with blind efforts in the
night-time, it seems as if any revelation would be desirable. And,
indeed, there was coming to this village mother some knowledge of which
she had not thought or dreamed. But it is not always easy to recognise,
as a light to help and save, the lightning-flash that reveals the
precipice.